November 29, 2005
I've got the seven-year itch. No, not with my marriage. We're still five years out from that one.
I'm talking about my work. "Well," you ask, "Aren't you leaving in January?" My last day is less than two months away. How bad could it be?
The Sky is Falling
Pretty bad. This fall, I've faced crises that I never knew could come with the job. Normally simple tasks have taken complicated turns. Every day brings new drama. I'm not just being hormonal here. Some really crazy things have happened.
Still, the hormones don't help. I put on my game face to forge through the day, only to weep behind my computer screen. I come home and cry some more.
"I can't do it," I wail to Thomas. "Not another day."
"Quit," he says. "You can always quit earlier than we planned."
"No, no I can't," I say. "We need the money, and I'm not going to make my replacement start early. And I can't leave my job with so many knots untied."
Transition
It's hit me that this period of my career is akin to the transitional stage of labor. Dilating those last couple of centimeters, from 8 to 10, is usually the most excruciating part. The contractions come so quickly, with so little rest in between, many women begin to think they can't finish the job.
This is when some women who want a med-free childbirth will hear strange things coming out of their mouth, like "epidural." A good partner will remind them that this is the shortest stage of labor and that the discomfort means the reward is closer than ever.
And so, as I have (literally) labored over these seven years, I now find myself in the transitional stage. The stressors hit harder than ever, with little rest in between. I feel that I can't go on.
Can I ride these waves with perseverance, even find a joy in them, like a woman well-prepared for labor? Can I keep perspective, that this is the shortest stage?
Right now, I'm not. Picture a hysterically screaming woman, and that's me.
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Monday, April 9, 2007
Time after Time (Wk 11: PREGNANCY)
July 13, 2005
Sigh of relief, my husband is not a carrier for cystic fibrosis.
With that scare come and gone, I question whether I will have some of the less definitive screenings done. Unlike the test for CF markers, these other blood screens only indicate the odds of your baby having certain birth defects. More invasive testing would be needed to confirm results. Since I'm not comfortable with the risks of amniocentesis, I'll forgo the whole kit and caboodle.
Funny, before the CF test, I thought I'd have all the non-invasive screenings my doctor had to offer. Now I realize it was because I never really expected any of them to come back positive. You know, that whole bad-results-happen-to-other-people mentality? Cousin to I'm-a-teenager-I'm-immortal? Well, I've had my reality check, and the potential for false positives and inconclusive alarm bells is more than this anxiety-prone chickadee can handle.
With the scare behind, things have gotten dull.
Clogged Hourglass
At eleven weeks, my life feels like a clogged hourglass. That is not a reference to my figure, though I guess it could be (I'm far from showing, but my waist has the ambiguous rectangle of a 9-year-old's.) Time has stopped. I am sure of it. The world is spinning more slowly. Our orbit around the sun has lost momentum. The second trimester is a door at the end of a hallway, a hallway that gets longer with my every step.
Maybe my problem is that I still don't feel pregnant. I've seen the baby in my womb, I have every first trimester symptom recorded, yet... I don't feel the baby inside of me, and I don't look like I have a baby inside of me. I'm just tired, cranky, and generally "blah."
I'm ready to pass the threat of miscarriage and the time of tight waistbands and start filling out those cute maternity clothes.
I Was Wrong
Back when I was waiting to try to conceive, I believed that would be the hardest wait. I envied women who were already trying, because at least they might be pregnant at the end of every cycle. I was downright angry (well, sort of) to see pregnant women complaining about time. After all they at least knew they'd have a baby in nine months, whereas I didn't know when or if I'd conceive.
Yet here I am, realizing that for me, the time did pass faster when I was waiting to conceive, and the time did pass faster when I was trying. Granted, the waits were grueling. The months dragged. Now, though, the weeks drag. The days drag.
The difference is probably as simple as the fact that not only am I waiting, but I am waiting with queasiness, sore boobs, heartburn, pimples, and fatigue. Physical discomfort can slow the clock.
Sigh of relief, my husband is not a carrier for cystic fibrosis.
With that scare come and gone, I question whether I will have some of the less definitive screenings done. Unlike the test for CF markers, these other blood screens only indicate the odds of your baby having certain birth defects. More invasive testing would be needed to confirm results. Since I'm not comfortable with the risks of amniocentesis, I'll forgo the whole kit and caboodle.
Funny, before the CF test, I thought I'd have all the non-invasive screenings my doctor had to offer. Now I realize it was because I never really expected any of them to come back positive. You know, that whole bad-results-happen-to-other-people mentality? Cousin to I'm-a-teenager-I'm-immortal? Well, I've had my reality check, and the potential for false positives and inconclusive alarm bells is more than this anxiety-prone chickadee can handle.
With the scare behind, things have gotten dull.
Clogged Hourglass
At eleven weeks, my life feels like a clogged hourglass. That is not a reference to my figure, though I guess it could be (I'm far from showing, but my waist has the ambiguous rectangle of a 9-year-old's.) Time has stopped. I am sure of it. The world is spinning more slowly. Our orbit around the sun has lost momentum. The second trimester is a door at the end of a hallway, a hallway that gets longer with my every step.
Maybe my problem is that I still don't feel pregnant. I've seen the baby in my womb, I have every first trimester symptom recorded, yet... I don't feel the baby inside of me, and I don't look like I have a baby inside of me. I'm just tired, cranky, and generally "blah."
I'm ready to pass the threat of miscarriage and the time of tight waistbands and start filling out those cute maternity clothes.
I Was Wrong
Back when I was waiting to try to conceive, I believed that would be the hardest wait. I envied women who were already trying, because at least they might be pregnant at the end of every cycle. I was downright angry (well, sort of) to see pregnant women complaining about time. After all they at least knew they'd have a baby in nine months, whereas I didn't know when or if I'd conceive.
Yet here I am, realizing that for me, the time did pass faster when I was waiting to conceive, and the time did pass faster when I was trying. Granted, the waits were grueling. The months dragged. Now, though, the weeks drag. The days drag.
The difference is probably as simple as the fact that not only am I waiting, but I am waiting with queasiness, sore boobs, heartburn, pimples, and fatigue. Physical discomfort can slow the clock.
Flicker, Flicker (Wk 8: PREGNANCY)
June 21, 2005
There was hardly time to be nervous. I arrived thirty minutes early for my first prenatal visit, expecting six tree's worth of paperwork. Turns out, all I had to sign were two release forms. So I sat down ready for an eternal wait only to be called back fifteen minutes before my actual appointment.
"My husband! Please can I call him?" I pled to the nurse. "He was going to try and come. Can anyone go ahead of me?" I paged Tom, at work several blocks down in this mammoth downtown hospital.
Pacing frantically, I prayed for him to arrive in time for the ultrasound. Just as I began to picture him tied up with some trauma too horrific for him to glance at his pager, he came rolling down the escalator in the lobby toward me. With hardly time for "hello," we raced back to the ultrasound room, where my husband plopped down on the table.
It's a Baby, Alright!
"I'm glad you're so excited," said the technician, "but we'll be doing the ultrasound on your wife."
As Tom sheepishly moved to a chair, I stood there sheepishly wondering if I were supposed to undress. I don't mind taking it off for medical professionals, but I prefer to do the strip alone. The tech stood there waiting on me, then told me to sit down and unroll my skirt. "Oh! It's not transvaginal, is it?"
Nope! Early as I am, we did it the old fashioned way. The tech covered my belly with cold jelly, and I wondered if we'd get a clear picture. I began to feel a little nervous. Then I saw it: my little baby on the screen.
Now, I had vowed never to bore my friends with ultrasound pictures. Any time anyone has ever shown one to me, I've stared at the black and white blur unable to make heads or tails of it. Literally.
So it shocked me to instantly recognize everything I saw on the screen. "There's the head! There's the body! Oh my gosh, I even see the arm and leg buds! And is that the heartbeat? That flickering? He has a heartbeat!" Tom and I proudly watched our baby on TV, certain it was the most photogenic embryo to hit the small screen.
Making the Grade
Our baby's first pictures in hand, we headed to an exam room to meet with the doctor and nurse. As the nurse handed me all the you're-going-to-have-a-baby literature, I felt so official. There I sat, not for a lame pap smear, but with all the importance of a mother-to-be.
We discussed the due date with my doctor-- in my mind, an important first step in our relationship. The nurses with whom I'd previously spoken all insisted on using the date of my last menstrual period to date the pregnancy. As if all women ovulate on day 14!
"Look," I said to the doctor, "I used OPKs, charted my cervical mucus, and took my basal body temperature. All of them agree that I ovulated on the 20th day of my cycle. I know when we conceived this baby." Ready to pull my chart out of the holster, I prepared for battle. My OB looked at me, nodded his head in agreement, and said, "Isn't it cool when you see that temp rise and know what's going on?"
He added that my ultrasound dated me as 8 weeks and 6 days, but that it has a five-day margin of error. We used my ovulation date to determine I was actually 8 weeks and 2 days, giving me an estimated due date of January 28th, 2006.
During my exam, I rattled off my litany of concerns. After answering each one, my doctor said, "You're going to have to get used the to the idea of having a baby. You're chance of miscarriage at this point is 2-3%. You're going to have a baby."
(Update: The issue of my due date returned toward the end of my pregnancy, as if my doctor had forgotten this discussion.)
Belly Pic, Week 8
There was hardly time to be nervous. I arrived thirty minutes early for my first prenatal visit, expecting six tree's worth of paperwork. Turns out, all I had to sign were two release forms. So I sat down ready for an eternal wait only to be called back fifteen minutes before my actual appointment.
"My husband! Please can I call him?" I pled to the nurse. "He was going to try and come. Can anyone go ahead of me?" I paged Tom, at work several blocks down in this mammoth downtown hospital.
Pacing frantically, I prayed for him to arrive in time for the ultrasound. Just as I began to picture him tied up with some trauma too horrific for him to glance at his pager, he came rolling down the escalator in the lobby toward me. With hardly time for "hello," we raced back to the ultrasound room, where my husband plopped down on the table.
It's a Baby, Alright!
"I'm glad you're so excited," said the technician, "but we'll be doing the ultrasound on your wife."
As Tom sheepishly moved to a chair, I stood there sheepishly wondering if I were supposed to undress. I don't mind taking it off for medical professionals, but I prefer to do the strip alone. The tech stood there waiting on me, then told me to sit down and unroll my skirt. "Oh! It's not transvaginal, is it?"
Nope! Early as I am, we did it the old fashioned way. The tech covered my belly with cold jelly, and I wondered if we'd get a clear picture. I began to feel a little nervous. Then I saw it: my little baby on the screen.
Now, I had vowed never to bore my friends with ultrasound pictures. Any time anyone has ever shown one to me, I've stared at the black and white blur unable to make heads or tails of it. Literally.
So it shocked me to instantly recognize everything I saw on the screen. "There's the head! There's the body! Oh my gosh, I even see the arm and leg buds! And is that the heartbeat? That flickering? He has a heartbeat!" Tom and I proudly watched our baby on TV, certain it was the most photogenic embryo to hit the small screen.
Making the Grade
Our baby's first pictures in hand, we headed to an exam room to meet with the doctor and nurse. As the nurse handed me all the you're-going-to-have-a-baby literature, I felt so official. There I sat, not for a lame pap smear, but with all the importance of a mother-to-be.
We discussed the due date with my doctor-- in my mind, an important first step in our relationship. The nurses with whom I'd previously spoken all insisted on using the date of my last menstrual period to date the pregnancy. As if all women ovulate on day 14!
"Look," I said to the doctor, "I used OPKs, charted my cervical mucus, and took my basal body temperature. All of them agree that I ovulated on the 20th day of my cycle. I know when we conceived this baby." Ready to pull my chart out of the holster, I prepared for battle. My OB looked at me, nodded his head in agreement, and said, "Isn't it cool when you see that temp rise and know what's going on?"
He added that my ultrasound dated me as 8 weeks and 6 days, but that it has a five-day margin of error. We used my ovulation date to determine I was actually 8 weeks and 2 days, giving me an estimated due date of January 28th, 2006.
During my exam, I rattled off my litany of concerns. After answering each one, my doctor said, "You're going to have to get used the to the idea of having a baby. You're chance of miscarriage at this point is 2-3%. You're going to have a baby."
(Update: The issue of my due date returned toward the end of my pregnancy, as if my doctor had forgotten this discussion.)
Belly Pic, Week 8
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Is Anybody In There? Round 2! (Wk 12: TRYING TO CONCEIVE)
May 23, 2005
Last week, as I recounted one mysterious gift that I thought would never come my way (think Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret), I failed to mention another.
Marriage. My husband Tom. As someone who dreamt of spending the rest of my life with a great love-- and wouldn't have dreamed of marrying someone who wasn't that-- I often wondered whether I'd ever meet The One.
I did. During this two-week-wait fell the second anniversary of Tom's and my engagement. We celebrated by returning to the scene of the crime: a rock overlooking a waterfall on a small mountain.
"I even brought a centerpiece," I told Tom, as we spread out our picnic. "See?" I lay between us the ring box with which he surprised me two years ago. Tom looked at me strangely, then picked up the box. He opened it and found a plastic baby inside.
He looked at me. I looked at him. We sat in silence for a moment. "You're pregnant!"
It's True!
Yep, I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant.
Last Tuesday, several days before our picnic, I realized that it was the exact date of our engagement. While I'd been planning to wait several more days before taking a test, the day was too special not to give it a try. That pile of home pregnancy tests was calling my name from their corner in the bathroom closet. In a trance, with Tom still at work, I answered the call.
After taking the test, I wasn't sure if it was positive or not. Was that the hint of a line I saw, or was I simply trying to see one? I pulled out the magnifying glass but still couldn't tell.
The next morning, I waited anxiously for Tom to leave, then tested again with three sticks. Within two minutes, faint lines were visible on all three. By four minutes, there was no room for doubt. Don't ask me why I still took a fourth.
Reality Sets In
So there I was, shaking one minute, feeling oddly calm the next, and wondering whether or not I could keep the news a secret until our anniversary picnic! It was surreal. Could something so wonderful truly happen to me?
But it did! And I did keep the secret!
Since sharing the news withTom, it seems all the more real. Sitting on the rock together, we discussed who to tell, when to tell, my fear of miscarriage, and due dates.
Then Tom picked up the ring box again to look at the baby. When he did, the baby rolled out of the box off the side of our rock, landing on a rock just beneath us. A rooked vine saved it from a precipitous fall to the falls below. Laughter and panic gripped Tom and I both as we were so comically reminded of our new responsibility. Oh, and the symbolism was just too much for me not to rescue that plastic fetus. Tom held anchored my leg as I reached below to save it. Whew.
Later that night, Tom confess some of his fear. "Our lives are going to change forever," he said. "I mean, one of us will be with the baby all the time. Sometimes we'll be tired. It's not going to be easy."
Yet we realize the gift, the privilege, we've been allowed to experience. By bedtime, Tom was patting, kissing and talking to my belly.
Last week, as I recounted one mysterious gift that I thought would never come my way (think Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret), I failed to mention another.
Marriage. My husband Tom. As someone who dreamt of spending the rest of my life with a great love-- and wouldn't have dreamed of marrying someone who wasn't that-- I often wondered whether I'd ever meet The One.
I did. During this two-week-wait fell the second anniversary of Tom's and my engagement. We celebrated by returning to the scene of the crime: a rock overlooking a waterfall on a small mountain.
"I even brought a centerpiece," I told Tom, as we spread out our picnic. "See?" I lay between us the ring box with which he surprised me two years ago. Tom looked at me strangely, then picked up the box. He opened it and found a plastic baby inside.
He looked at me. I looked at him. We sat in silence for a moment. "You're pregnant!"
It's True!
Yep, I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant.
Last Tuesday, several days before our picnic, I realized that it was the exact date of our engagement. While I'd been planning to wait several more days before taking a test, the day was too special not to give it a try. That pile of home pregnancy tests was calling my name from their corner in the bathroom closet. In a trance, with Tom still at work, I answered the call.
After taking the test, I wasn't sure if it was positive or not. Was that the hint of a line I saw, or was I simply trying to see one? I pulled out the magnifying glass but still couldn't tell.
The next morning, I waited anxiously for Tom to leave, then tested again with three sticks. Within two minutes, faint lines were visible on all three. By four minutes, there was no room for doubt. Don't ask me why I still took a fourth.
Reality Sets In
So there I was, shaking one minute, feeling oddly calm the next, and wondering whether or not I could keep the news a secret until our anniversary picnic! It was surreal. Could something so wonderful truly happen to me?
But it did! And I did keep the secret!
Since sharing the news withTom, it seems all the more real. Sitting on the rock together, we discussed who to tell, when to tell, my fear of miscarriage, and due dates.
Then Tom picked up the ring box again to look at the baby. When he did, the baby rolled out of the box off the side of our rock, landing on a rock just beneath us. A rooked vine saved it from a precipitous fall to the falls below. Laughter and panic gripped Tom and I both as we were so comically reminded of our new responsibility. Oh, and the symbolism was just too much for me not to rescue that plastic fetus. Tom held anchored my leg as I reached below to save it. Whew.
Later that night, Tom confess some of his fear. "Our lives are going to change forever," he said. "I mean, one of us will be with the baby all the time. Sometimes we'll be tired. It's not going to be easy."
Yet we realize the gift, the privilege, we've been allowed to experience. By bedtime, Tom was patting, kissing and talking to my belly.
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