September 26, 2009

I’m Not Sure I’m Ready for Labor

Yesterday I went to see the doctor about the groin pain.  I had to see another OB/GYN as both my other doctors are on vacation. Dr J. was the first doctor on-call when I was induced with Dawson five years ago and after exchanging niceties, we got down to business.

I expressed my discomfort, told her about the unbearable groin/pelvic pain and how I cry several times a day because I’m experiencing such feelings of malaise.

“Well, we don’t like to check the cervix before 37 weeks, because we don’t want to stir things up, but I’m willing to check if anything is happening down there.” she said.

I told her I trusted her judgment and that if she didn’t feel it necessary to do a pelvic exam then I’d be okay, but seriously, what can I do to ease the pain?

Dr. J said if the pain was that awful then she would just do the exam and try not to disrupt anything.  Turns out “the dimple” of my cervix is open, or 1 cm dilated but 0% effaced.  And I could stay this way for weeks.

The baby has definitely dropped lower into my pelvis, despite what the nurse told me last week, about second babies not dropping until labor begins, and the doctor thinks labor may start within the next ten days.

I asked how she could make a guess like that, after telling me I could be stuck at one centimeter forever, and she said my other symptoms (that I had told the nurse), nausea, moderate menstrual-like cramps, lower back pain and the frequent bowel movements are all very early signs that labor may begin soon.

I nearly fell off the exam table.  I’m ready for this baby, but I’m not ready, you know?

We did a non-stress test and before I left, my weight and blood pressure were recorded.  I’ve lost two pounds since Tuesday (my last appointment).

“Another sign that labor could happen very soon.” Dr. J told me.

My blood pressure was slightly elevated but “nothing to panic about” and another 24-hour urine collection was ordered.  After having my blood drawn in the labs and collecting the urine jugs, I was on my way home.

I called Doug at work to tell him of the doctor’s predictions and he was a wreck.

“I’m not ready,” he said. “Are you?”

I told him whatever happens, happens.  I can’t worry about it.  Today is Dawson’s birthday party (right after soccer!).  As long as labor does not begin today, I’m okay.

I am a little nervous about labor happening earlier than I expected.  The baby’s room is not ready.  However, Doug finally put the glider and ottoman together.  When I cam home from a craft party Thursday night, he had the house somewhat clean, and the chair assembled.  Someone must have tipped him off that I was not happy with his lack of help.

So.  That’s where we’re at.  We’ll see what happens.

September 25, 2009

On Nesting. And Going Crazy.

So, I’m nesting.  Sort of.  It goes in spurts, really.  One day I’m too tired to do anything at all.  The next day, I’ll be completely neurotic about something, SOME VERY IMPORTANT THING, and it will need to be done, RIGHT NOW, or no one in this house goes to bed that night.

The house must be clean!  CLEAN, I say!  The littlest things will bother me.  Like socks on the floor (I’m looking at you, Doug and Dawson).  Or toys.  ALL. OVER. THE HOUSE.  And the clutter.  Magazines, school papers and half-opened mail are piling up on my kitchen table.  I have six million tomatoes on my kitchen counter. And I cannot deal with it. Not any of it.

Add to this mix of chaos and insanity the fact that I’ve been trying to clean out the pantry for two weeks, but I cannot get to it because those other things (see above) are nagging at me.  So I take time out of my day to deal with that and then have no energy whatsoever to do anything else.

I started sorting baby clothes a few days ago, and then I was sidetracked by vacuuming the living room, because in my mind people could show up unexpectedly, and why would I want them to see that a child actually lives here?  One with too many toys?

Poor, poor husband.  I’ve been a raging ball of hormones and have yelled at him repeatedly for not helping me enough.  Several times each day he tried to escape my wrath by heading to the garden and harvesting tomatoes that I swear he already picked.  The very same tomatoes on the counter.  I really think he takes some away at night and brings them back in the house the next day.  You know, so that it looks like he’s doing something.

Also, I think he’s shoved cotton balls in his ears because I have to REPEAT MYSELF CONSTANTLY.

I asked him five times to take the broken bread machine to the garage to be thrown away.  After it sat on the dining room floor, next to the deck door, for TWELVE days, I finally took it out to the garage myself.  An F-bomb was said and the neighbor across the street heard me.  She no longer waves at me when we pass each other on the road.  Apparently, I am now the closest thing to the devil himself.  At least to her.  Okay, and my husband. Whatever.

Doug was all, “Geez, Louise!  Settle down!  What is wrong with you?  And F-word?  Over a bread maker?”

And I lost my mind.  I began crying and shaking and raving like a freakin’ idiot.   I was sputtering, “You don’t understand!  YOU JUST DON’T GET IT!”

We didn’t speak the rest of the night.  The next day things were fine.  That is until he buried the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream behind a bunch of other crap in the freezer.  The yelling ensued.  More tears were shed.  I promptly sent myself to bed.  I didn’t want the damn ice cream anyway.  What I really wanted was a big fat margarita in a glass the size of my head.  With lots of Tequila.  But alas, the things we give up to bring a beautiful, chubby baby into the world.

Speaking of babies, I don’t think we’ll be having any more children after my outbursts.  What man wants to have sex with a stark raving lunatic?

In my defense, I just can’t help it.  It seems like I have no control over anything anymore. Especially my hormones.

Also, I’m the the only one who does anything around here.  The huz tries to help, but things go unfinished because he thinks he has other, more important priorities (like painting the garage door and trim, and installing a new garage door opener, because he thinks winter is arriving tomorrow).  Then I become infuriated and the stupidest things set me off.  I can’t do it all.  I physically cannot do everything.

Poor Dawson thinks his mother has turned into the chupacabra from his Scooby Doo DVD.

I probably have turned into a monster.

My days are chaotic.  This is my typical daily routine:

• Wake up early (most of the time)
• Work for 2 hours
• Check e-mail
• Wake Dawson
• Get Dawson dressed
• Let Murphy out to pee
• Feed the dog
• Make breakfast for Dawson
• Make sure Dawson brushes his teeth
• Check Dawson’s backpack and folder to be sure all forms and things are signed and sent back
• Get Dawson on the school bus
• Work 3 more hours
• Check e-mail
• Wait for the bus to drop off Dawson
• Make lunch for Dawson (oh yeah, and for me!)
• Let the dog out to pee, again.
• Put on Spongebob to occupy Dawson
• Finish working
• Straighten the living room, dust and vacuum
• Wash dishes
• Check on the laundry and try to put it all away
• Check Dawson’s backpack and folder for new notes and/or forms
• Pay bills that may be due
• Check e-mail
• Pick-up stray toys around the house, or command Dawson to do it
• Take Dawson outside to play
• Return books to the library and check out new ones
• Try to read a book that does not have colorful illustrations and rhyming words
• Sort toys and set aside two boxes for Goodwill
• Clean out the storage closet and donate more items to Goodwill
• Fold more laundry but forget to put it away
• Read books to Dawson
• Ask Doug seven times to load the boxes in the car so I can drop them off at Goodwill the next day
• Ask Doug to make dinner while I take a nap
• Fall asleep watching television (most likely Dancing with the Stars)
• Yell at someone for something because my hormones are out of whack

Oh, and did I mention the 349 times I have to stop what I am doing at any given time to pee or wipe a certain 5-year-old’s butt.  And let’s not forget the occasional adjustment to the schedule for conference calls or MOPS and MOMS Club meetings, or Church Activities.  And Saturday Soccer.  Or going to the bank, post office and grocery store every Friday.  And the fact that my husband is most often working (or hiding in the GARDEN) while I’m trying to manage this damn household.

And you people wonder why I’m crazy?

To my husband and son I say:  Y’all better hope I don’t die in childbirth, because it appears you CANNOT FUNCTION WITHOUT ME.

September 24, 2009

Too Much Information

If you get embarrassed easily or are a member of my family, I suggest you hit that tiny red X in the upper right corner of your web browser.

Why, you ask?

Because I’m about to write something that you probably don’t want to read.

Are you people gone yet?

No?  Suit yourselves.

Here goes:

MY CROTCH HURTS.

Seriously.  I can no longer walk without pain.  My groin, my inner thighs, my hips, my lower back and buttocks, all of my nether regions, HURT.  Terrible, awful, aching pain.

I cry getting out of bed every morning.  I cry when I have to go downstairs for any reason.  Sitting down and standing up are brutal.  Rolling over in bed at night is torture.

And!  I can feel the baby’s head turning inside my uterus.  His gigantic head is pressing on my cervix.  I just know it.  The nurse at the doctor’s office (I had my 35-36 week – depending on the doctor – appointment on Tuesday) told me, “Second babies do not drop until labor begins.”

“Oh, yeah?” I told her. “Well, I think you’re full of poo because I can feel his head against my cervix.  This baby has dropped lower into my pelvis.”

She rolled her eyes at me.  Oh, yes she did.  And I laughed.  Then I cried.  And she quickly left the exam room because HEAVEN FORBID a hormonal, nine-months-pregnant-woman should cry.

I had my ultrasound that same day and the baby’s estimated weight is 6 pounds, 13 ounces.  On August 31st, his weight was around 5 1/2 to 5 3/4 pounds.  He’s up almost one pound in 3 weeks.  Give or take 6-8 ounces they say. And then my doctor tells me, “He’ll now start gaining a pound a week.”

And I did the math.  Technically, with 4 weeks to go until my due date, I could have a ten pounder.  Like I could push ten pounds out of my vagina? I’m going to cry again.

This isn’t news to me, however.  I had an appointment last week, and Dr. B told me they will not let me go longer than 38 weeks.  Which, THANK GOD, I don’t know how I’d deal with this labor, knowing how large this baby might be!

While I have good childbearing hips (no lie, when I was pregnant with Dawson, the doctor at the time told me so), and could probably deliver just fine, my current doctor is concerned that I will tear and/or have labor troubles which could result in a C-section.  I decline the C-section.  Unless absolutely medically necessary of course.

So.  I asked again about this 38 weeks thing.

“Most likely,” he said, “You’ll be induced via pitocin between 37 and 38 weeks, 39 at the absolute latest.”

I’ll need to have one more ultrasound (in 2 weeks) and if this Monster Baby is over 8 pounds induction will be scheduled for the same week.

Yeah, so I could have a baby in 18 days or so.  Panic has set in around here.

Honestly?  I think the baby is trying to bust out right now.  I believe he will declare his own birthday.  For real.  The pains, the aches, the moodiness, the NESTING THAT IS MAKING MY HUSBAND CRAZY… yes, I think he’ll be here much earlier.  And I am freaking out.

As long as the baby doesn’t decide to come before Dawson’s birthday party this weekend.  That’s all I ask.

Okay, that, and an end to this CROTCH PAIN.

September 5, 2009

Pre-Eclampsia: All Right Now, Baby, It’s a-All Right Now

Part 3 0f 3.  (Read Part 1 or Part 2)

Monday afternoon I dropped Dawson off at his old daycare and went to my follow-up appointment at the medical center.  First up, a bio-physical profile with an ultrasound technician.

The tech called me back fairly quickly and asked me what, exactly, I was there for.  She was confused because I had just seen her the previous Thursday.

“You’re guess is as good as mine,” I told her.  “I’m assuming it’s due to the pre-eclampsia thing.”

She instructed me to lie back on the exam table and lower my pants to just above the pubic bone.  She was friendly, and quickly placed the gel all over my abdomen.  The baby was still vertex, same position as four days prior.  He was moving quite a lot, and it was good to see that he was making practice breathing movements.  The tech explained this was determined because the kidneys were pulsing.  I was happy to have that reassurance.

Post BPP, I checked in for my non-stress test.  The nurse was young, mid twenties I think, and very friendly.

First, she took my blood pressure.  122/82, perfectly normal (probably because I remembered to take my blood pressure pill that morning.)   Next, she dipped the urine sample I had brought in for the appointment.

“No trace of protein or glucose,” she said.  I was elated.

Finally,  she hooked me up to the machine and arranged the belts to track the baby’s heartbeat and any contractions that might occur.  I joked that I hoped there were no contractions, because I’m sure that would send the doctors, and me, into a panic.

After ten minutes of monitoring, the baby wasn’t moving as much as he was during the BPP, so the nurse brought in a juice box of Motts apple juice.  After drinking it, I tracked the baby’s movements by pressing the button on the wand connected to the testing machine.

Shortly after that, Dr. Boehm, the doctor that I find rather intimidating came into the room.  He had my chart in his hands and was looking it over when he said, “So, why are we here?”  After hearing the ultrasound technician ask the same question just moments prior, I was wondering whether these doctors really knew what the heck they were doing.

“You’re guess is as good as mine,” I started.  “I was told by Dr. P that I have pre-eclampsia due to x, y & z.  Does my chart indicate otherwise?”

“Well,” he began. “Your blood work and urine are within normal ranges for this gestation.  Your urine sample is clear of protein.  One elevated blood pressure does not indicate pre-eclampsia.  I understand why he requested further testing, but your levels are good today.”

I didn’t think my ears were working correctly.  Did I hear him right?  My levels are fine?

“So, my blood pressure is good?”

“It’s actually perfect, considering your history with pregnancy-induced hypertension and later pre-eclampsia.  We would need to see more than one reading higher than 140/90.  You’ve only had the one high pressure, and I’m assuming that might have been due to something else besides PE.”

I explained how I couldn’t remember if I took my pill that morning last week, and Dr. Boehm was nodding his head as I spoke.  He then told me that because my condition has been monitored and controlled, and because I’m not gaining weight faster than average, I probably did not have pre-eclampsia.  He believed that Dr. P jumped the gun.

What happened next was stunning.  Dr. Boehm called his transcriptionist and documented my case while I was still in the room.  He used terminology I didn’t understand, but when he said, “Patient showing a passing grade of 8 out of 8 in all extensive testing.  Per my observations, I find it necessary to withdraw the previous diagnosis of pre-eclampsia.”

I nearly fainted.  All that stress.  All that worrying.  All of it unnecessary because I was fine.

I told Dr. B how upset I was that the other doctor had me in a panic.  He told me he’d prefer it if I only scheduled appointments with Dr. F (my regular OB/GYN who was unavailable during the last two appointments which led me to see Dr. P), or with himself.  I agreed.

He then went over the game plan over the next seven weeks.  Starting at 34 weeks I would have two appointments weekly, one physician appointment and one NST just to carefully monitor the blood pressure.  The closer we get to my due date, the higher the risk of pre-E.  However, he told me, I do not have it now.  This was music to my ears.

When I told my husband the news he was beyond excited.  I was grateful for his support and for all the wonderful things he did when I was constantly freaking out.

I told my parents, too.  My mother insisted the rosaries and all the praying led to a miracle.  In a way, I think she’s right.

I’m just thankful that I’m healthy.  My baby is healthy.  That’s all that matters.