Getting Paid

Starting November 2nd, I will officially be employed as a telehealth nurse.  I'm glad to be part of a career that offers so many diverse options.  I'm excited to get to continue to pursue my passion even from the confines of bedrest.  Mostly, I'm relieved to be able to ease the burden that is that loss of my previous salary.  

They sent me a packet to give me an idea of what a day looks like for a 'Nurse Advice Line' employee...and they made the hilarious and unfortunate decision to make the headline in all caps while also abbreviating things:

A NAL OVERVIEW.


Oh. Um. Well, we need the money.




Seriously, though, I'm so pleased to have this new position and I'm looking forward to expanding my scope of practice by learning a new facet to caring for my community.  By the time it's all said and done, I'll be licensed in each of the 50 states and able to help patients on a national level!  That prospect is extremely appealing to me and I'm beyond blessed to get the opportunity to use my skills to the benefit of such a large group.

There is one small catch which remains entirely out of my control. The training is 6 weeks long and requires 100% attendance or will result in loss of the position.  That puts me training almost right up to my daughter's due date. Only time will tell how that turns out.  Here's to the unknown future. Cheers.

Permission Granted

A sweet friend told me last night that she thinks bedrest is sending me into a deep 'down' place and that I should talk to my OB about possible depression.  It means a lot to me that she was willing to speak up and tell me that what I'm feeling and saying doesn't altogether seem like normal pregnancy, hormonal emotions.  I admit that I've been feeling increasingly unlike the healthy self that I was so proud of several months ago.

K told me last night that it was okay to be sad because we did just have an unexpected, burdensome upheaval.  He asked if I noticed myself feeling this way before the bedrest news. It's hard to say...my memory is so foggy.  Even still, I'm historically bad at coping with hardships (re: my life crisis over being infertile) and I know I'm not handling this well.  I'm mad at my body. I feel guilty that K got stuck with dumb ol' me without knowing how hard it would be to have a family with me.  It's nice to hear that it's okay to be sad, though. I get frustrated with myself for crying, which usually just makes it worse.

I cleaned our box fan today.  I started to get proud of myself for accomplishing that task and immediately gave myself a stern admonishment.  "All I did was clean a stupid fan", I told myself, "big deal. I've done nothing else lately". And I almost accepted that; except a spark of 'hold the fuck up' washed over me and I realized that just as much as it's okay to be sad, it's okay to be happy. I'm allowed to be proud of myself that I cleaned this fan.  It needed it and I did it.  I have a clean fan now because I took the time to unscrew some things and wipe them down.  It might be minute but it's something.

Maybe I can pull myself out of this funk. Maybe not.  Maybe I'm a normal amount of sad and anxious and frustrated. Maybe not. All I know is that I'm thankful for the three gifts of realizations that I got over the last 12 hours: it's okay to be happy, it's okay to be sad, it's okay to ask for help.  I already feel a little less overwhelmed.

Repose

I completed my first week of bedrest with so much grace and class that I should teach a workshop on it.  Psych.    I'm almost ashamed at how poorly I handled being confined to home-couch-bed.   I whined, I cried, I got angry and irritable.  At one point, K had to load me up and drive me down the highway to keep me from losing it (and probably to shut me up. I've been more than a little annoying, I have a feeling).

If an enemy ever wants to effectively torture me for information, they can skip right over the more gruesome ways and go straight to locking me in a room with nothing to do.  I'll tell you anything...just please let me out of here.

Honestly, I was a little convinced that all it would take was one week and my cervix would miraculously get with the program so much that I would be allowed to get off bedrest and return to work.  No such luck.  I'm down for the count.  The bright side is that my cervix is unchanged - nothing is worse...and not worse is good.  Also, isn't it sort of beautiful that sometimes 'not worse' is worth celebrating? Just me? Eh, I'm sentimental and more than a little emotional.

I've been a nurse for 5 years. I like to work hard and fast, draining myself in all possible ways in service of someone that needs my help.  I'm very good at what I do. I find fulfillment in it. I couldn't really imagine doing anything else. It's odd to find myself without it, especially so suddenly and without any choice.

Now there will be those of you that say, "oh enjoy it. I would love to spend hours watching a show/playing a game/reading a book/being required to accomplish nothing". To you I say, please shush.  Perhaps, maybe, there is a possibility that I would enjoy this except that we just lost 75% of our household income and it's literally all my fault.  I have just shouldered K with so much undeserved stress. I have put our family in financial jeopardy.  I feel very guilty about it and I have nothing but unlimited time to dwell on it.

K appears to be unperturbed (thank God - because I'm perturbing it up more than enough for the both of us).  He's taken on the extra responsibility of the household without so much as a single complaint. He's patiently tried to talk me down from my self-loathing shouldering of the blame.  He tells me that we just take it one day at a time, we'll figure it out, and that in the end it'll all be okay.  He reminds me that there is no fault here, that my body is good, that nothing is going wrong.  I've repaid his kindness and steadfast patience by crying a lot. Lucky guy.

Body of mine

A common problem you'll discover among the infertile crowd (and I'm most specifically talking about the infertile individual of the couple) is this feeling as though their body has failed.  It's a theme I've noticed over and over whilst reading about the emotional effects of infertility and in talking to a great many infertile women and men.  An infert will express disappointment in their body, going so far as to feel their body is less than, useless, and/or betraying them.

I never felt this so acutely as I saw others did.  I was aware that my body ovulated improperly.  I realized that my body was incapable of getting pregnant on it's own accord. I was frustrated that I couldn't find a quick, easy fix. I just never out and out blamed my body. I felt spared in that, lucky nearly, that I could remain somewhat rational about it - afterall, we take our small victories were we can get them when it comes to the losing game of being infertile and one of mine was that I didn't hate my body.

Still, when I discovered yoga I began to respect my body again.  Yoga starts with this lovely mindset that you don't focus on what you cannot do. Instead, the focus is purely in what you're capable of.  You can hold a pose for 2 seconds? WONDERFUL! LOOK AT WHAT YOUR STRONG AND LOVELY BODY IS DOING!!  And slowly, in celebrating each little thing I was capable of, I started being capable of more and more in the land of yoga.  Before long I was not only accepting of my body but very proud of it.  I felt powerful and incredibly feminine again - two things that infertility had definitely taken away from me.

I stopped being able to do yoga like I was used to by late March.  Infertility treatments really take a toll on my body by adding weight, increasing fatigue, and decreasing stamina.  Hyperemesis knocked me out of the game completely and by the time I found a way to cope with it, I had lost a lot of energy and muscle. Pregnancy led me to feeling overly fatigued and incredibly activity intolerant.  Still, I managed a few yoga sessions here and there.  Getting back into the mindset was nice - the refocus on beauty and capability.  I was reminded of how wonderful my body is.

And, I was very proud of the fact that, though my body couldn't get pregnant easily, it seemed to be doing a bang up job of staying pregnant this time around. I gave accolades to this little body of mine for that, incredibly thankful especially knowing that there are too many infertile women that cannot say the same. I felt I owed it to my body on the behalf of so many people and things to specifically celebrate it for that victory.

Yesterday it was discovered that my cervix is much too short and already funneling, an indicator of pre-term birth.  A decent measurement for a cervix at my stage of the game (27 weeks) would be at least 3 cm, 2.5 cm on the low end, with good being 4cm.  Mine is an unfortunate 1.97 cm. I was ushered into a room to discuss this with the OB, swabbed for a test called fFN (it's a test based on it's negative predictive value.  Mine was negative meaning it is 99% likely that I will NOT go into labor during the next 7-14 days), and then sent to the perinatologist for further evaluation.  He confirmed the findings and after a short stay in L&D, I was shot up with steroids and sent home on strict bedrest.

I had a hard time last night with being down on myself in a way I hadn't been in a while and mad at my body in a way I'd never been before.  It's a bit difficult for me knowing my body isn't doing the bang up job I had been celebrating. It's very difficult for me to be undeniably reminded of the fact that I cannot do well what comes easily and naturally to the majority of women.  I admit it's a loss of some identity, a loss of that feminine quality I had come to embrace.  I'm not normal and there's just no way around that.

Today I'm going to try to focus on my victories:
   -we discovered my short cervix in time to do something about it
   -as far as anyone knows, this babe is staying put for at least a couple of weeks
   -she's growing strong and well

and I'm going to try to convince myself that this set back and reminder needn't rob me of my beauty, my womanhood, or my femininity.  I am still powerful and lovely. We'll see how I do with that.
 

Sharing the Rain

     When I was in elementary school my mom had an in-home daycare.  I'll bypass telling you about all the loads of fun we had surrounding every holiday and during the summers because neither of us have that kind of time (although let me quickly tell you about the time a kid made himself puke up grape juice on our wall to try to get out of time out - didn't work, my mom meant business).  Instead, I'm going to focus on the rain.  On those lucky days when it would rain while we were on some sort of school break, we would throw on our bathing suits...a good daycare kid always has a bathing suit handy...and run out into the backyard. We'd pretend we'd been stranded in some deserted place and had to fend for ourselves, foraging the ground for fruit that we'd snuck from the kitchen and strewn about.  Eventually we'd make our way into the alley, opening up a whole new world of roughing it. When the sun finally shone, or parents showed, we were soaking wet and completely entranced in our world of make believe.

     By the time I was in middle school my mom had traded the daycare for helping my dad run their own air conditioning company and I no longer thought to head outside in my bathing suit every time it rained.  Still, rainy days were special for me.  I got into the habit of stashing away sugar daddy's for just such a time as a rainy weekend with nothing to do.  Having opened my bedroom blinds and thrown back the curtains so that I could see the rain more clearly from my spot on the bed, I'd grab one of my dad's old Nancy Drew or Hardy Boy books, pop the end of a sugar daddy in my mouth, and let the combination off nature, books, and candy soothe me into the most wonderful sense of security a girl could hope for.

     High school, well, let's just say I mixed my independent nature with a hormonal streak of rebellion that wouldn't be tamed by sugary treats and mystery novels but I still loved the rain.  In between getting into too much trouble entirely too often and discovering the majesty that is interest in the opposite sex, I still managed to find a way to celebrate the rainy days.  In a gesture that suited my rebellion just fine, on those rainy, gloomy, dark days I'd put on one of the cutest dresses in my closet and head to school.  While everyone else was bundled up, comfy style, in oversized shirts and jeans wet around the ankles, there I'd be in stark contrast (or so I assumed). I firmly believed the sunny days didn't deserve all the pomp, anyway.

     Now if you know me at all you know my favorite days are still the ones where it rains.  I got married in a November because I acutely remembered how much it rained the November I'd met K and I hoped for rain on my wedding day.  To mix a couple of my favorite things, I've made K kiss me in the rain a few times and stand with me in it a few others.  I've sat on the porch of our home, steaming hot tea in hand, and let the rain be my companion more times than I can count.  On the rainy days when I don't have to work I wake up early just to be able to see the rain for longer.  I'll open the windows wide, light a cinnamon apple candle, and let the quiet, rainy morning ease my entire being the way nothing else has ever been able to do.  For me there is peace in the rain; there is comfort, there is joy, there is something to be loved and celebrated.  I'm never happier than on the days it rains.

     And I can't wait to share that with my daughter.  I hope she loves it, too.

Bad days

     I don't know what it is. I've never been able to describe it properly.  At it's worst, I drowned in it - choking on it, feeling it thick in my lungs.  I used to keep it a secret because I barely understood it myself but I've learned that it happens more often and lasts longer if I keep quiet.  Now I call it 'my bad day' and reach out to whomever is willing to help keep me from going under.

     I've started to recognize when it comes sneaking around. At first, I can't exactly pinpoint what is wrong but I know something isn't right.  I feel too rough...like my edges are sandpaper catching on cotton.  It feels tangly and messy.  The roughness turns into a raw, overexposed feeling.  The noises are too noisy, the silence is too silent, everything is just too much of whatever it is. The world is in hyperdrive and I can't find a good spot to jump in and join.  Then comes the sneakiest part of all, the overcompensation of the rawness - I am muted.  I can laugh, smile, and participate as well as ever but it's forced from beneath what feels like layers of glue.  The muted feeling quickly becomes my bad day.

     I guess if I'm going to be completely honest and transparent here (because if not here then where) my bad days are characterized by an overwhelming sense of sadness.  I will sob rolling, hot tears and mourn for things I can't articulate.  It's no use reminding myself that nothing is actually wrong; I'll just cry all the more thinking I must be really messed up to feel so sad when everything is okay.

     Luckily, mercifully, thankfully I manage to put away my pride and reach out to those I trust the most.  Some of them show up in person, physically guiding me out of the sadness until it sheds completely and I can walk without feeling it's heavy weight.  Some of them send texts of encouragement, assuring me that I'm not alone or broken.  Each of them remind me that if I hang on just a little longer the bad day will pass, as it always does.

12 weeks later

It's been a quiet 12 weeks for me on the blog front.   I've tried several times to make a new post but couldn't figure out how to make sense of all the ways I was feeling enough to put it into coherent sentences.   I'm going to give it my best shot now.

Survivor's Guilt: Once, at the tender age of pre-k, I stood in a crowded movie theater and shouted "quit laughing, you're making my shoulder nervous" because Milo (of Milo and Otis) was stuck in a hole.  It's been ever since then, and several more incidences, that the long running joke in my family revolves around my extreme sensitivity - especially to the plight of others.  It comes as no surprise to me, then, that I have Infertility Survivor's Guilt.
    This means that for the first few weeks of being pregnant I wanted to apologize. It's why I won't ever post pregnant belly pictures. It's the reason I still feel racked with uncertainty about the few instagram posts I have made about my pregnancy.  How do you celebrate when another is mourning?  How do you forget the many, many times you felt left behind and alone?  I don't want, not for a single second, to add to the pain or brokenness of another.

With that said, to whomever my pregnancy might hurt: the rest of this post will be a trigger. I love you and remember you every day. You are important and wonderful and valued. Please look away now.




Celebration: Every morning I wake up I remember that I'm pregnant. Each new day is a wonderful celebration of that singular fact.  It wasn't a dream.  It's really, really, really real.  I cannot, with any words created on this earth, express the unending, abounding, all consuming joy of knowing my daughter rests safe within me and I'll get to meet her in a few short months.
     She started tapping on me at a tiny 14 weeks. Now, at 24 weeks, she gives me such an abundance of hard thumps that often I can't sleep until she settles down.  Sometimes K places his hand on my belly and she kicks at him, too.  Every single time he asks, in disbelief, if I did that. Every time I get to tell him that it's our daughter.
     And 24 weeks, folks, that's a biggie in pregnancy land.  It's viability which means that she's got a 50-50 chance of making it outside of my body should fate decide to bring her too early. It means that there shouldn't be a single doctor or hospital who wouldn't do everything to save her tiny little life. Each day from here only increases her odds.  In two weeks, her chances without me go up to 90%.
     We've started to get semi-serious about baby prepping. Her nursery is nearly half painted in a spectacular shade of aqua teal. The dino decor is half made.  My dreams of the finished product are abundant. I'm anxious that we won't get it all done, won't have everything she needs, and at the same time calm knowing that it will all take care of itself the way this sort of stuff usually does. She has clothes galore.  I would say it's too many clothes except there is no such thing when it comes to pretty little outfits.  I need to wash and sort them at some point. I've not felt the urge yet so I'm waiting on that.   The baby shower dates are booked and the registry is a mess. K had free reign of the scanner which means our list has at least 15 wubba nubs and some candy on it.

The things: When I gave up hope that I'd ever get, let alone stay, pregnant I'd also given up on getting to experience the things that go along with it.  Warning - this will likely be very annoying to all those that dreaded the things I'm about to wax poetically thankful over.
     Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG): this isn't just the regular morning sickness.  This is the 'end up in the ER from vomiting your life up' sort of sickness.  I am intimately familiar with the toilets at my house, my work, my in-laws, my neighbors, and establishments spread around DFW. Some foods I fear I'll never be able to eat again and my diet currently revolves around things that I think would hold up in flavor should I need to puke them back up soon. HG, for me, came with a lovely friend called migraine.  Together, they left me a curled up useless mess on the couch.  Thanks to a couple of wonderful medications I've been able to go about life fairly normal but without the medicines I turn right back into a shriveled wreck.   And still, I GET TO SAY I HAVE HG! What! What sort of amazing nonsense is that. I have HG because I'm pregnant. Holy crap! Hallelujah!
     Glucose Test: the horror stories I've heard about having to consume the sickly-sweet punch flavored glucose drink are common fodder for a get together of child-bearing aged women.  It made them shaky, gave them headaches, left them feeling terrible for hours after.  They were hungry and grumpy and uncomfortable. The tech was so bad at blood draws. They passed it no problem or failed it and had to go on to the next dreadful round of testings. And still, I CAN'T FREAKING WAIT.  I have the drink sitting in my fridge door and I get a thrill of excitement each time I see it. I never thought I'd get the privilege of adding my part to the horror story.  Bring it on. Holy crap! Hallelujah!
     Maternity Shorts: They are so ugly and don't fit right.  Everything is somehow too big and too small. Plus, they're very expensive. Unless you go cheap (ahem - my middle name) in which case I think you end up with even uglier, ill fitting garments.  And still, I've been waiting a long time for this. Now that I'm finally showing and uncomfortable in my regular clothes, I hopped on the maternity shorts train even while complaining about it.  Maybe I wasn't listening because I was too busy talking crap but these things are so comfortable. Give me all the ugly maternity gear. Let me be a hot mess. Heck yeah. Hallelujah!