Greetings, KuKd/IF'ers and Inquisitive Guests!
It was exciting to discover a few days ago that someone had found my blog with the search terms "knocked up bitch."
I had to assume that my blog wasn't quite the thing they were looking for, if you know what I mean. Nonetheless, they did stick around for several minutes (it's almost frightening, the information I have access to). I wonder if this particular Internet-trawler learned anything new in the process, if they liked what they saw here, if they came away with a new view of us knocked-up bitches. If the titillating topic of pregnancy loss can spark even the faintest interest in what I presume to be a fat, horny middle-aged guy who looks like the stapler dude from Office Space, well, the entire KuKd communty can be proud. Right? Can't we?
Warning to my IF/TTC peeps: there's a bit of baby talk here today. Just some musings, some gross bodily things. I say this with full understanding: who in crap's name am I to complain about anything pregnancy-related? At least I'm pregnant at all. Touche.
But things happen with this now 30-week-pregnancy like with any other pregnancy - boring things, commonplace things, non-KuKd-related things - as much as I'd like to think my heightened KuKd status makes this pregnancy somehow different and more interesting than the norm. And sometimes I get the urge to spout off about those things here, even knowing it's not fun for everyone to read about. So my apologies in advance to my pregnancy-sensitive sistas.
There was a bit of a scare this past week - some weird cramping and clear, amnio-like discharge going on. There, I said it! DISCHARGE! Kevin absolutely positively loves it when I say that word - discharge - especially when preceded by "vaginal."
VAGINAL DISCHARGE! KEVIN, COME CHECK IT OUT!
It's almost as much of a turn-on as when I say HEMORRHOID!
KEVIN, MY HEMORRHOID IS BOTHERING ME!
(which I announced loudly from the bedroom yesterday morning while blotting my daily torrential nosebleed with an already-used Kleenex)
Poor Kevin, with his nosebloody, hemorrhoidy, vaginal dischargy, blood-engorged, gassy (there's that, too), extremely-vocal-about-all-of-the-above wife of whale-like proportions. Please send him flowers or tickets to March Madness.
Anyway, the cramps. I called the consulting nurse to relay my changing bodily symptoms, and was ordered to come in for a strangely named "non-stress test." The "non-stress test," which - ironically - is stressful just like any other procedure involving checking the aliveness of one's fetus, requires hooking suction-cuppy things up to my belly and listen for fetal activity and peering into my cervix. All of this is to make sure I'm not going into early labor.
(I was secretly hoping I was, in fact, going into early labor - so that I might be prescribed indefinite "bed rest," which - in my twisted fantasy world - involves lounging around in my pajamas for two months and watching movies while Kevin feeds me ice cream)
Of course, I was fully braced for catastrophe as I drove to the clinic for my stressful non-stress test, with Kevin and my mother calling me at regular intervals to check in. That's where KuKd colors pregnancy a slightly different shade than just pure pastel-rainbow: more like a black and gray experience with swaths of crimson-fear.
But everything turned out to be fine, so I was given a pat on the head and sent home, look around in wonderment and think to myself: wow! Things actually seem miraculously, statistically significantly, counter-intuitively okay! Now what do I do with myself?
* * *
I'm making the switch!
I was trying to remember what commercial(s) that's from. Some cable company? Cell phone? Diet plan? Anyway, I'm making it the switch.
Any of you who have ever lost a pregnancy, and then experienced subsequent pregnancies, will get what I mean here: during that subsequent pregnancy, you become like this high-risk specimen for the medical community to examine and monitor and write copious notes about. You feel dully afraid just about all the time, and your immediate family - females (well, mothers) especially - feed off your dull fear and cycle it back in your direction, spinning you into an even bigger ball of fear. And you suck up that extra attention like a needy attention whore - for a while anyway.
But then you start to feel tired of being a needy attention whore. You start getting bored with your own drama. If someone suggests another ultrasound, you feel yourself nodding a bit too quickly in agreement. If someone asks you questions and studies your charts, you soak it up like good rum punch, reveling in the spotlight of being such a high-risk specimen that smart people are worried about. And you start to get irritated with yourself, with this identity you've taken up.
Alas - for me, anyway - the novelty wore off about two months ago. I really started wanting to make the switch over to normal knocked-uppage. That is: back to thinking, talking, acting, and being treated like an ordinary pregnant gal with ordinary concerns - not like this big huge walking web of emotion and anxiety and potential dead-baby-ness.
So, after my December ultrasound, I told my Fetal Heart Specialist Guru Doctor that I was ready to MAKE THE SWITCH: the switch back over to my regular nice-lady doctor, the switch to the normal pregnancy track from here on out. Basically that means fewer visits to the doctor, fewer screenings, more relaxation. It means - on paper anyway- that everyone switches over to the mentality of "Monica is a normal pregnant person" instead of "Monica is high-risk specimen."
So we've all made the switch together: me, Kevin, my doctors. And ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh... I feel better already.
God help me if this one gets effed up between now and nine weeks from now.