I can't complain, this pregnancy has been an easy one. Incredibly so. For the most part, I've been able to do what I've always done with the exception of a few inconveniences.
Unlike what I've heard from other pregos, I haven't had many of the "regular" symptoms of pregnancy. Heartburn has been non-existent. My breathing hasn't been compromised in anyway. Swelling of the feet and hands has been minimal, allowing me to still wear my rings and sport my heels (I have given up on my 4-inchers as I just look silly wearing high heels while sporting a dodge ball for a belly). And, I haven't experienced any illnesses - other than one major headache (which was so not fun), I have been cold and flu free.
In return for my good fortune, the gods or perhaps it's the critter within has been playing voodoo tricks on my body. There's the whole rib thing, which continues to stab me with pain at the most inconvenient times. During a round of meditation in yoga class, an imaginary knife sliced through me, causing me to break my silence and releasing a pack of concerned pregos on me to make sure I wasn't going into labor.
Then, there was the hip lock. Our shower is part of a very deep soaking tub/jacuzzi thing. I'm not a bath person, so it's more a nuisance than anything else. And, in the last couple of months, I've come to hate it. Why? Well, the only way for me to exit the shower is to lift my leg above hip height. With my massive belly and heavy limbs, this is an almost impossible feat that has almost landed me head first on the tile floor more times than I care to remember.
A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to exit the tub after my morning shower, I had one hand tightly gripping my towel to keep it closed over my engrossed body and the other hand on the slippery tile wall. I lifted my left leg successfully over the barrier, but and as I try to straighten my leg so I could place my foot on the floor, my hip locked and rendered me paralyzed. Of course, with everything all wet, I slipped, and in straddle position, smacked my ass (and lady parts) on the rim of the tub. With all my excess weight, Mr. Oh heard the unfortunate thud and ran into the bathroom to check out the scene.
With crocodile tears streaming down my face, together we tried to pry me out of the tub. It took a couple of attempts, but I finally got out, but I had no use of my left leg - it was completely frozen in an awkward, elevated position. Unable to balance my weight on one leg, Mr. Oh half dragged me to the bed where in all my morning glory I slowly moved my leg in giant circles until my hip cracked. Thankfully, it has yet to happen again.
Then, about a month or so ago, I started experiencing this sensitivity in my left ass cheek that would stretch down to my upper thigh. Since I've pinched my sciatic nerve in the past, I figured I had done it again. So, I hobbled to my acupuncturist for some relief. Unfortunately, my pregnant state denied me the full blown acupuncture experience I've come to love. After a couple of mild sessions, my therapist informed me that my nerve isn't pinched and instead I've developed a muscle knot in my buttocks likely because I sit in a chair all day and the baby has put pressure on my sitting muscles.
So, what's the cure for an ass knot? I thought a massage of the region would do the trick. However, as my acupuncturists and several masseuse therapists have confirmed, the ass is home to many pressure points that can "stimulate" the uterus and induce labor. Now, in my 40th week, I'm all for uterus stimulation, but no one is willing to help me.
For the most part, the knot has been a mere inconvenience than an out right "pain". Most times, a little stretching usually cures the mild ache. But, last night after a vigorous walk around town (I'm desperate for labor), the knot came back with a vengeance. Every movement I've made since - from placing the slightest of pressure on my left heel to trying to turn over in bed - has left me grabbing hold of my ass cheek and yelping like a wounded dog.
I asked my OB what in the world is going on with my body. His response: it's getting ready for the big day. I can see the mild connection with the hip thing, but what in the world does my ass cheek have to do with labor?!
Monday, November 2, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
No trailblazing here
I like to stay busy and working is a a great way for me to do so. The idea of having a day off without a plan to keep me preoccupied is absolute torture. Knowing this about myself, I made the decision early on in my pregnancy that I would work until I could no longer do so - either until the baby's arrival or until my body gives out on me.
Plus, my company offers its employees the flexibility of working from home, which I've been taking advantage of a lot lately. So really it's a no brainer!
Last week, while in my 38th week, I was feeling good and was in some desperate need of human contact. So, I made my way into the office. It was a pretty uneventful work day, until one of my trips to the lady's room led to an assault of the verbal kind. As I was exiting, a female colleague (and relatively new mom) entered.
The last and only time I interacted with this woman she accosted me in an elevator. It all started out pleasantly with a smile and nod. After some mild chitchat, she asked me if I'd spoken to my manager about my leave of absence plans. I thought it an odd question, but I've heard odder these days, so I responded truthfully that I hadn't gotten around to it yet. BIG MISTAKE. Within seconds, the rather pleasant-looking woman turned into a overly aggressive maniac. Her rant, in summary, lectured me on my "obligation" to understand my "rights" and to make sure I take advantage of everything "owed" to me.
The good little researcher I am, I was fully aware of my benefits. But, no longer interested in conversing with what my mind's eye had visually stereotyped as the hairy-armpitted feminist, I stayed mum and continued to pray for the elevator doors to open. When they finally did, I set off for the exit. Unfortunately, she walked in step with me - which wasn't too hard to do since I've become a waddling tortoise - and continued her lecture. With no other way to lose her, I held onto my belly and ran into oncoming traffic to cross the street.
For weeks I successfully avoided the grizzly libber, but trapped in the tiny entrance/exit of the lady's room there was no where for me to hide. So, politely, I smiled and gave my hellos, hoping I'd escape unscathed.
Blocking the door, she gave me the once over. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I swear I saw flames spark in her corneas. Resting her malicious eyes on my belly she said through gritted teeth, "What are you still doing here?" The smart-ass I can be, especially when in uncomfortable situations, I looked back to the toilets and said, "Likely for the same reasons you're here." That didn't win any points with her and so she began ranting - this time with real screaming:
"This company owes you disability leave for 2 weeks before your due date.... You are obligated not just for yourself, but for all of us to take advantage of this benefit.... You're going to ruin it for everyone else...."
I can respect people who are passionate about their beliefs, but I have zero tolerance on those who push their ideas and judgements on others - especially me. So, having had enough, I straightened my shoulders, pushed my belly forward (I use it as a weapon now and again - it's been great in scoring a seat on the trains) and roughly brushed passed her to get to the door. Once there, I turned and said, "Well, I guess I don't see my pregnancy as a disability. Why should I sit at home when there's nothing wrong with me."
Before I let her respond, I walked away - trembling. The little coward I am, I then spent the rest of the day going up and down the stairs just so I could use the facilities on another floor. Luckily, I haven't seen her since. But, I've been working from the safety of my home, too!
Plus, my company offers its employees the flexibility of working from home, which I've been taking advantage of a lot lately. So really it's a no brainer!
Last week, while in my 38th week, I was feeling good and was in some desperate need of human contact. So, I made my way into the office. It was a pretty uneventful work day, until one of my trips to the lady's room led to an assault of the verbal kind. As I was exiting, a female colleague (and relatively new mom) entered.
The last and only time I interacted with this woman she accosted me in an elevator. It all started out pleasantly with a smile and nod. After some mild chitchat, she asked me if I'd spoken to my manager about my leave of absence plans. I thought it an odd question, but I've heard odder these days, so I responded truthfully that I hadn't gotten around to it yet. BIG MISTAKE. Within seconds, the rather pleasant-looking woman turned into a overly aggressive maniac. Her rant, in summary, lectured me on my "obligation" to understand my "rights" and to make sure I take advantage of everything "owed" to me.
The good little researcher I am, I was fully aware of my benefits. But, no longer interested in conversing with what my mind's eye had visually stereotyped as the hairy-armpitted feminist, I stayed mum and continued to pray for the elevator doors to open. When they finally did, I set off for the exit. Unfortunately, she walked in step with me - which wasn't too hard to do since I've become a waddling tortoise - and continued her lecture. With no other way to lose her, I held onto my belly and ran into oncoming traffic to cross the street.
For weeks I successfully avoided the grizzly libber, but trapped in the tiny entrance/exit of the lady's room there was no where for me to hide. So, politely, I smiled and gave my hellos, hoping I'd escape unscathed.
Blocking the door, she gave me the once over. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I swear I saw flames spark in her corneas. Resting her malicious eyes on my belly she said through gritted teeth, "What are you still doing here?" The smart-ass I can be, especially when in uncomfortable situations, I looked back to the toilets and said, "Likely for the same reasons you're here." That didn't win any points with her and so she began ranting - this time with real screaming:
"This company owes you disability leave for 2 weeks before your due date.... You are obligated not just for yourself, but for all of us to take advantage of this benefit.... You're going to ruin it for everyone else...."
I can respect people who are passionate about their beliefs, but I have zero tolerance on those who push their ideas and judgements on others - especially me. So, having had enough, I straightened my shoulders, pushed my belly forward (I use it as a weapon now and again - it's been great in scoring a seat on the trains) and roughly brushed passed her to get to the door. Once there, I turned and said, "Well, I guess I don't see my pregnancy as a disability. Why should I sit at home when there's nothing wrong with me."
Before I let her respond, I walked away - trembling. The little coward I am, I then spent the rest of the day going up and down the stairs just so I could use the facilities on another floor. Luckily, I haven't seen her since. But, I've been working from the safety of my home, too!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A mother? Really?
Oh. My. God. I'm going to be a mother.
When I say mother, I mean, like, a mom to a kid - a real one. A kid who needs to be cared for, like all the time. And by cared for, I guess that means making sure it eats, sleeps, shits and is kept out of harms way. But how in the world can I be responsible for a kid when there are days - more often than not - that I forget to eat, sleep or shit myself (sometimes all on the same day)?
My mother's a mother, my aunts are moms, my friends' moms are moms. Me? Not so much. It's like that Sesame Street game, which one of these doesn't belong here, where I'm the stiletto in a group of sport shoes. It just doesn't work!
Like Mr. Oh, you may be thinking, "And... this is just dawning on you now?" The answer: Y-E-S!
It hit me last Friday - out of the blue. I was sitting at my desk, totally engulfed in my latest assignment when all of a sudden a thought shoots through my mind: the critter moving inside me is a REAL, LIVE kid. And in a few short weeks, it's going to make its way out of my body (let's not ponder how that will happen) and it will be MY responsibility to care for it.
Are they out of their freakin' minds?
As the panic rose inside me, my breathing became shallow and if my huge belly wasn't blocking me, I would have thrown my head between my legs to prevent me from fainting. Instead, I practiced my ojai breath and repeated my mantra, "I can do it" over and over.
As determined as I was to believe the repetitive voice in my head, I knew there was no way I was even close to being able to "do it." What did I know? For 9 months I've avoided the reality of my situation, I tossed aside all the baby books given to me, I only half-listened (if that) to the unsolicited advice of other mothers, and I kept telling myself and anyone willing to listen that I'd figure it out in due time.
Well, due time is fast approaching and with less than 3 weeks to go, I don't see when the "figuring out" is going to happen!
Wishing for the comfort and safety of my bed, so life could pass me by, I packed up my belongings and headed home. As I made my way through the streets and trains, I passed a number of babies and kids with their moms (who looked and acted like real moms), which only added more fuel to my fire.
By the time I got home, there was no stopping the tears streaming down my face and I couldn't catch my breath. And, my mind had given up on my positive mantra and was replaced with angst-ridden questions that asked me how in the world I was going to pull this off.
By the time Mr. Oh returned from work, he found me in a puddle of tears and tissues. Cautiously, he asked if everything was okay, which I took as my cue to pepper him with question after question: how exactly were we going to be parents? what exactly did a kid need after it's born? why didn't either of us make the logical connection that pregnancy, in most cases, leads to a baby that has to be cared for by the people who created it? And so on.
Although Mr. Oh attempted to console me in a variety of ways, I was inconsolable. To avoid any further drama, Mr. Oh kept a safe distance from me and left me to deal with the doubting, anxious voices screaming inside my head.
When I say mother, I mean, like, a mom to a kid - a real one. A kid who needs to be cared for, like all the time. And by cared for, I guess that means making sure it eats, sleeps, shits and is kept out of harms way. But how in the world can I be responsible for a kid when there are days - more often than not - that I forget to eat, sleep or shit myself (sometimes all on the same day)?
My mother's a mother, my aunts are moms, my friends' moms are moms. Me? Not so much. It's like that Sesame Street game, which one of these doesn't belong here, where I'm the stiletto in a group of sport shoes. It just doesn't work!
Like Mr. Oh, you may be thinking, "And... this is just dawning on you now?" The answer: Y-E-S!
It hit me last Friday - out of the blue. I was sitting at my desk, totally engulfed in my latest assignment when all of a sudden a thought shoots through my mind: the critter moving inside me is a REAL, LIVE kid. And in a few short weeks, it's going to make its way out of my body (let's not ponder how that will happen) and it will be MY responsibility to care for it.
Are they out of their freakin' minds?
As the panic rose inside me, my breathing became shallow and if my huge belly wasn't blocking me, I would have thrown my head between my legs to prevent me from fainting. Instead, I practiced my ojai breath and repeated my mantra, "I can do it" over and over.
As determined as I was to believe the repetitive voice in my head, I knew there was no way I was even close to being able to "do it." What did I know? For 9 months I've avoided the reality of my situation, I tossed aside all the baby books given to me, I only half-listened (if that) to the unsolicited advice of other mothers, and I kept telling myself and anyone willing to listen that I'd figure it out in due time.
Well, due time is fast approaching and with less than 3 weeks to go, I don't see when the "figuring out" is going to happen!
Wishing for the comfort and safety of my bed, so life could pass me by, I packed up my belongings and headed home. As I made my way through the streets and trains, I passed a number of babies and kids with their moms (who looked and acted like real moms), which only added more fuel to my fire.
By the time I got home, there was no stopping the tears streaming down my face and I couldn't catch my breath. And, my mind had given up on my positive mantra and was replaced with angst-ridden questions that asked me how in the world I was going to pull this off.
By the time Mr. Oh returned from work, he found me in a puddle of tears and tissues. Cautiously, he asked if everything was okay, which I took as my cue to pepper him with question after question: how exactly were we going to be parents? what exactly did a kid need after it's born? why didn't either of us make the logical connection that pregnancy, in most cases, leads to a baby that has to be cared for by the people who created it? And so on.
Although Mr. Oh attempted to console me in a variety of ways, I was inconsolable. To avoid any further drama, Mr. Oh kept a safe distance from me and left me to deal with the doubting, anxious voices screaming inside my head.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
A look to my future
The days and weeks seem to be blowing by and my belly seems to be getting bigger. Since I live in a perpetual, blissful state of denial, most things like the calendar, mirrors, and the moving dial on the scale haven't had much of an impact.
However, the last couple of weeks, I've had many family, friends and workmates try to pry my rose-coloured glasses from my eyes.
It began with my mother - yes, my very own mother, whom I most resemble, especially in our indifferent and unassuming attitude to life's most important events. Sitting around her kitchen table a couple of weeks ago, we were chatting about nothing of interest. When she says, so have you looked for a crib yet. Now, for a normal 8-month prego, this wouldn't be a surprising question, but for me, I nearly fell off my chair.
My aloof response of "we'll figure it out" didn't win any points with her and I was then reverted back to a 12 year old child as my mother lectured me on how I can't just figure things out, that a baby has needs right from the start and I won't have time or the energy to figure it out when I get there.
Well, thank you very much, mother!
The next day, I had a playdate with my neices, which unexpectedly turned into a baby training camp.
I was asked to feed my 4-month old neice. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, the chubby munchkin supposedly chugged her bottle too quickly and ended up projectile vomiting all over me. Slopped in regurgitated milk, I was told that I have to pace her feeding. It's 2009, shouldn't bottles be designed to do that for me?? I then went in for a diaper change - just for practice. Thankfully, there was no comedic episode. But, my proud zia bubble was pinpricked when I realized that it took me more than 20 minutes to complete. If I keep up that pace, my child will never leave the diaper station.
If that didn't leave me feeling defeated and absolutely unprepared, I've had one kind, generous friend after another ask me where I'm registered. Since I'm not, I'm then provided with a list of things I just must have. And, while steeped in kindness, every suggestion comes with a "bad mother" clause. You know, the if-you-don't-do-what-is-recommended-I'll-be-a-horrible-mother-that-puts-her-child's-life-and-well-being-in-jeopardy clause.
While I could do without all the pressure and the feelings of utter dispair, the reality of my situation - that I'm really going to have to take care of a child in a few short weeks - is starting to sink in. This, of course, has only increased my urge to hide under the bed covers and wish it could be six months from now and everything's fine.
However, the last couple of weeks, I've had many family, friends and workmates try to pry my rose-coloured glasses from my eyes.
It began with my mother - yes, my very own mother, whom I most resemble, especially in our indifferent and unassuming attitude to life's most important events. Sitting around her kitchen table a couple of weeks ago, we were chatting about nothing of interest. When she says, so have you looked for a crib yet. Now, for a normal 8-month prego, this wouldn't be a surprising question, but for me, I nearly fell off my chair.
My aloof response of "we'll figure it out" didn't win any points with her and I was then reverted back to a 12 year old child as my mother lectured me on how I can't just figure things out, that a baby has needs right from the start and I won't have time or the energy to figure it out when I get there.
Well, thank you very much, mother!
The next day, I had a playdate with my neices, which unexpectedly turned into a baby training camp.
I was asked to feed my 4-month old neice. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, the chubby munchkin supposedly chugged her bottle too quickly and ended up projectile vomiting all over me. Slopped in regurgitated milk, I was told that I have to pace her feeding. It's 2009, shouldn't bottles be designed to do that for me?? I then went in for a diaper change - just for practice. Thankfully, there was no comedic episode. But, my proud zia bubble was pinpricked when I realized that it took me more than 20 minutes to complete. If I keep up that pace, my child will never leave the diaper station.
If that didn't leave me feeling defeated and absolutely unprepared, I've had one kind, generous friend after another ask me where I'm registered. Since I'm not, I'm then provided with a list of things I just must have. And, while steeped in kindness, every suggestion comes with a "bad mother" clause. You know, the if-you-don't-do-what-is-recommended-I'll-be-a-horrible-mother-that-puts-her-child's-life-and-well-being-in-jeopardy clause.
While I could do without all the pressure and the feelings of utter dispair, the reality of my situation - that I'm really going to have to take care of a child in a few short weeks - is starting to sink in. This, of course, has only increased my urge to hide under the bed covers and wish it could be six months from now and everything's fine.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A preview to D-day
I have to say, so far, I've been pretty lucky. I've been able to live a rather normal life throughout this pregnancy. Yes, there have been a few inconveniences, some of which have been right pains in the ass (some literal), but overall I don't have much to complain about.
Well, that was until recently. I developed this odd pain in my upper abdomen. At first it was a mild burning sensation and so I thought maybe there's some stretching going on. Like a good prego, I shared it with my doctor who couldn't provide a real explanation and just said that sometimes the prego body does things that cannot be explained.
I was okay with that, but as the weeks went on, the pain become more excrutiating - to the point where I've scared Mr. Oh out of his dreams with my screams of sheer agony. But usually, after a short time, the sharp pain would subside to a dull thud in my upper abs. With each episode, Mr. Oh would beg me to go to the hospital. I'm a believer in listening to my body, what Mr. Oh calls yoga sh!t, so I knew that while the pain was intense the baby was fine. So, try as he might I wasn't interested in going to the hospital.
Well, I finally gave in a couple of Friday nights ago where every move I made ripped through me like a knife. The tough (perhaps stubborn) gal I stupidly can be I gritted my teeth and tried to get through each one. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Oh walked in from work to find me on the floor, trying to bear through another spasm.
Unwilling to take no for an answer, he dressed me (I was paralyzed, so couldn't do this myself), placed me in the car and drove me to the hospital. By the time I got to the ER the pains had eased up, but there was no going home until Mr. Oh was satisfied.
The moment I walked through the doors, an orderly approached me with a wheelchair and indicated for me to have a seat. As I did so, the receptionist got on the phone and barked into the receiver that a woman who was 38 weeks pregnant was being wheeled upstairs. I took a quick look around the rather empty ER to see if there was any other pregos awaiting service. Nope, she was talking about me. As I was being pushed away, I called out, I'm only 32 weeks along, but she wasn't interested in what I had to say.
Quickly, I was brought to the Labor & Delivery ward. If I wasn't experiencing anxiety from the pain, I sure was just by seeing this sign! I was carefully lifted from the wheelchair, ordered to put on the dressing gown and produce a urine sample. Again, unable to do all this on my own, I threw dignity out the window and asked Mr. Oh for help. Upon emerging from the bathroom, I was ordered to get into bed where I was efficiently wired up - two monitors were strapped around my belly, a heart monitor was placed on my finger and an IV tube was inserted into my hand.
As the chaos ensued, I overheard another nurse order Mr. Oh to fill out the stack of insurance papers and submit them, with our co-pay of course, to the cashiers office (Ahh, America!).
Bewildered by it all, I finally looked down at the nurse who was filling up a third vial with my blood and calmly said, "Do you know why I'm here?" Her response: "Honey, you're in labour." I laughed at her and explained that in fact I wasn't in labour. She told me not to worry and that another nurse would be in to check in on me soon.
Once left alone, my spasms came back with a mighty vengence. And with each one, one of the machines would go beserk. I thought nothing of it until the head nurse came to check in on me and reported that I was having sporadic contractions.
I scoffed and told her that I wasn't having contractions and explained the pain I was experiencing. She asked me if this was my first, which it is and then said, well the machine says it's contractions. Like most people, I don't like being dismissed, especially when it has to do with my body. So, I asked her where I would feel pain if I was having contractions. Answer: lower abdomen, which I sternly explained was not my case.
At this point, Mr. Oh's face had lost just about all its color and he was fully engaged in all of his nervous ticks - biting his lips, rubbing his hair and pacing. While a little concerned, I kept telling myself that I know my body and everything's fine.
Now, to make things more interesting, my little critter was enjoying its evening bouncing routine. As opposed to its morning, early-, mid- and late-afternoon jaunts, the evening ones are more energetic and spastic (I envision dancing capabilities akin to Elaine from Seinfeld). It seemed that one of the straps across my belly was to monitor the baby's heart beat.
So, of course, with every bounce, turn, and who knows what else, the baby's heart beat would elevate. On the head nurse's second visit to me, she explained I was still having contractions, and looking at the baby's heart monitor, the baby may be in distress. Incredulous, I asked why she thought so, to which she explained that although always in the normal range, the baby's heart rate was all over the map.
Although I was concerned, I was sure that everything was fine. But, Mr. Oh? He was paler than I've ever seen him and I wasn't sure if he was going to hurl or pass out. But to be safe, I stopped arguing and continued to be monitored.
Four hours later, the doctor finally came in, who engaged me in a full poke and prod session to which he reported that I, in fact, wasn't in labour. Relieved that finally was talking my langugage, I released an expressive, exasperated, "I KNOW!" and then went on to explain my pain.
After about 6 hours strapped to machines, I was finally released and told that I had torn the cartilage just below my rib cage, which can cause intense pain similar to a rib fracture. Oh, but there was even better news, there was really nothing they could do, the pain would likely get more intense as the baby grows and then I'd have a while until it fully heals postpartum. It's not a normal occurance, but I was told it does happen in some rare cases. Lovely!
As we left the hospital, I expressed both my annoyance for all the trouble and my sense of relief for knowing what is wrong with me. Mr. Oh, who started to get some of the blood circulating back into his face, turned to me and in his shakey voice, said, "I really thought it was all going to go down tonight."
I knew otherwise, but at least we got a preview as to what's to come on the real D-day!
Well, that was until recently. I developed this odd pain in my upper abdomen. At first it was a mild burning sensation and so I thought maybe there's some stretching going on. Like a good prego, I shared it with my doctor who couldn't provide a real explanation and just said that sometimes the prego body does things that cannot be explained.
I was okay with that, but as the weeks went on, the pain become more excrutiating - to the point where I've scared Mr. Oh out of his dreams with my screams of sheer agony. But usually, after a short time, the sharp pain would subside to a dull thud in my upper abs. With each episode, Mr. Oh would beg me to go to the hospital. I'm a believer in listening to my body, what Mr. Oh calls yoga sh!t, so I knew that while the pain was intense the baby was fine. So, try as he might I wasn't interested in going to the hospital.
Well, I finally gave in a couple of Friday nights ago where every move I made ripped through me like a knife. The tough (perhaps stubborn) gal I stupidly can be I gritted my teeth and tried to get through each one. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Oh walked in from work to find me on the floor, trying to bear through another spasm.
Unwilling to take no for an answer, he dressed me (I was paralyzed, so couldn't do this myself), placed me in the car and drove me to the hospital. By the time I got to the ER the pains had eased up, but there was no going home until Mr. Oh was satisfied.
The moment I walked through the doors, an orderly approached me with a wheelchair and indicated for me to have a seat. As I did so, the receptionist got on the phone and barked into the receiver that a woman who was 38 weeks pregnant was being wheeled upstairs. I took a quick look around the rather empty ER to see if there was any other pregos awaiting service. Nope, she was talking about me. As I was being pushed away, I called out, I'm only 32 weeks along, but she wasn't interested in what I had to say.
Quickly, I was brought to the Labor & Delivery ward. If I wasn't experiencing anxiety from the pain, I sure was just by seeing this sign! I was carefully lifted from the wheelchair, ordered to put on the dressing gown and produce a urine sample. Again, unable to do all this on my own, I threw dignity out the window and asked Mr. Oh for help. Upon emerging from the bathroom, I was ordered to get into bed where I was efficiently wired up - two monitors were strapped around my belly, a heart monitor was placed on my finger and an IV tube was inserted into my hand.
As the chaos ensued, I overheard another nurse order Mr. Oh to fill out the stack of insurance papers and submit them, with our co-pay of course, to the cashiers office (Ahh, America!).
Bewildered by it all, I finally looked down at the nurse who was filling up a third vial with my blood and calmly said, "Do you know why I'm here?" Her response: "Honey, you're in labour." I laughed at her and explained that in fact I wasn't in labour. She told me not to worry and that another nurse would be in to check in on me soon.
Once left alone, my spasms came back with a mighty vengence. And with each one, one of the machines would go beserk. I thought nothing of it until the head nurse came to check in on me and reported that I was having sporadic contractions.
I scoffed and told her that I wasn't having contractions and explained the pain I was experiencing. She asked me if this was my first, which it is and then said, well the machine says it's contractions. Like most people, I don't like being dismissed, especially when it has to do with my body. So, I asked her where I would feel pain if I was having contractions. Answer: lower abdomen, which I sternly explained was not my case.
At this point, Mr. Oh's face had lost just about all its color and he was fully engaged in all of his nervous ticks - biting his lips, rubbing his hair and pacing. While a little concerned, I kept telling myself that I know my body and everything's fine.
Now, to make things more interesting, my little critter was enjoying its evening bouncing routine. As opposed to its morning, early-, mid- and late-afternoon jaunts, the evening ones are more energetic and spastic (I envision dancing capabilities akin to Elaine from Seinfeld). It seemed that one of the straps across my belly was to monitor the baby's heart beat.
So, of course, with every bounce, turn, and who knows what else, the baby's heart beat would elevate. On the head nurse's second visit to me, she explained I was still having contractions, and looking at the baby's heart monitor, the baby may be in distress. Incredulous, I asked why she thought so, to which she explained that although always in the normal range, the baby's heart rate was all over the map.
Although I was concerned, I was sure that everything was fine. But, Mr. Oh? He was paler than I've ever seen him and I wasn't sure if he was going to hurl or pass out. But to be safe, I stopped arguing and continued to be monitored.
Four hours later, the doctor finally came in, who engaged me in a full poke and prod session to which he reported that I, in fact, wasn't in labour. Relieved that finally was talking my langugage, I released an expressive, exasperated, "I KNOW!" and then went on to explain my pain.
After about 6 hours strapped to machines, I was finally released and told that I had torn the cartilage just below my rib cage, which can cause intense pain similar to a rib fracture. Oh, but there was even better news, there was really nothing they could do, the pain would likely get more intense as the baby grows and then I'd have a while until it fully heals postpartum. It's not a normal occurance, but I was told it does happen in some rare cases. Lovely!
As we left the hospital, I expressed both my annoyance for all the trouble and my sense of relief for knowing what is wrong with me. Mr. Oh, who started to get some of the blood circulating back into his face, turned to me and in his shakey voice, said, "I really thought it was all going to go down tonight."
I knew otherwise, but at least we got a preview as to what's to come on the real D-day!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Working girl angst
My whole life I have been working on my career. Every move I've made since I first joined the workforce, at the ripe age of 12, was in pursuit of my professional goals.
To be honest, I'm not sure where my intentions came from, but I've had them from as far back as I can remember. For a second grade assignment, I was asked to draw a picture of "what I wanted to be when I grew up." Heavily influenced by the evening soap operas of the '80s (yes, even at the age of 6), I drew a woman in a shoulder-padded suit with a string of pearls standing by a desk. I proudly presented the picture to my parents later that evening. While my mother appreciated my fashion sense, my father asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Boldly, I told him, "I'm going to be a lawyer." He scoffed, and perplexed by my admission since my immediate and extended family were all "blue collar" workers of one type or another, asked why. My response, "So I can wear a suit everyday!" Now that's a goal!
Since then, I've been working towards my ever-changing goals. But, within 6 or so weeks, I will be leaving my job and not to pursue other opportunities. This will be the first time I'm leaving the workforce for personal reasons! And, I can't tell you the anxieties I'm feeling!
At this point in the game, you'd think I'd be worried about labour and the excrutiating pain that is awaiting me before I get to welcome my new babe into this world. Or, perhaps, I should be worried about the upcoming 18 years and how horribly I'm going to screw up my child. Or, the other million and one things I should be worried about.
But, lo and behold, I'm working harder, and when my eyes can stay open, longer hours than I've ever done. Work and all I think I need to do before my departure are the things that wake me up in the middle of the night. Pathetic, I know. Last night, I woke up at 2:25 am in a fit because I had forgotten to send an email about something to someone. After trying to fall back asleep for 30 minutes, I got out of bed and sat down at the computer and started working. I worked until about 6, at which time I went to sleep for an hour or two, only to return to the computer at 8.
Mr. Oh can't understand me. In truth, neither can I. Perhaps, this is simply my practice for middle of the night feedings. Instead of tending to my computer, I'll be nurturing my little one.
To be honest, I'm not sure where my intentions came from, but I've had them from as far back as I can remember. For a second grade assignment, I was asked to draw a picture of "what I wanted to be when I grew up." Heavily influenced by the evening soap operas of the '80s (yes, even at the age of 6), I drew a woman in a shoulder-padded suit with a string of pearls standing by a desk. I proudly presented the picture to my parents later that evening. While my mother appreciated my fashion sense, my father asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Boldly, I told him, "I'm going to be a lawyer." He scoffed, and perplexed by my admission since my immediate and extended family were all "blue collar" workers of one type or another, asked why. My response, "So I can wear a suit everyday!" Now that's a goal!
Since then, I've been working towards my ever-changing goals. But, within 6 or so weeks, I will be leaving my job and not to pursue other opportunities. This will be the first time I'm leaving the workforce for personal reasons! And, I can't tell you the anxieties I'm feeling!
At this point in the game, you'd think I'd be worried about labour and the excrutiating pain that is awaiting me before I get to welcome my new babe into this world. Or, perhaps, I should be worried about the upcoming 18 years and how horribly I'm going to screw up my child. Or, the other million and one things I should be worried about.
But, lo and behold, I'm working harder, and when my eyes can stay open, longer hours than I've ever done. Work and all I think I need to do before my departure are the things that wake me up in the middle of the night. Pathetic, I know. Last night, I woke up at 2:25 am in a fit because I had forgotten to send an email about something to someone. After trying to fall back asleep for 30 minutes, I got out of bed and sat down at the computer and started working. I worked until about 6, at which time I went to sleep for an hour or two, only to return to the computer at 8.
Mr. Oh can't understand me. In truth, neither can I. Perhaps, this is simply my practice for middle of the night feedings. Instead of tending to my computer, I'll be nurturing my little one.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Dreamin' dreams
Dating back to my time in a crib, my sleeping hours have been plagued with dreams. Not the regular ho-hum dreams like being outdoors naked or falling through the air. No, that would be normal. For me, my dreams are violent-infused, horrific, Quentin Tarrantino-scary, yet funny, kind of dreams.
I've had dreams where I was taught how to use a gun (yet I've never held one or seen one in my life), transported into bodies of criminals, I've participated in incredible feats of crime, I've watched people being harmed in ways that I don't think the craziest criminal has thought of (and won't share here, should any crazys read this blog and get an idea), I've seen my loved ones get taken from me time and time again, and the list goes on and on.
Not only are they bizarre and outright frightening, but they are so vivid that I have to remind myself that they aren't real and the events playing in my mind didn't really happen - at least not in my life. I sound crazy, right?
Well, since becoming prego, the dreams have become more frequent and surprisingly more outlandish than ever before. Most mornings, I awake perplexed that my mind could have conjured up such scenarios. I've dreamt scenes that porno directors and those who avidly watch their movies would die for; there have been the medical scenarios that Dr. House himself wouldn't be able to figure out and there have been the detailed, mobster-themed sort that Scorsese would create.
What's more - and quite hillarious if you ask me - I'm told that I've been more vocal and active while I'm dreaming. See, Mr. Oh is a very light sleeper and on occassional mornings he reports what I said or did. I don't remember any of what he reports, so I'm a little suspect of his reportings. However, since Mr. Oh is devoid of creativity, I can't believe he could make up some of the things I supposedly say or do. There have been nights where he has heard me moan in utter ecstasy, mumble words with serious force like "centrifuge" (which I had to actually look up its definition), and scream out in sheer terror. Most recently, however, I've physically lashed out.
The other night a sequence came to me where we were at a lake in a beautiful park. Mr. Oh and I were with friends when a child (I couldn't tell the gender) was flapping its arms in the water, screaming for help. Noticing the child in distress, I yelled for Mr. Oh to save the child. Unfortunately, he didn't get there in time and the child drowned. Although this was my dream - and Mr. Oh was none the wiser as to what was happening in my mind's eye - my unconscious-self felt he deserved to be punished. So, I turned over in bed, yelled at Mr. Oh about how could he let the child drown and wacked him square in the jewels. Then, satisfied that he got his just desserts, I turned back over and returned to my regular deep slumber. Nice, eh?
I remember the dream, but I do not remember what I did in the real world. As Mr. Oh recounted the evening's assault, I was mortified, which, to add insult to injury, caused me to break out into fits of giggles!
I'm convinced it's my hormones causing my mind to play tricks on me. I have 3 months to go, what will my mind will me to do next? Perhaps Mr. Oh should sleep with armour for the time being.
I've had dreams where I was taught how to use a gun (yet I've never held one or seen one in my life), transported into bodies of criminals, I've participated in incredible feats of crime, I've watched people being harmed in ways that I don't think the craziest criminal has thought of (and won't share here, should any crazys read this blog and get an idea), I've seen my loved ones get taken from me time and time again, and the list goes on and on.
Not only are they bizarre and outright frightening, but they are so vivid that I have to remind myself that they aren't real and the events playing in my mind didn't really happen - at least not in my life. I sound crazy, right?
Well, since becoming prego, the dreams have become more frequent and surprisingly more outlandish than ever before. Most mornings, I awake perplexed that my mind could have conjured up such scenarios. I've dreamt scenes that porno directors and those who avidly watch their movies would die for; there have been the medical scenarios that Dr. House himself wouldn't be able to figure out and there have been the detailed, mobster-themed sort that Scorsese would create.
What's more - and quite hillarious if you ask me - I'm told that I've been more vocal and active while I'm dreaming. See, Mr. Oh is a very light sleeper and on occassional mornings he reports what I said or did. I don't remember any of what he reports, so I'm a little suspect of his reportings. However, since Mr. Oh is devoid of creativity, I can't believe he could make up some of the things I supposedly say or do. There have been nights where he has heard me moan in utter ecstasy, mumble words with serious force like "centrifuge" (which I had to actually look up its definition), and scream out in sheer terror. Most recently, however, I've physically lashed out.
The other night a sequence came to me where we were at a lake in a beautiful park. Mr. Oh and I were with friends when a child (I couldn't tell the gender) was flapping its arms in the water, screaming for help. Noticing the child in distress, I yelled for Mr. Oh to save the child. Unfortunately, he didn't get there in time and the child drowned. Although this was my dream - and Mr. Oh was none the wiser as to what was happening in my mind's eye - my unconscious-self felt he deserved to be punished. So, I turned over in bed, yelled at Mr. Oh about how could he let the child drown and wacked him square in the jewels. Then, satisfied that he got his just desserts, I turned back over and returned to my regular deep slumber. Nice, eh?
I remember the dream, but I do not remember what I did in the real world. As Mr. Oh recounted the evening's assault, I was mortified, which, to add insult to injury, caused me to break out into fits of giggles!
I'm convinced it's my hormones causing my mind to play tricks on me. I have 3 months to go, what will my mind will me to do next? Perhaps Mr. Oh should sleep with armour for the time being.
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