In-Between Hiatus

...Or is it hiatuses? Does hiatus come in plural?

In any case, I can’t even begin to describe how hectic the last two months have been—mostly because of work. I admit, I blog during work. When else would I do it? Between a full-time job, attention-requiring three-year-old, preschool pick up and drop off, taking care of the house (oh, who am I kidding, the house is a mess, I am a complete failure as a housekeeper) and attempting to have a little bit of child-free time to catch up with Husband in the evenings—the only time I can write is when I am at work. Call me a bad employee. I call it therapy. I love blogging because it gives me time to think. It makes me feel better. Sometimes, it even helps me figure out why I feel the way I do. Work has been so incredibly busy for the last two months that I have not had a chance to take a break to think and write. But lying awake in the middle of the night, I found myself composing posts in my head—and while that didn’t quite have the therapeutic power of writing, it did help me sort a lot of thoughts out. Otherwise, I would be a basket case by now.

And I wish I could tell you that the reason I am writing today is because the insanity is finally over. Alas, it isn’t. This evening, I am leaving town for two weeks to attend the conference that I have been so busy preparing for. In route to the conference, we are dropping Child off at my in-laws in the Midwest (since Husband is working at the said conference as well). I am looking forward to visiting a city I have never been to. I can’t wait to catch up with old friends who decided to make a trip and meet up with us while we are at the conference. I am exhausted to even think about the crazy schedule ahead of me. I am concerned about finding the right balance between taking it easy on myself because I am pregnant—and not appearing incapable or in need of special treatment because I am pregnant. I am salivating already just thinking about amazing restaurants we’ll get to dine at on the company dollar.

Most of all, I am torn between these two: I am beyond thrilled to spend some child-free time with the man I love but I am almost in tears every time I think of leaving the Child without his parents for eight days. We did it once before, two years ago, when the conference was in California. He did well, but he was only 18 months old then. He is 3 ½ now—and so much more aware of the world. I know he will have a good time with his grandparents. He has been excited about this visit for weeks, asking nearly every day when we are going to grandma and grandpa’s house, and last night he was so excited he could not fall asleep until past 11 p.m. But I also know that he will be sad and he will miss us much more than he did two years ago. And it makes my heart ache.

…Breathe in, breathe out…

A lot has happened since I went on my blogging hiatus, but everything pales in comparison to last week’s level II scan. We have a perfectly growing baby with a beautiful profile, 10 fingers, 10 toes and very unmistakable boy parts. When I was pregnant with Child, everyone around me was sure that it would be a boy. So the ultrasound was no surprise. This time around, there wasn’t quite as much consensus, but a good 80% of people thought it would be a girl. So I went in with that expectation—and the surprise of it was absolutely amazing. I do not have enough words to describe just how excited I am to have a boy. Is it wrong to want more of what I already have? Two boys who may grow up to be as amazing as their dad? I can’t think of a better wish.

I have talked a lot about detachment and disconnect I have felt with this pregnancy. They are no more. While I know that a lot of things can still go wrong in the next 20 weeks, this pregnancy finally feels real and not consumed by fear. And having a boy is a big contributor to that. Don’t get me wrong, all I want is a healthy baby. I would be very, very excited about a girl, but I think I would have a bit more apprehensive about it, just because it is an unknown territory for me. With a boy, I know what to expect. And he could be—and probably is quite likely to be—completely different than Child, but at least I know what to expect at the beginning.

We are half way through this pregnancy, and I really hope that the second half is much more peaceful and relaxed than the first.

I am

Lovely Sarah tagged me (my first tag, yay) with the I Am meme. And the only thing I can write in relation to this is:

I AM BUSY.

So busy at work it is not even funny. The busiest I have ever been in the three+ years in this job. And the outlook is not good. I am pretty sure at least one of my projects is going to fall behind (no fault of mine—I got my stuff done way before the deadline), and I am going to get some serious beating for it (because that’s what you get when you are considered a project manager).

In about 10 days, it should get better, at least somewhat better. And I promise to write the meme then, as well as millions of other thoughts that have been swirling in my head.

Going backward

The NT scan was yesterday. In the words of the doctor, “sonographically, everything looks fine.” The results of the scan analysis, combined with the blood work, should come back by the end of this week. The baby looked good, moving around a lot, giving all sorts of trouble to the doctor who tried to take measurements. It is amazing what a difference six weeks make—a little bean then and a lot more like a real person now.

I know this is ridiculous and pathetic and why the hell can’t I just be positive, but every time I see the image of the baby on that grainy grey screen, I am surprised to see a heartbeat. I know I am not unique in feeling this way—many bloggers who are pregnant after IF or pregnancy loss talk about this feeling of detachment and always expecting the worst. But it bothers me because, well, I feel like I don’t really have much feelings for this baby. I feel horrible saying this because I wanted a baby so badly and I really want this pregnancy to work out. But here I am, with a beautiful, growing person in my belly—and I am not in love with it.

After yesterday’s scan and because the end of the first trimester is near, I was thinking that it is time to come out to friends and colleagues about the pregnancy (although I am sure my protruding gut has caused at least some speculation). Different announcements kept running through my mind.

We are having a baby...

Child is going to be a big brother...

We are having our second one...

And that’s where my mind stopped dead in its tracks. Our second one? No, this is our third. (or fourth, although I don’t think much about that very short-lived chemical years ago…). And I think for the first time, I realized that my overall lack of excitement about this pregnancy is not only for self-preservation. It is also because deep down I feel guilty for being happy about this new life while I am still grieving the loss of another life. It seems unfair to that baby, the baby we lost, the baby that could have been.

How do I let go of that guilt? How do I start living in the now—and not then?

Grief

Over the weekend, I got worried e-mails from both of my parents (they are divorced) asking about how we’ve been affected by the nasty weather that’s been hitting this part of the country. To be honest, it has affected me quite minimally, other than the cabin fever one experiences when stuck indoors with an energetic three-year-old for an entire weekend and being generally pissed at the crashing temps that went from 82 degrees to 32 degrees in 72 hours, resulting in two inches of snow Easter weekend, then back up to 60s during the week and down to 40 with pouring rain and 60 mile an hour winds on the weekend. But then on Monday, local schools (including Child’s preschool) closed three hours early because of the weather, and as I was leaving work to pick him up, I was composing a post about how shitty this spring has been weather-wise and how unfair it is because spring and fall are the only tolerable seasons in this city while winter and summer just plain suck.

In an effort to get the forecast, I turned on the radio. And then I heard about Virginia Tech. And everything else became insignificant.

I know there is horrible injustice happening daily in many parts of the world. But this hit so close to home for me, literally and figuratively. Virginia Tech is just a few hours from where I live. My friend’s family just got back home to Blacksburg from their daughter’s wedding when this happened. Husband’s boss’s niece is in stable condition at a local hospital, recovering from three gun wounds. I am sure I will hear more stories from friends and colleagues as more of them receive and share news from their loved ones.

In reading Sarah’s post last week, I thought of my uncle’s funeral where my grandma said that a parent should never have to bury a child, no matter how old. I can’t wrap my mind around what happened at VA Tech. I can’t even begin to analyze it. I simply hurt so much for these people, the parents who have to bury their children.

Scared (updated again)

Over the last 24 hours, my symptoms appear to be fading. I have been so very miserable for a month, but yesterday, I started to feel better. Suddenly, I had an appetite. Food began to taste good. And when I ate, I did not get sick 10 minutes later. I even had a piece of cheesecake that I made for Easter—something that I knew would set me over the edge—but it didn’t. I still had minor bouts of nausea throughout the day, but they were so very minor compared to the misery of the last four weeks. This morning, I was able to get out of bed without eating something first. And I didn’t throw up. Actually, I spent almost an hour without eating, and yet I didn’t feel like I was going to collapse.

For the first time in over a month, I took my morning temp. 97.6. Still above my 97.3 coverline, but below 98.1, my last reading in early March.

10 weeks and 3 days. I should not be feeling better yet; it is too early to lose the symptoms. I keep telling myself that maybe I just had a good day yesterday. Maybe this is just a fluke.

This weekend, I passed the point when the last pregnancy went to hell. I don’t want to go down that road again, even though I know there is nothing I can do to avoid it if that's where it's headed.

I am so scared.

**Update: Spoke to the midwife at my OB/GYN practice (some day, I will write a glowing post about how much I love the collaborative nature of my practice where doctors practice alongside midwives and what an amazing difference that makes for me). She said what I expected her to say: it could be nothing or it could be something. I have an appointment on Friday morning. Of course, being the idiot that I am, I asked, "I already have an appointment for Monday--should I just wait until then?" And being a sweet and smart woman that she is, she said, "Do you want to go on worrying over the weekend?" Thank you, Gina, for providing the voice of reason.

**Friday update: We’ve got a beautiful heartbeat. 165. Didn’t even need to pull out a sonogram machine—we heard the heartbeat clearly through Doppler, despite my funky inverted uterus. Our chances of miscarriage just went down from 20% to 3%. Woo-hoo! Symptoms also have returned yesterday, although not quite with the same intensity, for which I am grateful. This pregnancy may actually work out. Next stop: nuchal translucency u/s on April 23. Thank you guys so much for your support and prayers.

Note to Self

Dear Kate,

Some day, you will have another two-year-old in your house and you will question your ability as a parent. You will be pulling your hair out on a daily (hourly?) basis wondering what you did wrong to turn your sweet baby into an evil, emotionally unstable monster. You will spend hours each day just wishing for him to go to sleep so you could get a break, and when he is finally asleep, you will look at his angelic face with those fat cheeks and those plump lips and those long curly eyelashes and hate yourself for not enjoying your time with him and call yourself a horrible, impatient mother. And then he will wake up, and you will once again count down the hours until he is asleep again.

It is at those moments that I want you to remember that there is light at the end of the tunnel. 3 is just around the corner. And 3 is just plain lovely.

3 is reasonable. 3 can be negotiated with (and 3 will like to negotiate, too). 3 understands the idea of a reward for desirable behavior. 3 can sort of spend some time on his own. 3 goes to his room, sulking, when he is mad—unlike 2, who throws a fit right in front of you (and everyone else around you) and tries to bite you or kick you. 3 tells you he is sorry and means it. 3 is either polite or shy in his interactions with others—unlike 2, who loudly says “you bad” or “I no want you talk to me” when greeted by a store clerk/neighbor/grandparent/etc. 3 can make his own choices and delight in them—unlike 2, who always picks the second choice (Apple or orange? Orange. Red pencil or blue pencil? Blue pencil.) and then freaks out and screams “I no want it” when you give him exactly what he chose. Just like 2, 3 insists on doing things “by myself”—but unlike 2, 3 is actually able to do those things by himself. 3 listens and follows directions and remembers things for more than 10 seconds. 3 tells you he loves you and means it. 3 wants to give you hugs and kisses and tells you, “You are a nice girl, mommy.”

3 will have his own quirks. 3 will perfect the notion of stalling. 3 will ask endless “why” questions. 3 will begin experimenting with lying. 3 will occasionally throw a 2-like tantrum. 3 will try to play you against your husband. 3 will talk nonstop. 3 is loud (but not as loud as 2). 3 will have significantly more physical strength, so roughhousing with 3 will bring on new injuries for you.

But 3 is lovely. It is loving, sweet, energetic, compassionate and kind. 3 is a different world. And if by writing this, I have jinxed the remaining eight months of 3, the last four months still have been totally worth it.

She's a Brick. House.

I promise I won’t do this often, but I have to right now. A month ago, I used to read other women complaining of morning sickness and sore breasts and uncomfortable sleep and thougth how lucky they were and wished that I could be in their place. Well, sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for.

Symptoms suck this time around. Just as it was with Child, I made it to six weeks with nothing more than increased appetite and fatigue. And at precisely six weeks, it all went to hell. I am dead tired. All. The. Time. I feel dizzy. I am constantly nauseous. The sensitivity to smell is killer. There is no better way to describe it than a really bad hangover that has been with me for almost two weeks now. I just want to throw up so that I could feel better—but although this helps with hangover, it does not appear to make any difference with morning sickness.

The only time I feel relatively normal is when I eat. But roughly 10 minutes after I eat, I begin to feel sick again. And another 10 minutes later I begin to feel hungry, which makes me feel even sicker. So I eat again, which means that I eat every 20 minutes. Do you see where I am going with this? By the time all is said and done, I will be roughly the size of a HOUSE. And while we could definitely use a trade-up to a larger house from our two-bedroom townhome, I don’t think my eating and becoming a house myself will solve our cramped-for-space problems. I have not stepped on the scale because I am afraid of what I will see. I gained about 40 pounds with Child, which was above the recommended 25-35 pounds, but I brushed it off because in the end, I pushed out a 9 ½ pound baby and was pretty damn proud of myself. But this time, I am getting worried because in addition to eating constantly, I am not eating too much healthy stuff. The thought of vegetables—especially salad—repulses me. I am craving carbs—crackers, pasta, bread, pastries, you name it. And cheese. I can eat ridiculous amounts of cheese (although that’s nothing new—the ability to consume cheese, chocolate and fire-roasted marshmallows in quantities unimaginable to normal people is the skill I have been developing for many years now). I am also going all nutty for fruit, especially juicy, sweet and tart fruit like berries. Unfortunately, here in the mid-Atlantic, berries are not in season in March, so I have to pay ridiculous amounts of money for less-than-desirable-quality strawberries and blueberries.

Possibly the most frustrating part of nausea is that I can not handle drinking water. It makes me gag. And that is very odd for me—I am a water freak. I go through at least 3 liters of water a day. And I know the importance of hydration right now—I just can’t make myself drink it. Ugh.

Among the less annoying, yet still unpleasant symptoms:

• Boobs getting increasingly sore every day, although they do not exhibit any sign of growth—something that I would really appreciate, being an A cup and all.
• Gums bleeding like an SOB every time I floss.
• Frequent nosebleeds.
• Getting up in the middle of the night to pee and not being able to fall asleep.
• Heart racing really fast all of a sudden.
• Mild cramps on and off, making me worry that something must be wrong. (Seriously, should I be calling the doctor about this? It is nothing major—like mild pre-AF cramps—but is that normal? I think I am going to go scare myself now by checking with Dr. Google).
• Oh, and Child is sick again, so I am sure to add a lovely collection of snot, watery eyes and hacking cough to my list of symptoms by this weekend. And Husband is out of town all next week, so yeah, it is going to be a good week. Not.

OK, now that the complaining is off my chest, here is the disclaimer. Every time I feel particularly crummy, I remind myself that all of these things are good signs (except for cramps--see how I have already started to freak myself out?). That it will be worth it in the end. That these same symptoms (though much, much—did I mention MUCH?—milder) brought me Child, the coolest kid I have ever met.

Anonymity

I began writing here to help me sort things out. I am prone to depression—at least I think so, although I have never gone to a professional to talk about this. Let’s say that I am definitely prone to being overwhelmed by life—which then spirals into feelings of loneliness, sadness and helplessness.

When I am down, it helps me to talk things over or write my thoughts down. I didn’t realize just how much this helped me until my miscarriage last year. Getting those thoughts out on a virtual piece of paper was a tremendous relief, and in the end, it helped me understand when I was ready to move on.

At that same time, as I was struggling with my thoughts, I began reading other blogs, finding comfort in the stories of others who have been there and crying with those who were going through even tougher challenges. After lurking for a while, I began feeling compelled to comment on some entries—especially when the writer was going through a difficult time and needed some support. I began commenting anonymously at first, but soon came across a few places where I had to sign in to be able to comment. I knew what this meant—that I was cracking the door to my blog a little bit, potentially inviting someone in. And someone came. And it felt so good.

But with time, a sense of uncertainty settled in. None of the people I know in real life know about this blog. I don’t think I want them to. This is my space, I want to be me, and I am afraid that if someone I know in real life discovers this space, I will have to be careful in what I say. I like this space just the way it is—open, personal, uncensored. But it also feels weird—and perhaps somewhat dishonest—to keep this space a secret, particularly from those closest to me—like Husband, the person I used to tell everything to. Will it come back to bite me in the ass if someone I know eventually stumbles upon it? How do I maintain my anonymity? Or should I just get over it?

Ultrasound

[I wrote this entry yesterday, but I could not bring myself to post it because of this and this. I cried and cried. I do not deserve this happiness when there is so much sorrow in the hearts of these two wonderful women. So I felt guilty posting. I am so sorry, Adrienne and Larisa.]

I had a few panic attacks this morning before the ultrasound. Shortness of breath, clammy hands, heart pounding so hard I thought my whole body was shaking. “You shouldn’t worry so much,” Husband said, “it is not good for the baby.” “I can’t just turn it off,” I snapped back. I did really well since last week, but last night, the panic set back in.

“We could expect anything,” Husband reminded me when we parked the car. “Yes, anything,” I thought and tightened by grip on his hand.

I did not look at the screen. I covered my eyes with my hands. It felt like I was here just yesterday. I could not stand the thought of seeing another disappearing life.

And then she said, “And here is your little person.” My heart stopped. “And I see a heartbeat,” I heard Husband say. And all of a sudden, I felt as if I woke up. I looked at the screen and I cried. She said the baby looked perfect, measuring precisely at 6 weeks and 3 days, with a heartbeat of 113. I cried again when she left the room. I buried my head in my husband’s chest. He hugged me. “We are having a baby,” he whispered, and I saw that his eyes were wet.

By the time I got home, I felt different. I felt free. It felt real. I have a baby with a beating heart. I don’t know why I feel so positive. I have made it this far before; it was a month later into the pregnancy that it all crashed and burned. But I am not going to question it. I can’t completely turn off the worry, but I want to allow myself to feel good about this. We are having a baby.

Sleepless

I was awake most of the night last night. I have fallen asleep on the couch just about every night for about a week, but last night, I could not sleep. I am coming down with another respiratory bug (ugh). But it wasn’t the scratchy throat that was keeping me up. My mind was racing. I had gone in for another blood test earlier that day, and while I was waiting for the results, I began thinking bad thoughts. You know, the “what if” thoughts.

I wonder if it’s self-preservation. I keep telling myself to let go of fear. This is out of my hands now. I can’t lock the door and keep this baby inside if it is not meant to be. I keep telling myself to enjoy it while it lasts—however long or short that may be. But I can’t seem to be able to let go of this fear. Lying awake, I kept preparing myself for the bad news. The low numbers. The unviable pregnancy numbers. I pictured how I would react, how I would try to hold it together if the call came while I was in the office, how I would tell Husband. Reading Adrienne’s suggestion to try to visualize this baby (as the cab driver thought me), I realized that I have not given any thought to whether it was a boy or a girl. I have not thought of names. I have not pondered creative ways to make the announcement to our parents or co-workers. Looking back at the last 10 days, I realize that I have not really thought of anything positive about this pregnancy because my mind was so focused on preparing for the worst. And that’s so depressing because I want so badly for this pregnancy to work. But it is self-preservation, so I mustn’t feel guilty about feeling this way.

When morning came, I felt better. This may sound odd, but after all that thinking and tossing and turning, I felt somewhat prepared for the bad news. But I also held out hope. When the call came, my hands were shaking and my voice was quivering. An unfamiliar voice asked for Kate. “Why isn’t this Kathy, the nurse who always calls me? Did Kathy not want to give me the bad news?” I thought. In a dry, emotionless voice, the nurse went on about getting my results back and how I should call for a sonogram appointment. “A sonogram?” I asked. “We wanted your numbers to be above 5,000 before you could go in for a sono to check on viability,” she said. “And?” I said, my heart jumping out of my chest. “Your test came back at 19,227.” And like an idiot, I asked, “Is that a good number?”

Ummm, yeah, that’s a good number. Before calling Husband, I checked betabase.info to make sure I knew exactly how good this number was. It is definitely in the upper range for 24dpo, but so was my earlier number of 675 at 15dpo. There is a huge variation in HCG numbers, so I am not going to let my mind wander over to a place where it starts to think these higher-than-average numbers mean that we are going to have a high-risk pregnancy with multiples or a molar pregnancy (which, I guess, wouldn’t be that unlikely since I had a D&C in early December)—and oh my god, why can’t I just be happy with a good, solid number? Bad mind, bad, stop wandering.

So there you have it. I am ready to be consumed by positive thoughts. I am going to make myself think positive thoughts. I have six full days until the ultrasound on Wednesday, and I am damn sure going to think positively and get excited.