This morning’s dose was officially my second-to-last PIO shot! My tush is such a lumpy, bumpy topography of bruised and sore skin that I’m not sure Bruce OR I could take it much longer. THANK GOODNESS! It’s gotten to the point where I can feel each cheek when I’m walking the dogs (step: ouch, step: ouch, step: ouch). We tallied it up last night, and tomorrow’s final shot will be number 65. Sixty-five needles to the tush! (This doesn't count the needles-to-the-tummy tally from pre-IVF.) That’s a lot of needles.
I’m not complaining—truly, I’ve learned to take the shots like a champ. Bruce and I have our little routine. The ducks quack (yes, whatever electronic device Bruce uses as his alarm clock—his iPhone, probably) quacks to wake us up at a quarter ‘til 7. We often hit snooze at least once and then get up five or 10 minutes later. I wash my hands, put on my glasses and assemble the shot. This involves screwing the withdrawal needle onto the syringe, sucking the progesterone in oil out of the vial in which it comes, then swapping out the withdrawal needle (which is huge and scary) with the injection needle (which is ever-so-slightly less huge and scary). In the meantime, Bruce stumbles to the bathroom to wash his hands and put on his glasses—he’s a slow waker-upper—and by the time he’s done, I have the shot, the alcohol wipe, and the sterile cotton pad all lined up on the footboard of the bed. I bend over our bed with a pillow under my tummy and Bruce pokes around in an attempt to find a less-sore, less-bruised spot to stick me. If he decides on the left cheek, I put my weight on my right leg. If he decides on the right cheek, I put my weight on my left leg. It’s nice—calf stretches first thing in the morning, I tell myself I’m limbering up like my cross-country days of old. Bruce swabs the area to be injected with the alcohol wipe, and then counts to three. As he counts to three, I take three breaths in. On three, he sticks the needle and I exhale. He’s an efficient injector; he gets the job done quickly and then sticks the sterile pad over the spot where the needle comes out to catch any drops of blood or oil. I’m grateful to have him as my shot-giver, he’s really quite good at it—but I’m even more grateful to be ALMOST DONE.
This means that, supposedly, our little bean is now getting enough progesterone in my uterus for us to end the supplements. I truly hope that’s the case! Yesterday was our 11-week appointment, and the G-Bean looked good.
I’m transitioning off the nickname “Banzo Bean,” by the way. It was derived originally from the Garbanzo Bean idea, but Banzo just sounds too much like a clown’s name, doesn’t it? The thing about clowns is, I don’t know many people who truly like them. At best, people seem to be mildly amused by clowns. Middle ground, they’re slightly annoyed by them. At worst, they’re petrified, totally skeeved out and afraid of the wig and make-up wearing bunch. Not a legacy I want to inflict upon my tiny bean as he or she develops.
I have to insert a disclaimer here: when I was growing up, it was my dearest hope to attend Clown Camp over the summer. Each spring, our church would provide our parents with brochures outlining the many youth camps available to their children, and we kids would crowd around in groups of friends to pore over them and weight the merits of Camp Asbury over Camp Wesleyan. There was one camp that caught my eye and tickled my heart each year: Clown Camp. Looking back, I can’t recall exactly what purpose this camp was intended to fill—my best guess is, perhaps we would have trained for clown work such as visiting sick children at the hospital. What caught MY interest at the time was a camp that involved COSTUMES and MAKE-UP and ACTING rather than hiking and canoes and obstacle courses. I was an artistic kid who didn’t really discover the joys of athletics until high school. In my younger years, I wanted nothing more than to write stories, draw pictures, and create performances and plays that my sister and our friends would help me to enact. So Clown Camp was my nirvana. And yet…there was a hefty fee associated with Clown Camp (I guess it was all that make-up and costuming) and my parents weren’t wealthy, so Clown Camp was out of reach. It’s probably just as well—I’d feel awful if my parents had somehow found a way to swing Clown Camp, only for me to discover the following year that maybe being a clown wasn’t conducive to popularity in junior high.
ANYWAY. The Garbanzo Bean needs to be known by a name that doesn’t seem one step removed from Bozo the Clown. Banzy? Rhymes with Fonzy, and the Fonze was definitely cool, right? The G-Bean (perhaps a little too close to the G-Spot?). Garby (I think of clothes…). Gonzo—the blue Muppet with the long nose. Hmmm.
Regardless of whether the Bean gets a new nickname, he or she is doing well. Still growing, measuring a bit ahead of schedule now at 11w4d. Heartbeat good. The split placenta/blood clot/subchorionic hematoma (I swear our doctor uses a different term each time we see him) is still large, but Dr. N tries to reassure us that it isn’t causing any problems yet. Of course what do I hear in that sentence but the world “YET”—I intensely dislike that dangling “YET.” Because while so far our bean is getting all the nutrients he or she needs to grow and develop, I guess the possibility with a split placenta is that eventually this might not be the case. BUT…I’m focusing on the positive, which is that our little one is growing. As long as the bean continues to grow, that’s all we need to know.
Next Tuesday is the nuchal translucency scan, after which we’ll transition to our MFM specialist—the wonderful Dr. S who visited us in the hospital every single day when I was on bed rest with the boys. I called his office yesterday to set up our appointment, since both Dr. S and the doctor who performed the surgery to deliver Joey and Paul after I hemorrhaged told Bruce that I would need a preventative cerclage by week 13 during our next pregnancy. Well, it’s now week 11…week 13 is just around the corner! I almost can’t believe we’ve come this far (and yet with the SCH bleeding and worries, at the same time I feel like I’ve been pregnant forever and we should be much further along. If only pregnancies could be measured by angst, I’d be well into my 30th week!) I’m dreading the cerclage. Rationally, I know that it’s a routine procedure that helps many women achieve full-term pregnancy. Yet for us, the emergency cerclage placement was the beginning of the end of our pregnancy with the boys. I know preventative placement is a totally different scenario, but I hope I can stay calm and focused on the future when we go into that same operating room in a few weeks. I wonder if the same anesthesiologist will do the spinal tap. It’s just nerve-wracking to think about.
Today’s post is all over the place, folks! Here’s a summary: tomorrow is our last PIO shot. Banzo Bean (who may need a new nickname) is doing well. I wanted to attend Clown Camp as a kid. I’m scared about the upcoming preventive cerclage placement. And…I think that’s it, for now! (OH—speaking of clowns, the naked clown turned 36 last week! Here’s hoping my Bruce’s 36th year turns out to be his best year yet.)
Wednesday, July 15
Thursday, July 9
4:30 AM Musings
I’m surprised by the ways in which being pregnant with one is similar (at least thus far) to being pregnant with three. I’m tired. My bed calls to me in the middle of the day in a way that it never does when I’m not pregnant. I’m not much of a napper, ordinarily, but these days I can take an afternoon nap very easily. Bruce says I slept a lot more when I was pregnant with the boys, but it feels about the same to me.
I’m hungry A LOT. Maybe not the ravenous, waking up in the middle of the night to eat protein bars and drink chocolate milk hunger I felt with the triplets, but I suspect that I’m eating too much. At our last doctor’s appointment they finally weighed me (I knew they’d get around to it eventually, but every appointment that passed without a weigh-in was fine by me, I wasn’t going to remind anyone that I needed to be weighed!). Granted I hadn’t weighed myself since just before we started IVF in May, so it’s been several months since I was on a scale…but still, the number had gone up more than I’m guessing it should have by now! The nurse murmured something about “oh, that’s not so bad,” but I’ll bet she thought I weighed more than I said I did in May. For now, I’m just trying to focus on making healthy choices—I can’t seem to tell myself not to eat when I’m pregnant and hungry! But I CAN tell myself to eat some green grapes rather than Sour Patch Kids when I’m craving something tangy and sour and sweet.
I seem to be flying my antisocial flag rather high these days, which feels familiar. I felt a bit like I’d dropped off the face of the planet when I was pregnant with the boys—my focus seemed to whittle down very quickly to what my body was doing and what it needed to the exclusion of most efforts to socialize. Bruce and I are in DC again this week. I accompanied him mainly because he’s my source for progesterone in oil shots each morning—I’m sure there are others I could ask…my neighbor, who’s a nurse, my sister’s mother-in-law, also a nurse—but somehow baring my lumpy, bumpy, progesterone-bruised tush to anyone but Bruce is less than appealing. (Odd, when you think about it—my husband should probably be the LAST person I’d want to see my tush looking the way it looks now! I guess at this point we’ve been through so much together, what’s a few more lumps and bruises along the way…sometimes I have a hard time imaging that he could possibly find me sexy after the situations in which he’s seen me.) Anyway, my point about the antisocial thing is that I haven’t called or e-mailed a single friend to set up lunch or dinner dates while I’m in town. I seem to be content to lie on our hotel bed with my book and a bowl of grapes and hummus and pita and a big glass of water at lunch than to schlep myself out to an actual restaurant where I could possibly interact with other human beings. Bruce and I do eat out every night when we’re on the road out of necessity, and last night I had to laugh at myself as I sat across the table from my sweet husband utterly unable to keep up my end of the conversation. I felt like a bump on a log. (Also, I discovered that the Banz does NOT care for Lebanese. Sigh. Strike another countries’ food from the “acceptable” list, along with Thai and Chinese and pretty much anything Asian for the moment.)
Hopefully this will pass. That glorified second trimester is drawing closer! We’ll be eleven weeks pregnant with the ‘Banzo Bean on Tuesday (the day of our next ultrasound). Over half-way there. Half-way to 20 weeks, that is, that being the length of our pregnancy with the boys. Both Bruce and I have been counting down to that date—not that it gets us anything. Twenty weeks sadly does NOT get you a live baby. Twenty-four weeks is pretty much the minimum gestational age at which a baby can survive (there’s a 50/50 chance at that point) though our doctor told us when we were in the hospital with the boys that at our hospital, the youngest surviving baby they’ve delivered was born at 23 weeks. I would imagine that any baby born that early has a mountain of challenges ahead of him or her, however. I guess the point is, we’re half-way to nowhere. But 20 weeks has undeniably become a marker for us, a mythical point beyond which we have a hard time imagining ourselves. I confessed to Bruce the other day that I can’t seem to ready beyond 20 weeks in any of the baby books we have, and he said he’s the same way. If September 16th rolls around and I wake up to find myself still pregnant, it will be a very good day.
Dreams. Here’s the final similarity between this pregnancy and the last. Vivid, sometimes terrifying or gut-wrenching dreams. The reason I'm up right now, at 4:45 AM, is that I woke up crying from a dream about our cat Jackson. Jacky was a dear, gentle giant of a gray tabby cat we adopted from a rescue society in 1999. They estimated he was around 4 when we adopted him (weighing in at a scale-tipping 20 lbs of cat!), and he lived with us through many moves and life changes until 2008. Just before our first IVF cycle, his liver gave out and he became very ill. The vet gave us the option of keeping him alive via multiple shots a day of liquid injected under his skin, but it just didn’t seem right. At that point he was so thin—his once robust tummy was just a sack of skin—and sleeping almost around the clock. He’d lost most interest in food, heartbreaking to see in a guy who always valued a good meal, though he would still sit beside me and purr away, that lovely motor of his always willing to turn over in the face of love and affection. Somehow we made the tough choice and put Jacky to rest. I don’t know if I’m still carrying guilt from that decision (I've always worried that perhaps I was more willing to consider putting Jacky down because my focus was on the IVF cycle), or if this is all wrapped up in the pregnancy with the boys that followed, but I’ve been having dreams about Jacks lately. He keeps showing up places—this time it was on our back porch in Ohio—and I’m devastated as I see him trotting across the porch toward the back door because I realize he’s still here and we haven’t been feeding him or giving him fresh water. I wake up with tears streaming down my face, just incredibly upset that we haven’t been taking care of him the way we should. I don’t know what to make of that, but I can say that the sorrow feels very real.
Let’s end with some levity. Bruce woke up across the room as I was typing this in the dark and rolled over to groggily ask if I was okay. I said I’d had a dream that woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I figured I’d get up and write about it. “Oh,” he said. Sleepy pause. “Was I a naked clown?” Then he rolled back over and promptly fell asleep. Gotta love that guy!
I’m hungry A LOT. Maybe not the ravenous, waking up in the middle of the night to eat protein bars and drink chocolate milk hunger I felt with the triplets, but I suspect that I’m eating too much. At our last doctor’s appointment they finally weighed me (I knew they’d get around to it eventually, but every appointment that passed without a weigh-in was fine by me, I wasn’t going to remind anyone that I needed to be weighed!). Granted I hadn’t weighed myself since just before we started IVF in May, so it’s been several months since I was on a scale…but still, the number had gone up more than I’m guessing it should have by now! The nurse murmured something about “oh, that’s not so bad,” but I’ll bet she thought I weighed more than I said I did in May. For now, I’m just trying to focus on making healthy choices—I can’t seem to tell myself not to eat when I’m pregnant and hungry! But I CAN tell myself to eat some green grapes rather than Sour Patch Kids when I’m craving something tangy and sour and sweet.
I seem to be flying my antisocial flag rather high these days, which feels familiar. I felt a bit like I’d dropped off the face of the planet when I was pregnant with the boys—my focus seemed to whittle down very quickly to what my body was doing and what it needed to the exclusion of most efforts to socialize. Bruce and I are in DC again this week. I accompanied him mainly because he’s my source for progesterone in oil shots each morning—I’m sure there are others I could ask…my neighbor, who’s a nurse, my sister’s mother-in-law, also a nurse—but somehow baring my lumpy, bumpy, progesterone-bruised tush to anyone but Bruce is less than appealing. (Odd, when you think about it—my husband should probably be the LAST person I’d want to see my tush looking the way it looks now! I guess at this point we’ve been through so much together, what’s a few more lumps and bruises along the way…sometimes I have a hard time imaging that he could possibly find me sexy after the situations in which he’s seen me.) Anyway, my point about the antisocial thing is that I haven’t called or e-mailed a single friend to set up lunch or dinner dates while I’m in town. I seem to be content to lie on our hotel bed with my book and a bowl of grapes and hummus and pita and a big glass of water at lunch than to schlep myself out to an actual restaurant where I could possibly interact with other human beings. Bruce and I do eat out every night when we’re on the road out of necessity, and last night I had to laugh at myself as I sat across the table from my sweet husband utterly unable to keep up my end of the conversation. I felt like a bump on a log. (Also, I discovered that the Banz does NOT care for Lebanese. Sigh. Strike another countries’ food from the “acceptable” list, along with Thai and Chinese and pretty much anything Asian for the moment.)
Hopefully this will pass. That glorified second trimester is drawing closer! We’ll be eleven weeks pregnant with the ‘Banzo Bean on Tuesday (the day of our next ultrasound). Over half-way there. Half-way to 20 weeks, that is, that being the length of our pregnancy with the boys. Both Bruce and I have been counting down to that date—not that it gets us anything. Twenty weeks sadly does NOT get you a live baby. Twenty-four weeks is pretty much the minimum gestational age at which a baby can survive (there’s a 50/50 chance at that point) though our doctor told us when we were in the hospital with the boys that at our hospital, the youngest surviving baby they’ve delivered was born at 23 weeks. I would imagine that any baby born that early has a mountain of challenges ahead of him or her, however. I guess the point is, we’re half-way to nowhere. But 20 weeks has undeniably become a marker for us, a mythical point beyond which we have a hard time imagining ourselves. I confessed to Bruce the other day that I can’t seem to ready beyond 20 weeks in any of the baby books we have, and he said he’s the same way. If September 16th rolls around and I wake up to find myself still pregnant, it will be a very good day.
Dreams. Here’s the final similarity between this pregnancy and the last. Vivid, sometimes terrifying or gut-wrenching dreams. The reason I'm up right now, at 4:45 AM, is that I woke up crying from a dream about our cat Jackson. Jacky was a dear, gentle giant of a gray tabby cat we adopted from a rescue society in 1999. They estimated he was around 4 when we adopted him (weighing in at a scale-tipping 20 lbs of cat!), and he lived with us through many moves and life changes until 2008. Just before our first IVF cycle, his liver gave out and he became very ill. The vet gave us the option of keeping him alive via multiple shots a day of liquid injected under his skin, but it just didn’t seem right. At that point he was so thin—his once robust tummy was just a sack of skin—and sleeping almost around the clock. He’d lost most interest in food, heartbreaking to see in a guy who always valued a good meal, though he would still sit beside me and purr away, that lovely motor of his always willing to turn over in the face of love and affection. Somehow we made the tough choice and put Jacky to rest. I don’t know if I’m still carrying guilt from that decision (I've always worried that perhaps I was more willing to consider putting Jacky down because my focus was on the IVF cycle), or if this is all wrapped up in the pregnancy with the boys that followed, but I’ve been having dreams about Jacks lately. He keeps showing up places—this time it was on our back porch in Ohio—and I’m devastated as I see him trotting across the porch toward the back door because I realize he’s still here and we haven’t been feeding him or giving him fresh water. I wake up with tears streaming down my face, just incredibly upset that we haven’t been taking care of him the way we should. I don’t know what to make of that, but I can say that the sorrow feels very real.
Let’s end with some levity. Bruce woke up across the room as I was typing this in the dark and rolled over to groggily ask if I was okay. I said I’d had a dream that woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I figured I’d get up and write about it. “Oh,” he said. Sleepy pause. “Was I a naked clown?” Then he rolled back over and promptly fell asleep. Gotta love that guy!
Thursday, July 2
Let’s try another topic! Snooches, pooches
I don’t post pics of two of the most important creatures in my life nearly as often as I used to.
When we first adopted Sierra as a wee snodgling of a mutt, I took photos of her obsessively. It’s probably embarrassing to admit how many photo albums I have of Sierra has a puppy, in her awkward teenage years, and now as a prime-time adult (an adult who, indeed, is beginning to go gray on her chinny chin chin). Hard to believe that our first child of the canine variety will be six in October. She’s a total type A alpha dog pain-in-my ass, but I adore her beyond words. She challenges me constantly to maintain my leadership skills and to stay on my toes, but I appreciate that about her. She’s not what I’d call an easy dog (in her hey day she ate a bed, a couch…actually it’s not that she ATE the couch so much as that she buried her bone in there. Sigh.). She was a force of energy that could be dealt with only with patience and training, which we tried to provide. We did a great job over in Germany, but have probably been too slack since returning to the states. She’s a great girl, though; she loves children and is super-affectionate (too kissy, if anything) and I know she’ll make a wonderful doggy mom/sister some day.
Liam came along later, after we moved to the Atlanta, Georgia area. He was a rescue dog adopted from a local group who saved him from a kill shelter. Which absolutely stuns me to this day, given that he’s an incredibly desirable pup who’s basically your perfect dog in almost every way. Loves people? Check. Gets along with other animals? Check. Good temperament? Absolutely—he’s such a laid back sweetie! Potty trained? Check. Walks well on a leash? Check. He's a total clown, with his one ear up and one ear down, every kid in our neighborhood just loves him and they run to pet him whenever we're out walking. I mean, there’s very little a person could find wrong with this dog. Except…oh, that he had “gotten too big,” which is why some idiotic family who had him for the first year and a half of his life turned him in to a KILL SHELTER, where he would have been destroyed had he not been adopted or picked up by a rescue group within the week. It devastates me to think about this, who can share their lives with an animal and then so carelessly dump him for something as arbitrary as “getting too big”? I’m sure these stellar, nurturing individuals probably have a whole slew of children they’re raising too, teaching them such wonderful lessons about the sanctity of life and our responsibility toward our fellow creatures (sorry, this clearly gets me heated!).
I was just thinking as I snuggled on the bed this morning with Liam’s head on my chest and Sierra at my feet how lucky I am to have them in my life. I can’t wait to see how they do with a child. They absolutely love the kids in our neighborhood, so I know they’ll be nutso for one of their very own. The ‘Banzo Bean will certainly grow up to be a dog-lover if Sierra and Liam have any say in the matter!
PS--Lest he be forgotten, I have to include a photo of me with Leo. Just looking at this picture makes me tear up, I miss that big galute so much! He lives in Germany now with our dog trainer. Long story, but basically we adopted both Leo and Sierra when they were puppies in Colorado. Leo came from the St. Bernard Rescue Society and is half Great Pyrenees and half St. Bernard. I love that dog SO MUCH. He was an absolutely wondeful dog in the house, my best buddy in the world...but as he hit adolescence he developed some major dog aggression issues. He bit me several times when I was walking him, bit my husband so severely once that he tore through the shoulder of his t-shirt, and the last straw was when he somehow worked his muzzle loose (we had to resort to walking him in a muzzle eventually) and bit our landlord. We were incredibly fortunate in that we'd been working with an amazing dog trainer several times a week to try to get Leo past his dog aggression issues (all of this biting basically came out of his insecurities and his need to show that he was in charge when he saw another dog) and after the incident of Leo biting our landlord, our trainer, Herr Wolfsberger, asked if he could keep Leo. It broke my heart, but I knew that Herr Wolfsberger was far more equipped to give the Leo the kind of direction, training and guidance he needed. Leo now works at the Wolfsberger kennel, he has the run of the place and a job, which is something his mix of breeds thrive on. I just felt like I shouldn't post about our dogs without a mention of Leo, who we lived with and loved for almost two years. (And now I'm crying! How these furry creatures grab a hold of our hearts...)
When we first adopted Sierra as a wee snodgling of a mutt, I took photos of her obsessively. It’s probably embarrassing to admit how many photo albums I have of Sierra has a puppy, in her awkward teenage years, and now as a prime-time adult (an adult who, indeed, is beginning to go gray on her chinny chin chin). Hard to believe that our first child of the canine variety will be six in October. She’s a total type A alpha dog pain-in-my ass, but I adore her beyond words. She challenges me constantly to maintain my leadership skills and to stay on my toes, but I appreciate that about her. She’s not what I’d call an easy dog (in her hey day she ate a bed, a couch…actually it’s not that she ATE the couch so much as that she buried her bone in there. Sigh.). She was a force of energy that could be dealt with only with patience and training, which we tried to provide. We did a great job over in Germany, but have probably been too slack since returning to the states. She’s a great girl, though; she loves children and is super-affectionate (too kissy, if anything) and I know she’ll make a wonderful doggy mom/sister some day.
Liam came along later, after we moved to the Atlanta, Georgia area. He was a rescue dog adopted from a local group who saved him from a kill shelter. Which absolutely stuns me to this day, given that he’s an incredibly desirable pup who’s basically your perfect dog in almost every way. Loves people? Check. Gets along with other animals? Check. Good temperament? Absolutely—he’s such a laid back sweetie! Potty trained? Check. Walks well on a leash? Check. He's a total clown, with his one ear up and one ear down, every kid in our neighborhood just loves him and they run to pet him whenever we're out walking. I mean, there’s very little a person could find wrong with this dog. Except…oh, that he had “gotten too big,” which is why some idiotic family who had him for the first year and a half of his life turned him in to a KILL SHELTER, where he would have been destroyed had he not been adopted or picked up by a rescue group within the week. It devastates me to think about this, who can share their lives with an animal and then so carelessly dump him for something as arbitrary as “getting too big”? I’m sure these stellar, nurturing individuals probably have a whole slew of children they’re raising too, teaching them such wonderful lessons about the sanctity of life and our responsibility toward our fellow creatures (sorry, this clearly gets me heated!).
I was just thinking as I snuggled on the bed this morning with Liam’s head on my chest and Sierra at my feet how lucky I am to have them in my life. I can’t wait to see how they do with a child. They absolutely love the kids in our neighborhood, so I know they’ll be nutso for one of their very own. The ‘Banzo Bean will certainly grow up to be a dog-lover if Sierra and Liam have any say in the matter!
PS--Lest he be forgotten, I have to include a photo of me with Leo. Just looking at this picture makes me tear up, I miss that big galute so much! He lives in Germany now with our dog trainer. Long story, but basically we adopted both Leo and Sierra when they were puppies in Colorado. Leo came from the St. Bernard Rescue Society and is half Great Pyrenees and half St. Bernard. I love that dog SO MUCH. He was an absolutely wondeful dog in the house, my best buddy in the world...but as he hit adolescence he developed some major dog aggression issues. He bit me several times when I was walking him, bit my husband so severely once that he tore through the shoulder of his t-shirt, and the last straw was when he somehow worked his muzzle loose (we had to resort to walking him in a muzzle eventually) and bit our landlord. We were incredibly fortunate in that we'd been working with an amazing dog trainer several times a week to try to get Leo past his dog aggression issues (all of this biting basically came out of his insecurities and his need to show that he was in charge when he saw another dog) and after the incident of Leo biting our landlord, our trainer, Herr Wolfsberger, asked if he could keep Leo. It broke my heart, but I knew that Herr Wolfsberger was far more equipped to give the Leo the kind of direction, training and guidance he needed. Leo now works at the Wolfsberger kennel, he has the run of the place and a job, which is something his mix of breeds thrive on. I just felt like I shouldn't post about our dogs without a mention of Leo, who we lived with and loved for almost two years. (And now I'm crying! How these furry creatures grab a hold of our hearts...)
Wednesday, July 1
Update on the bean
We saw our doctor yesterday and the bean looks good. Measuring exactly on target at 9 weeks, our 'Banzo Bean is a full inch tall now. Unfortunately that large dark area to the right side of the bean, the one shaped a bit like a mitten? That's the subchorionic hematoma. Obviously still there, and still large. So it looks like I'd better just sit back and relax and adjust myself to the notion that I'm going to bleed throughout much of this pregnancy, and this doesn't necessarily mean that the bean isn't okay. So far, the bean is doing just great and the SCH or split placenta doesn’t seem to be affecting 'Banzo's growth at all. Hoping & praying that things continue on this way!
Thanks for the continued support and encouragement, everyone. You all have no idea how much your stories have buoyed me up and given me hope on days when I was feeling weak or discouraged. My only point of comparison for complications in a pregnancy was our pregnancy with the boys, and obviously when things went wrong there, they went very, very wrong. It’s great to hear about pregnancies that ran into a small snag or two along the way but continued on to full-term and ended in healthy babies. Those stories do my heart so much good, and I have no reason to believe that that couldn’t be us.
Here's yesterday's photo of the 'Banzo Bean:
Thanks for the continued support and encouragement, everyone. You all have no idea how much your stories have buoyed me up and given me hope on days when I was feeling weak or discouraged. My only point of comparison for complications in a pregnancy was our pregnancy with the boys, and obviously when things went wrong there, they went very, very wrong. It’s great to hear about pregnancies that ran into a small snag or two along the way but continued on to full-term and ended in healthy babies. Those stories do my heart so much good, and I have no reason to believe that that couldn’t be us.
Here's yesterday's photo of the 'Banzo Bean:
Friday, June 26
One track mind
I can’t seem to write an interesting blog update anymore folks. I’m sorry—maybe you should all tune out for a while and then tune in again in a couple of weeks, when hopefully the subject has moved on from bleeding, bleeding and more bleeding.
The thing is, how’s a person supposed to concentrate on anything else when they’re trying so hard to stay upbeat and positive about a pregnancy yet bleeding through pads, through underwear (yes, I managed to do both today) and through all of their attempts at optimism. Not good.
I feel mired in pregnancy in a way that isn’t fun or productive or conducive to having much of life. I’m worried constantly about this bleeding, so I don’t want to do anything or go anywhere. Yet where does that leave me but sitting around fretting more about the copious amounts of blood my uterus continues to expel?
I’m so grateful to be pregnant still, I really am—I’m very aware that this is a gift not everyone gets to experience. I just wish I could enjoy it, or if truly enjoying it is out of the picture, at least have some moments of peace with this baby of ours. At this point, I’m afraid to hope for anything beyond a better day tomorrow.
***
By the way, I wanted to be sure to thank sweet Kerry for commenting on our boys’ 9-month anniversary yesterday. Hard to believe, but until I read her comment I’d forgotten. I’d actually forgotten. I’m not sure when I stopped counting how many months had passed since they were born, but at some point I did. I don’t know what to make of that. Part of me feels terribly guilty for not remembering that June 25 marked nine months since they were born. And part of me believes that maybe this is healthy—it’s not as though I don’t think of them, because I do—many, many times a day. Perhaps less ritualized now, less about how long it’s been and more about what roll they play in my life. I’m sure that on Sept. 25 (is it really only three months away?) I’ll want to do something special to celebrate them. But until then, it’s just a daily missing them, loving them, and remembering them.
The thing is, how’s a person supposed to concentrate on anything else when they’re trying so hard to stay upbeat and positive about a pregnancy yet bleeding through pads, through underwear (yes, I managed to do both today) and through all of their attempts at optimism. Not good.
I feel mired in pregnancy in a way that isn’t fun or productive or conducive to having much of life. I’m worried constantly about this bleeding, so I don’t want to do anything or go anywhere. Yet where does that leave me but sitting around fretting more about the copious amounts of blood my uterus continues to expel?
I’m so grateful to be pregnant still, I really am—I’m very aware that this is a gift not everyone gets to experience. I just wish I could enjoy it, or if truly enjoying it is out of the picture, at least have some moments of peace with this baby of ours. At this point, I’m afraid to hope for anything beyond a better day tomorrow.
***
By the way, I wanted to be sure to thank sweet Kerry for commenting on our boys’ 9-month anniversary yesterday. Hard to believe, but until I read her comment I’d forgotten. I’d actually forgotten. I’m not sure when I stopped counting how many months had passed since they were born, but at some point I did. I don’t know what to make of that. Part of me feels terribly guilty for not remembering that June 25 marked nine months since they were born. And part of me believes that maybe this is healthy—it’s not as though I don’t think of them, because I do—many, many times a day. Perhaps less ritualized now, less about how long it’s been and more about what roll they play in my life. I’m sure that on Sept. 25 (is it really only three months away?) I’ll want to do something special to celebrate them. But until then, it’s just a daily missing them, loving them, and remembering them.
Thursday, June 25
No pants-wetting: that's the good news!
We went to the doc's again yesterday. We had an appointment scheduled for Friday, but on Tuesday night I started bleeding quite a bit and by Wednesday I was in such a funk that Bruce suggested we just move the appointment up a day or two. Which our doctor's office did, they've been so nice and understanding about our tendency to get super-nervous about all of this. We saw our usual doctor yesterday and he told us that he sees these subchorionic hematomas several times a day (to which I said, "Oh, so it's not a split placenta?" And he said, "No, it is." Um...okay. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to I guess...). He was honest about it and said that SCH do present a higher risk of miscarriage, but that it's far from inevitable. So I'm just trying to rest when I can and to drink plenty of fluids.
In the meantime, my best friend from high school is getting married in August and her bridal shower is this weekend, followed by a Girls' Night Out. S is hoping that all of her girlfriends will spend the night after the evening of revelries, and while I'd love nothing more than to have a full night of girl-to-girl bonding, I'm thinking I probably shouldn't plan on spending the night. The shower itself is on Saturday afternoon, and the plan is to go out from there. I offered to be a driver to take girls to the first bar or two, but then I think I may need to skip out and head home. I'm thinking that, 1) Bruce gives me my PIO shot every morning around 7 AM. I suppose I could ask one of the girls to do it for me, but imagine those shaking, hung-over hands trying to stick a needle in your tush! Nah...maybe not such a fabuloso idea. 2) I'm just worried about over-doing it. It seems that everytime I exert myself in any way out of the ordinary, the bleeding kicks in again.
On Tuesday I went to a parade with my sister and her family. It didn't invovle a TON of walking, but we did walk a fair amount and then I messed up by not realizing I needed to pee until it was almost too late. I literally jogged / waddled / speed-walked the 6 or so blocks from the parade to my sister's house worried that I was going to have an accident and wet my pants in the middle of the side walk. I actually grabbed my crotch a few times to hold it in (after glancing around to see if anyone was looking!). I'm sure if there were people watching from any of the homes on my sister's well-manicured, upscale street, they were laughing or horrified or both! Somehow I made it to her home before releasing the stream, but it was a VERY close call. That night, the bleeding started up again full-force. SIGH. Lesson learned...if I think I might need to pee at any point during the night on Saturday, I won't wait! In fact, I'd better go BEFORE I think I have to pee, in case there's a long line at the bar.
In the meantime, my best friend from high school is getting married in August and her bridal shower is this weekend, followed by a Girls' Night Out. S is hoping that all of her girlfriends will spend the night after the evening of revelries, and while I'd love nothing more than to have a full night of girl-to-girl bonding, I'm thinking I probably shouldn't plan on spending the night. The shower itself is on Saturday afternoon, and the plan is to go out from there. I offered to be a driver to take girls to the first bar or two, but then I think I may need to skip out and head home. I'm thinking that, 1) Bruce gives me my PIO shot every morning around 7 AM. I suppose I could ask one of the girls to do it for me, but imagine those shaking, hung-over hands trying to stick a needle in your tush! Nah...maybe not such a fabuloso idea. 2) I'm just worried about over-doing it. It seems that everytime I exert myself in any way out of the ordinary, the bleeding kicks in again.
On Tuesday I went to a parade with my sister and her family. It didn't invovle a TON of walking, but we did walk a fair amount and then I messed up by not realizing I needed to pee until it was almost too late. I literally jogged / waddled / speed-walked the 6 or so blocks from the parade to my sister's house worried that I was going to have an accident and wet my pants in the middle of the side walk. I actually grabbed my crotch a few times to hold it in (after glancing around to see if anyone was looking!). I'm sure if there were people watching from any of the homes on my sister's well-manicured, upscale street, they were laughing or horrified or both! Somehow I made it to her home before releasing the stream, but it was a VERY close call. That night, the bleeding started up again full-force. SIGH. Lesson learned...if I think I might need to pee at any point during the night on Saturday, I won't wait! In fact, I'd better go BEFORE I think I have to pee, in case there's a long line at the bar.
Monday, June 22
Thanks for the Encouragement!
A HUGE thanks from the bottom of my heart to everyone who took the time to send me your positive thoughts and stories about heavy bleeding during pregnancy. It gave me such relief to read about pregnancies with placenta issues that went full-term and resulted in a live baby. Unfortunately my experience with pregnancy so far hasn’t shown me that things can go wrong and the baby (or babies) can be okay. I’m going to have to learn to ride things out and not to see every issue that may crop us as the end.
You all have given me a tremendous boost. You’ve gotten me over the hump—the bleeding has slowed considerably over the past two days, and today it’s barely present. My optimism is back!
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
You all have given me a tremendous boost. You’ve gotten me over the hump—the bleeding has slowed considerably over the past two days, and today it’s barely present. My optimism is back!
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
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