Doctor Says

I've hit 35 weeks. For those who have trouble counting, this means that I'm just starting my last month of preggo-ness. It also means that I start going to see an actual doctor (since I moved to Michigan I've been seeing the RN instead) weekly. The visits have been gradually getting more and more frequent and uneventful, which is why you rarely hear about them. Results from these visits are usually the same: The baby is healthy. It's normal to feel crappy. It's going to get worse before it gets better.

For the past couple of days something has felt a little... different. There's been pressure "down there," along with some sharp twinges and having to use the bathroom even more than usual. Luckily, today I had a doctor's appointment so I mentioned it to the nurse when she came in. The doctor did a cervical exam and to quote him exactly, "Okay, the baby is low. Oh my, the baby is very low."

He wasn't able to tell if I was dilated or not because his poking around was hurting me quite a bit, but his basic response was, "You could go into labor any day now. See you next week!" And then he walked out the door to the next victi-- I mean, patient.

So that's what the doctor said. I'm more interested in the things he didn't say.

Were it not for my (informative and well-informed) boyfriend, I would have been freaking out. According to Meng the med student, the baby is ready to go into labor at any time but probably won't for another couple of weeks. This is reassuring, kind of. It would have been more reassuring if the doctor had thought to tell me that himself.

After a short walk in the park, we went home for some dinner and relaxation. We'd been lounging for a while when I went on one of my many trips to the bathroom. (Disclaimer: about to get a bit graphic. Men might want to skip to the next paragraph.) The trace amounts of blood on my toilet paper didn't worry me too much. It had happened at the clinic and no one had said anything, so I figured a little more was okay. It was the fleshy looking bit resting in the bottom of the toilet that made way for concern. After a half hour of googling things, we found out that it was my "mucus plug," which I had heard about but had never seen. That would also be where the blood came from.

Of course I freaked out because this is on the list of early signs of labor. More research showed that it's quite common for this sort of thing to happen after a cervical exam, and that it does not necessarily mean that labor is eminent. This is just one more example of something that has been frustrating me. Why didn't the doctor tell me it might happen? I'm sure if I'd asked him, "Later today, if I find something strange in the toilet, what is it?" he could have told me. But he didn't. Even though, had I not had Meng with me, it would have completely freaked me out, the doctor did not say anything.

It just seems like common occurrences like this should be mentioned when someone sticks their fingers up your hooha.

Nuclear Sound Waves

I blame estrogen for the title. In fact, if there were room the full title would be "Nuclear Sound Waves: How the first prenatal care visit screwed over the rest of my week and triggered an emotional breakdown." Being realistic, though, it's too long a title. I mean, really. Anyway...

I had my first visit to the clinic last Wednesday. Overall it wasn't a bad experience. I got Illinois public aid set up, which is awesome because my insurance doesn't cover any of this pregnancy business. The midwife "ordered" an ultra sound at the local hospital, but until I get my Public Aid card, I can't actually go and get it done.

Now, right around when I say "midwife" the people around me get this excited smile and ask if I've decided to have the child in my home. The answer is no. (This is mostly due to the fact that I have no idea where I'll be living in September.) See, a midwife isn't just a person who helps deliver children in people's homes. At least in this case, the midwife and the doctor work together with each patient. At my last visit, the doctor was unavailable, so I talked to the midwife instead. Now, I've not met the doctor yet, but talking to the midwife was NOT AT ALL like talking to a doctor. I mean, I understood most of what she said, she was able to answer my questions, and I didn't leave the office feeling confused. But, moving on...

Up to this point the appointment had gone well, besides the part where the midwife walked in to hear me saying, "shut up or I'll throw my shoe at you," to my boyfriend. (Who, by the way, milked it for all it was worth and almost convinced the midwife that I'm an abusive partner. Thanks, Honey. Thanks so much.) It had been mostly talk thus far. Before she moved on to the next patient, however, the midwife got out the sonogram-thingy, and I heard the baby's heartbeat.

I can see you, at the other side of the computer screen. You're making a cute face and are, if not saying, at least thinking, "Awwwwww!"

Shut up.

I'm going to have to get over it. No matter how much gravitas and doom I put in my voice while I'm telling this story, everyone always says, "Awwwwwww!" Well that was not my first reaction. See, up until then I had no tangible evidence that this baby actually existed; it was just urine tests and nausea. So while the midwife is looking at me with that same cute smile everyone else gets, saying, "Guess what, that's your baby," all I could do was close my eyes and say, "shit." I don't think she understood.

The rest of the day ended okay. I got a test to screen for gestational diabetes, which I am at risk for, they drew LOTS of blood, which is NOT my thing (wanted to pass out), I got lunch with my very understanding and good-looking boyfriend, and went home.

I was supposed to go to class that night. I didn't go.

I was weirded out, no mistake. I spent most of my time in my living room eating toast and playing solitaire. But I didn't really realize how it had effected me until Friday. I woke up with a touch of nausea, as usual, and was contemplating the positive effects of a hot shower when my phone rang. It was the clinic, calling to inform me that the test they had drawn all the blood for had been inconclusive, and would I mind coming in for a three hour test on Monday? Well, the problem is that this week is spring break, and at the time I was planning on being in Michigan starting Saturday. I explained this to the doctor on the phone, who asked, "Well, have you eaten anything today? I could get the test started in an hour."

Okay. Let's take a moment to analyze the situation. 1) I had just woken up. 2) "Wait, I'm not supposed to eat anything? How do I keep from getting sick?" 3) I don't have a car. 4) The clinic is in fricking Evanston! "NO I CAN'T COME IN TODAY!!!"

That's how it sounded in my brain. In reality it sounded more like, "I'm sorry, I have class today. Could it wait until week after next?" Which was met with an irritated, "Well, when are you leaving tomorrow? We open at 9." I finally got her to accept an appointment on Monday, the 15th. I thanked her, (why?) and hung up the phone.

Right about then, my roommate walked in. All she saw was me hang up the phone, then hurtle something (I think it was a pen) across the room, and fall back on my bed in a soggy mess of tears and sobs. (My poor roommates.) She was great about it, gave me a hug while I explained between sniffles, and got me a tissue.

So that's when the crisis began. It's the, "I don't know if I can do this," "This has messed up/will mess up my life in so many ways," "What happens after the baby is born," "Don't you dare tell me to suck it up while I have a kitchen knife in my hand," kind of crisis. I called my mom about an hour later, looking for some motivation to finish all the things I needed to do. In her words, I "melted into a nuclear puddle of tightly wound springs." (Might not sound like the best metaphor, but trust me...) She came and got me that night.

So Saturday I spent talking to my mom in the car. I spent half of Sunday sleeping, the other half planted in front of the TV in my pajamas with a rather glazed expression. Today I spent most of the day planted in front of the TV with my bead box making bracelets, and at some point I put on a bra. So I guess things are... progressing? Tomorrow I'm actually going to leave the house.

I guess I'm just coming to terms with all of what this means. All of this is a big shift to my life. I'm just realizing what this will mean, for college, for my career, for everything. This ordeal is no longer just a pregnancy. Something is going to happen afterward, too.