My Scary Pregnancy Stuff - Part 1

I am a blob.

A pregnant, dizzy, pukey blob.

I've been hesitant to write anything here because none of it is particularly enjoyable or positive. But then again, this blog has been a useful outlet for me over the years so to not write is essentially defeating the purpose. Derp.

I wrote my last post around the difficulties I'm having with being pregnant. The plot has thickened further so I might as well keep going with it. Let's take a look back to see where my mind was and where it is at now.

If we go back, way back, way way back to after Baby D was born (4 weeks premature with a stint in the neonatal intensive care unit), I was in a significant amount of pain even 10 days after she was free of my belly. The public health nurse at the time told me that the amount of pain I was having didn't seem normal and that I should get checked out. My family doctor could not have given less fucks, and I ended up back at the hospital emergency department.

I waited for hours, still in pain, and the doctor I saw was very dismissive as well. He asked a few questions, squished my post-baby belly but did no exam. He said to come back the next day for an ultrasound, IF I WANTED TO BOTHER, and that was that.

When I had the ultrasound the next day, the tech's face went serious and she told me not to go home but to proceed back to the emergency department straight away. OH, GOOD, I thought. I'm sure they tell that to everyone that is healthy and normal. The panic started to set in.

I went back to emergency and explained the deal. I assumed the ultrasound report was already there, or at least on its way. After hours and hours of waiting in the waiting area, I finally called the on-call OB (obstetrician, aka baby doctor) number I was given pre-labour and left a message begging for some help. The pain was getting worse, and I was sitting in the waiting area seemingly forgotten.

A resident doctor called back and said she would be down to help me. She examined me and immediately noticed that I was still 4 cm dilated with a clot!! It was visually obvious. It was not good. And my body essentially thought I was trying to push out another baby! Nucking futs if you ask me!

From there, I needed a D&C to get rid of whatever squatters were hanging out in my uterus without a lease agreement. It's the post-delivery surgical equivalent to using a spatula to get all the cake batter out of the bowl when baking. It was awful. I was readmitted to the hospital while my 11-day old newborn and husband were left to fend for themselves. I needed to pump my ginormous milk-filled boobies but by the time I was actually brought to the ward, the lactation consultant wasn't on duty and apparently morphine is readily available, but the breast pumps are on goddamn lock and key. I hadn't eaten. I was alone. I cried myself to sleep that night in pain, scared, missing my family, wondering what was going to happen to me.

Though this type of procedure happens pretty often, I was really worried I would die. Labour was traumatic, Baby D's heart rate skyrocketed and she was whisked away to the NICU. I bled so much. I felt like she was going to die or I was going to die. I had just gotten over that emotional hurdle and then had to go under anesthetic and hope things went ok.

My Mom actually had to meet Baby D at the hospital. She flew in and everyone met up there so I could be a part of it. Not stressful AT ALL. Nope. Good times.

Anyway, fast forward a bit and I had infections post procedure, illness and all kinds of troubles. My OB at the time was a fucking moron and I ended up needing IV antibiotics in-hospital for over a week because she didn't culture anything and the 4 different oral antibiotics she put me on were ineffective. I was the lucky recipient of an infection that caused scarring in my Fallopian tubes. And who says being female isn't awesome?

When I finally saw a competent OB, he explained that I likely had scarring and I would need to be careful and monitor early if I were to get pregnant again because I was at greater risk for an ectopic pregnancy. That's where the fertilized egg gets stuck in one of the two Fallopian tubes and starts to grow, but eventually it runs out of room and bursts. An ectopic pregnancy can never survive, and it often results in serious blood loss and is potentially fatal for the mom. I know someone who nearly died from it a few years ago. You typically end up losing that tube and it can reduce the chances of getting pregnant in the future, too.

So once we found out I was really pregnant, I remembered that advice, and went to my family doctor. While it is almost impossible to see a 4-week embryo on an ultrasound, there is a possibility of seeing a 5 or 6 week embryo. Sometimes the ultrasound technician is able to rule out anything growing in the fallopian tubes, but usually the technician is looking to see is a tiny yolk sac in the uterus. At least then they know that it isn't dangerously growing in a Fallopian tube.

I had researched this and knew it was important. Often times if the tube bursts, mom can get incredibly weak and have a high volume of internal bleeding before she even knows to call for an ambulance. It is scary shit. It is time sensitive and some women don't know there is a problem until someone finds them passed out on their bathroom floor. There is absolutely no warning signs, and nothing that a mom can do to prevent or help an ectopic pregnancy.

So at my doctor's appointment, with my 4 year old in tow, that same family doctor once again gave zero fucks, despite what I told her the experienced, well-respected OB had told me years before. Her response?

"At 4 weeks they can't see anything anyway. Yes, it could burst and you could die, but what can you do?"

SERIOUSLY. I started crying immediately. My poor daughter looked so concerned and asked what was wrong, why I was crying. Ugh. It was just so cold and dismissive.

Luckily for me I had signed up with midwives while the pee was still drying on my positive pregnancy test, and they saved the day, sending me for a scan to be booked between 5-6 weeks. They hadn't even met me yet but they went above and beyond to help me out and relieve my fears of bleeding out and dying in the night.

The technician was able to see the yolk sac in a safe place. So I could breathe a sigh of relief instead of wondering if my tube was going to explode at some point between 4 weeks when I found out I was pregnant and my first dating ultrasound at 9 weeks.

And so it began, the wondering if my body would turn on me, not having any way to check or know for myself, relying solely on how seriously my care providers took the situation, and waiting for the scan to hopefully provide more information. It was a very stressful start to what should feel like an exciting time.

And then, the anatomy scan decided to turn things upside down again...

To Be Continued...


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Why I F*cking HATE Being Pregnant: A Rant

Hey, yeah, so... SURPRISE! I'm growing another human being. I bet you are just as shocked as I am. Even though we actually intentionally made this happen, it's kinda like... well... WHOA.

Before I delve into my personal pregnancy hell, I feel it necessary to point out that I am not a completely heartless asshole who realizes the pain, sorrow and heartache that many families endure through infertility, loss and complications. I am one lucky motherfucker to have life growing in me, healthy life, and I know I should count my lucky stars. To anyone who has had a heart-wrenching experience, I sincerely apologize deeply for your suffering.

I am grateful for this life in me, just not the goddamn process to get there.

So, if we are being honest, it is safe to say that it is NOT socially acceptable to convey anything more than mild dissatisfaction about heartburn or frequent urination while pregnant. It seems as though society has assumed that you are an angelic, uber positive matron saint when growing a human and that everything is rosy and glowing and vibrant and wonderful.

I'm here to tell you, in no uncertain terms, FUCK THAT SHIT.

Some women DO truly enjoy pregnancy and have very few negative experiences, pains and suffering. They are the elusive pregnancy unicorns, and good for them. But just because some people think it's great, doesn't mean that is my experience, or another woman's. And people look down their noses at a woman who has anything negative to say about it.

• Well, why did you get pregnant then? ('Cause I keep scouring Amazon but they NEVER have my biological baby available for delivery. Not even with a Prime subscription. SMH.)
• You had to know what you were in for. (So... that means that I'm supposed to enjoy the misery? Here, you sub in for my body for a minute and see if deciding to have a child means it's TOTES cool to feel like complete shit for 9 months. I'll wait.)
• Why wouldn't you hire a surrogate? (Um, I looked under the bed and we didn't have $20,000. Dammit.)
• Can't you just keep it to yourself? (Sure, but if you ask me how I'm doing, why I can't meet up with you, what's wrong, why am I so green/white/pale, or perhaps ask if I've had any morning sickness, then you kinda opened that can yourself. If you don't actually care, then don't actually ask mmmkay?)

Those are just a sampling, but you get the idea.

So... what's so awful about pregnancy, you ask? Why do I fucking HATE being pregnant with a passion? How on earth could something so joyous seem to turn me into a venom-spewing demon?

Well, for starters, all that VENOM SPEWING. I'm well into my second trimester and I fucking puke. EVERY DAMN DAY. Often. And it's hot and it burns and I can't lean forward after eating or else I get food V2.0. On the strongest anti-nauseant available. They have some cute little medications that have antihistamines and B-vitamins in them called Diclectin. That shit made me sleepy and did fuck all for my nausea and puking. As did the second line of defence, Maxeran/Metonia. And of course, with any medications come risks to this little human growing... but when you have a four year old and can't just curl up in bed for 9 months, Mama needs to find some options. (Cue the entirely different group of judgers who are drug-free in their pregnancies and assume I am worse than Satan for poisoning this child. Thanks. Ok, moving on).

I'm sure before I endured pregnancy I assumed puking often wasn't THAT horrible. I mean, you get a cute little human at the end. Indeed, if we are lucky and things go well, we WILL get that human. But I can tell you that my body is utterly exhausted from all the vomiting. It's so gross. And when I'm not ACTUALLY vomiting, I feel like I am ABOUT TO vomit, or else just feel like there is a live wire in my stomach.  Yesterday Baby D was kind enough to tell me I was disgusting after puking multiple times in the Benjamin Moore parking lot. The entire highway got to witness the glory. Such joy.

POOPING. OR NOT POOPING, I GUESS. Ahh, pooping. Such a lovely, functional, necessary thing. When I get pregnant:

My Body: "Huh? What? Pooping - what's that? Sorry, no comprende. That doesn't happen here anymore. Save your energy. Just puke if you have to. Consider your bowels to be a concrete landmine until sometime in late 2018". Um. Okay.

Me: *consumes any and all forms of approved fibre, laxatives, suppositories, enemas and milk of magnesias approved and available*

My Body: "Nah."

Me: *consumes decaf coffee, waits, consumes caffeinated coffee, waits, exercises, waits, prays to the fecal release Gods, waits*

My Body: "Solid effort. Nah. We got you covered"
My Body: *vomits*

Yeah. So.

HEARTBURN. Burny, raging, painful reminders of all that spicy stuff you just ate. You know, white person spicy like multigrain bread and ranch dip. Or just looking at orange juice. Even with twice a day medication, my esophagus is just a waterpark consisting of purely lava. And the slides defy gravity and go uphill. Super fun. 24/7.

DEHYDRATION. You'd think that drinking liquids is sort of a natural, no-brainer-type life supporting activity. And while I AM actually fairly bad at hydrating at any time of my life, apparently my body feels the output of vomit somehow fills the daily-liquid-in-the-esophagus quotient for my body and essentially gags or refuses adequate hydration. I try. I drink. Some. If I drink when I eat, I puke. If I drink too much at all, I puke. If I drink and lay back or lay down, I puke. This snazzy little pregnancy bonus has led to 5 hospitalizations for I.V. fluids/nausea meds. You'd think I would learn and just drink, but I enjoy going 30 minutes away, paying $40 to park, and sitting or laying for 6 hours while I get rehydrated. SO MUCH MORE CONVENIENT than just, you know, keeping a goddamned Gatorade down.

FATIGUE. Like, next level fatigue. Like, I've struggled with fatigue for years due to a number of health conditions, the dog or Baby D or insomnia keeping me awake for large chunks of the night. But this. THIS is like no other level of knuckle-dragging survivalism. I regularly fight back tears because I feel like my body is going to collapse into itself. Exercise can help at times, but if I ride the endorphin wave and skip the chance for even a short nap, whoa Nelly, the rest of the day results in an increased level of vomiting and sensory processing issues.

SENSORY OVERLOAD. At first I thought I was just cranky. Then I realized that I have far far less tolerance for things like loud or repetitive noises, rough fabrics or repetitive touch, lights. Seriously. It's like my sensitivity dial upped itself to maximum and nothing I can do seems to stop it or lessen the agitation it creates for me, no matter what I try to do. I just need to lie down in a dark, quiet room. It's brutal. And I am much shorter with Baby D which sucks and makes me feel terrible, but I'm working on it and she's a pretty chill and understanding kiddo, so we work together on it.

ANEMIA IN PREGNANCY. Oh yeah. I've been dealing with this for years, and about a year ago my ferritin (iron stores) were at 12. That's low. I started 'roiding myself up with bovine-blood-sourced iron pills (*hurl*) to help because every other supplement under the sun seemed to have no effect. After months and months of taking the pills I finally reached 32, which is still kinda shit. It's suspected iron deficiency below 50. Well, when you are pregnant, your body creates up to 50% more blood to keep the little human alive. And aforementioned little human leeches all they need from mama's blood supply, so guess who is anemic again? All my levels are dropping or are at the literal lowest "safe" number. I know that low iron affects me immensely, more than most, and more than the ranges of acceptable blood work. So iron infusions will likely be in my future to hopefully save me from pre-term delivery again, and improve my chances of not hurtling down the rabbit hole of postpartum depression and anxiety (low iron FUCKS YOU UP, Bruh).

PEEING. ALL THE TIME. ALL NIGHT. ALL OVER THE PLACE. And don't get me started on the hormonal mood swings, body pain, painful kicks, breathlessness, itchy skin, boobs the size of an independent nation, nipple sensitivity, leg cramps, strangers trying to touch your body, and a slew of other "joys".

I will likely write another post of the complications I've already endured that are both potentially fatal. I successfully dodged the first bullet after my family doctor told me that yes, the FEARED THING could happen and the embryo COULD burst and I COULD die, but what can you do. (Side note: A FUCKING early ultrasound. That's what you can do. Christ. And she said this in front of my 4 year old as I burst into terrified, hormonal tears.)

So there's also this fear that the little baby is plotting my death, though kiddo can't really help it so I'm holding no grudges. It's just fairly frightening to know your body can turn on you so fast and the possibility of expanding our family could end up with the Hubs and Baby D on their own if I died. Hopefully very unlikely at this point, but still possible. Yay?

Geriatric pregnancy looks soooo good on me. Have I mentioned that I fucking hate being pregnant to you yet?

It doesn't help that I am an older mom and it can make it really tricky to manoeuvre with this big bump and my walker and stuff. You know how it goes.

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Random Compliment... So Appreciated

We went out for dinner tonight... the Hubs, Baby D and me.

Baby D is always super stoked for the kids' treasure chest at Swiss Chalet because, well, free toys. Or, treasure I guess.

I am a disgusting fiend when it comes to that dipping sauce. I will dip anything and everything in that hot salty bath. It's revolting. I leave a trail of little dipping dishes behind me in disarray. The servers are exhausted from the excessive trips to the kitchen to fill my trough with the sauce. There can often be few survivors in my path.

But I digress.

When we arrived, Baby D was quick to survey the treasure box and to select a pack filled with jewelry. A rainbow bracelet, ill fitting ring, and sticker earrings lit her eyes up as we proceeded to our table. She was quite pleased with her find. I love that I can ask her to go with me and she never hesitates because of that treasure box and the inevitable Skittles delicacy offered at the end of her kid's meal.

She excitedly put on the bracelet and ring while I tried to carefully peel off a pair of sticker earrings from the backing. It was harder than expected, but I didn't back down in the face of adversity. Baby D's puppy dog eyes watched me intently as I painstakingly peeled and scratched. I assumed it meant they had some decent staying power to them at least, so they wouldn't end up in her hair in 2 seconds flat (I was correct, they lasted at LEAST 60 seconds).

She proudly showed off her ears, and we acknowledged their neatness, but also said we love her and she's wonderful with or without decorations on her.


Boring feminist parenting aside: I amp up the importance of superficial things like clothes, hair styles and accessories, jewelry, etc., as being merely decorations on us. They aren't what makes us beautiful, and we aren't better or worse with or without them. Everyone is so quick to praise a young girl and tell her she is SO PRETTY with whatever she has of those things...  I personally think that is bullshit and it encourages and reinforces the idea that she ISN'T pretty and wonderful as her own self, without the glittery shit. People mean well, but it reinforces the having-to-improve-your-looks-to-be-validated stuff that I abhor. And little girls are also so much more than pretty. If you tell my kid she looks incredibly brave, or strong, or powerful - THEN you've won my heart, dear friend. Anyway...

She was quite excited and showed her new earrings and those left on the cardboard backer with the family at the table beside us. The Dad said they were very pretty but that he didn't have any. The Hubs offered him a pair, which he politely declined, then Baby D suggested that the other Daddy go get himself a pair from the treasure chest at the front. He explained he was too old to enjoy the gifts, as they were meant for kids, but we praised her good problem solving skills.

Fast forward near the end of dinner. Baby D was tired, I was oblivious to the time change and realizing it was actually an hour past her bed time, and we were all fading. But dinner went well. We all chatted, reminded her not to talk with a mouth full of food, reminded her that the protein in her chicken strips had to get in her belly before the Skittles could, and all that.

At one point in the meal the neighbouring family was brought an extra sauce of some kind (I was proudly on sauce six. So gross. I know. #sodiumlover), and Baby D proudly said "Hey! I can give them this!" proudly about to share her plum dipping sauce she hadn't used. (My love for Chalet dipping sauce is only surpassed by Baby D's love of ketchup and all vehicles used to get ketchup into her mouth. She comes by it honestly).

We stopped her politely by explaining that it was really nice of her to want to share, but that people that don't know each other generally don't share open food. That it was different from trick-or-treating because people give out sealed food. But I told her it was very kind of her to want to share. She really gets kindness and she genuinely has a good heart. Of all the preschoolers I have met, she's one of the best at peacemaking and sharing toys/food/art supplies, etc.

So we are about to leave and the Dad from the neighbouring table explains he just has to tell me something. I'm hoping that it wasn't that I should be ashamed at the sheer amount of sodium I just rammed in my gullet. It was not. I was so surprised, and touched.

He said that Baby D was so articulate and had such good manners that he wanted to say it was so nice to see. He said he was a police officer and deals with the public all the time. He said he's never seen such an articulate child that is so polite. He said he worries with what he sees today, and that his wife gets embarrassed when he comments to other families, but he just had to let us know. I said she had tried to share her sauce earlier and he said he heard the entire exchange.

I was honestly so touched. People rarely go out of their way to say nice things any more. He could have observed and carried on with his evening. He could have smiled and waved at her. But he let us know that he thought she was wonderful and that he thought we've done a good job teaching her manners. It was just so heartwarming. It made me so proud of her, of the wonderful little person she is, of all she is and all she is becoming. It was small, but at the same time it was huge to hear someone validate my thoughts on Baby D after sitting beside her for an hour and a half.

Anyway, not huge blog material, but just something really special. I'm so proud of her. And not simply because a stranger thinks she's sweet, but because I know she is. She has a good soul and a kind spirit and I always want to do my best to encourage that in her. Reinforce her. Lift her up. When I'm not a tired emotional haggard bitch myself.


Sweet dreams. Time to bloat with all the sodium. And to try not to be a bitch.


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