Blood

I saw a bit of red blood in my last trip to the bathroom. And, now I just sit and wait to see if that's it or if that's just the beginning. I am trying to remain calm and remember that there is very little that I can do at this point. But that is soooo difficult. No cramps or unusual symptoms, just the same pregnancy symptoms I have been experiencing for the last 4 weeks or so. Tomorrow I will call the doctor if I see more blood in the morning. For now, we wait...

Let it grow

Once upon a time, I was a very very high maintenance woman, in the aesthetic sense. I am still pretty high maintenance in every other sense, but aesthetics fell to the side right around the time my boobs did.

My 3 sisters are high fashion extremists. They all fret constantly over all manners of their epidermis including their weight, the color of their hair, the quantity of their body hair, their nails and their make-up. Once I left California, all of this stuff just didn't seem important anymore. Granted I live in the land of granola, but I think there is more to it than that. Admittedly, when I go back to California to torture myself with family, I regain the self conscious feeling over my looks. Suddenly I am not so confident about my choice to go natural. Of course, it doesn't help that my mother never fails to mention how good my hair would look with some highlights. And my sister Anne asks me if I want her to wax my eyebrows. Then, Beth slyly asks if she can try some of her make-up on me. And when I put on a pair of shorts, Carrie rolls her eyes and makes gagging sounds upon seeing my hairy legs. So the grand support of the sisterhood doesn't do much for my confidence.

And then they start in about questions about their own looks. "Should I dye my hair? Should I have my lips done? Do I need botox? I need a boob job. I need a breast reduction. Perhaps I should have eyeliner tattooed on my eyelids. I need laser surgery for my wrinkles. My fake nails are coming off, I MUST get in to see my manicurist." It goes on and on and on.

I am thinking about all of this for multiple reasons. The Oneliner has a fabulous post about her va-ja-ja and the fear of the chewbaca look. I have never, even in my most high maintenance of Cali days, considered a waxing. But now that frequent cooter appointments loom ahead I have started to think about some pretty landscaping down there. At the very end of my previous marriage, the boy started hinting that perhaps a full waxing might be nice on me. That should have been my first indication that he was keenly attracted to very young women, like his 19 year old girlfriend for instance. My current husband seems to be a bit repulsed by the adolescent look of a hairless cooter, and I am so grateful for that.

But now, I keep thinking, do I really want my doctor to be scared of going near the wild and overgrown landscape I have going on? Am I the only one not getting a good mowing? And the fact that I don't shave my legs adds to the concern. So now, I am starting to think like my sisters a bit, but only from the waste down. Is it time for a good waxing to clear the brush? Do I need a pedicure before every pelvic exam? My toes are not attractive even with a good pedicure though, so do I really want to draw attention to them with colored nail polish. Funny that when I go au naturale at the beach or an allowing spa resort, I don't even consider it, but put me in a doctor's office only half clothed and I get self conscious.

Is that good news in your pocket, or...

So, after all the whining and complaining that I put you all through in every one of my posts, I thought you could all use some good news for a change. And hey, so could I.

I woke up this morning in a terrible mood. Terrible. Bad dreams really seem to set the tone for the day, even if I can't remember the details of those nightmares. Sometimes later in the day I recall something and am not sure whether it happened in the dream or not. Take yesterday for instance. I approached Husband and asked whether he told me to stop whining about being so tired all the time and to just keep it to myself. No, he did not tell me that in real life, it was indeed part of a dream. But I had so much trouble shaking the thought.

Anyway, I was equipped with horns this morning and not happy about yet another week of classes ahead of me. By the time I got to campus I was consumed by the knowledge that I had not yet heard back from the leg@l clinic I interviewed with last Monday, despite the fact that they said they would contact me by now. Sure that I had not received an offer, I pretty much stomped around all day wondering why the hell I was even continuing to go to class if I was unemployable. Hell, why did I even get out of bed?

And then a miracle occurred. At 4pm today, I got a phone call from the clinic and they offered me the summer position!!!!!!! I cannot quite contain my excitement. While the position is not paid, I will be able to get a public interest grant from my school to allow me to survive the summer, AND I will be doing the work that I really want to do. AWESOME!!!!

And because I cannot help but worry about the next thing, I leave you with my newest anxiety issue of the moment. How in the world am I going to give birth and care for a newborn in the first few months (assuming this pregnancy actually sticks and gives me one of those take home babies) while I am smack dab in the middle of Fall semester of l@w school? I can barely handle this stuff as is. Thoughts anyone?

More weird things

No, you are not crazy. I am. So if you happened to notice another post in place of this one today, you were not seeing things. It really was there. But I felt quite vulnerable about it for some reason (like, perhaps, the fact that I am indeed insane) and decided to take it down.

In its place, I am going to respond to a tag that I have received from several kind bloggie friends. It's the 6 weird things meme, and while I have already done it once, it certainly was NOT an exhaustive list. So here goes 6 more weird things about me...

1. I am from Southern California and have a keen appreciation for authentic Mexican food. However, when I make it home, I don't even try to approach authentic. In fact, I am a closet ketchup user. I love ketchup on my homemade tacos complete with ground beef in store bought seasoning.
2. I am extremely attached to things that loved ones give me, even if I hate the thing that is given. I feel that I am betraying the person if I don't like it so in one way or another I will find a way to feel good about the gift.
3. I am a nodder. I nod at speakers during their lectures or talks. Some part of me feels that they need my encouragement. A bit self centered, don't you think?
4. I am great at jumping in and defending others, but I really struggle to defend myself.
5. I am a recovering cutter. Enough said about that.
6. I forget to raise my hand in class to answer a question and frequently blurt out the answer. Then I berate myself later for being so aggressive.

I think that some of those things aren't weird, just ugly things about me. But sometimes they go hand in hand.

Hypomanic Fallout

It's no secret in this blogland of ours that I have bipolar. Specifically I have bipolar II, which mostly means for me that instead of all out mania, I tend to have lower manic phases, called hypomania. Now this can mean all different things for all different people, so what I am about to describe is just my own experience. I cannot emphasize enough that everyone's phases manifest in different ways.

For me hypomania is a time of taking on the world. While in one moment that means I am determined to do every task and opportunity that comes my way, in another moment taking on the world means being angry and irritable with absolutely everything and everyone. The problem, as most bipolar people will tell you, what goes up must come down.

Normally, in a proper medicated state, the highs are not too high and the lows and not too low. However, in my current insufficiently medicated state, the highs are as high as the sun and the lows go so low that I find myself in hell. So given that pregnancy hormones already make for a somewhat unusual mental/emotional state, in me, that's compounded by the absence of mood regulating medications. I am taking Z010ft, which has been deemed safe for pregnancy, but really it's not your safest bet for people with bipolar. This drug is an antidepressant and tend to send bipolar people into extended states of mania. And mania can be enhanced by life altering events.

Finding out that I was pregnant served as the perfect trigger for mania. However with the exhaustion, I was rapidly cycling in and out of mania. Some people experience mania as a fabulous high that enables their creativity and productivity to beyond human levels and expectations. On my end, mania is not a time for happiness. In fact with my racing thoughts, rage, irritability, and general do-it-all attitude, there is no time for happiness, or reason, or logic. And there is definitely no time for mistakes, especially my own.

After the BFP, I was off and running. Someone finally offered me a place on their mock trial team and I picked it right up even after strong warnings from Husband and therapist not to take on additional stress right now. Then, I took on a legal aid volunteer project located 2 hours away, in a county that has 10 feet of accumulated snow. I told all my mentees (first year lah stoodents) that I could help them anytime, and made successive appointments with them to do so. This is all in addition to my part time job as a rese@rch consultant for the usd@, my four classes, and my hunt for a summer job.

The down came sooner than expected. Suddenly, I discovered that I couldn't do any of this. I was stressed, anxious, and exhausted. Now depressed, it was harder for me to get even my normal load of work done. So after I committed myself to all of these projects, how the hell was I going to get out of them all? Certainly, I can't run around outing myself to everyone as a bipolar crazy person who was in a fit of mania when she took on the world and then some. The insanity defense isn't really where I wanted to go. The fallout from that admission could be even worse from the fallout of the manic episode itself.

So how did I do it? I didn't, other people did. Thus, I did some serious leaning on those who already loved me and already knew about my illness. My husband helped organize my thoughts and prioritize, not to mention keep a perspective. My bloggie friends, yup all of you whether you know it or not, talked me off the ledge and also helped to put both a positive and realistic spin on things. And, one of my best friend's A, who in fact has her own challenge of being a l@w stoodent and blind, helped me get through the mock trial event. She essentially held my hand through the whole thing. And all I could do was return the favor in the most minimal of ways. I cut up her french toast at brunch the other day, and did the driving. Pales in comparison to the way she helped me, but it was all I had to offer at the time. If you are reading this, A...THANK YOU!!!

TGFB: Thank goodness for bloggers

Just a real quick note as I have class in a few minutes:

• Thank you all for your kind and soothing words in the comments of my last post. You all came through for me, and it made a world of difference. You all help me get a perspective again. Seems that you are doing the job that medication would otherwise be doing if I could take some.
• I had a second interview with a legal aid clinic in my town, and from my distorted reality, it was a disaster. I should find out the sad results by the beginning of next week.
• Participated in my first mock trial competition and it was nothing less than a total trainwreck. More on that to come.
• If there was any Salmonella in that food on Sunday, I conquered it. No symptoms. No puking. All is well, for now.

Promise to write more tomorrow. Cause really, it's all in the details. :)

Operation Freak-Out

I think someone should have committed me immediately upon my announcement that I wanted to try and have a baby. Toss me into a padded cell and throw away the key. If I can't handle the few simple rules of pregnancy, then perhaps I am not really cut out for the more complex task of child rearing. So here's what I am freaking out about now...

Husband left town for today and tomorrow and that is always a recipe for disaster in my insane brain. To console myself, I went to brunch with a dear friend at my favorite brunch place. I successfully avoided the swordfish tacos out of concern for the mercury, but apparently my brain shut off there. I proceeded to consume Eggs Benedict complete with Hollandaise Sauce and creme brulee. Once home, the whole raw egg ban while pregnant came racing into my mind. Holy shit, I am now certain I will be puking my brains out from Salmonella poisoning. Convinced of it. Mind you, I have never gotten sick from this restaurant before, but you know how that goes. For sure I have threatened the life of this embryo with my indulgence. I am such an idiot.

Now I am trying to decide whether to try and go purge it all up. I am not very good at that, but I could give it a try. Or perhaps that damage is already done. I have been frantically searching the internet for what I should do now, but all I can find are the 101 reasons why I shouldn't be eating Hollandaise sauce. I found one comment on the APA site that said that most restaurants use pasteurized eggs for these types of dishes, but who knows if this one did. And, since they are now closed, I can't call and ask.

To the left, are the offending organisms at a magnification of 9020x. Salmonella infantis

I should warn you before you decide to comment, that in my current mental state, I really can't handle any heinous horror stories of salmonella poisoning and dead babies. Without my husband, I cannot take this kind of stuff right now. So if you have something soothing to say, then please comment, but if not, for the first time (and hopefully the last) I am kindly asking you to keep it to yourself. Now, I must excuse myself while I think of purging strategies. I should have been locked away long ago, clearly.

Just call me Chesty LaRue.

Now with more boob.

My deepest apologies to those of you who will find this post annoying. But being annoying has never stopped me before, so why start now?

A few days before the great pee on a stick event, I remarked to Husband that the girls seemed to be outgrowing their luxurious home. He agreed with a big grin. I hate to say that I am well-endowed because that would imply that I like the size of my chest. I do not. All throughout high school, I was lucky if I could fill out an A-cup. In fact, I was smaller chested than my younger sister, Anne. So I would lie in bed praying (this was back when I was a practicing Roman Catholic) and begged God for a bigger chest. Nice that I bothered the supreme being with my pressing needs, right? Well, be careful what you ask for. By the time I was in my second year of college, I was bursting out of my D-cups. After visits back to my high school town, rumors could not be quashed that I had had a boob job. Believe me when I say that I did no such thing. So up until a few weeks ago, I was buying $70 minimizer bras made by W@co@l to accommodate and support my double D girls.

But now, those don't even do the job. Sigh. I am terrified that I am going to have to buy G's. So last week, I ordered 2 new W@co@l bras of the triple D variety. Honestly, it made me so sad. I know, I should be grateful that I am still having all the "right" symptoms, but I really could have done without this particular one. I may be able to buy maternity clothing used, but I draw the line at used bras. Plus, it's a bit hard to find used ones in that size range.

Some say that my size will go lower than what I started with, once the gestating is over, but somehow I am not convinced. You see the skin has already been stretched and we would need new laws of biophysics to get these things to take a pleasing perky stature again. So even if they get smaller, they will be like tube socks with a rock stuffed in them, hanging down to my knees. Doesn't that sound sexy?

Let the games begin...

Awww, you all just warm my heart with your well wishes and happy dances for me. I was very worried about posting about our news because I didn't know how it would affect my readers, especially those who are still fighting the good fight against infertility. I desperately worried that I would alienate some of my readers with my news and you would hate me and be bitter towards me, in the same awful way I am bitter toward my pregnant sister. I eventually decided that everyone is entitled to their bitterness and anger and if it helps to be angry with me then so be it. And so I trust that if I say anything lame or insensitive in the coming months, that you will all call me on it and I will be a slightly better person for having learned a lesson. Just promise me that you will call me on it, OK?

That said, I will give you a few details on how the whole thing is progressing at this point. I am at the 5 week mark. Pooter is the size of a sesame seed and already causing me problems. Apparently I didn't inherit the non-nausea gene from my mother (she claims she never experienced morning sickness with any of her 4 pregnancies). So, if being green is equivalent to glowing, then I glow like a mo-fo. Or if being bright red from a recent trip to the bathroom and an attempt to squeeze out the tiniest poop qualifies as glowing then I am practically nuclear. My dreams seem to illustrate my anxiety through all of this. Last night, I had a dream that I gave birth to a 1 year old boy, and after a good amount of unsuccessful nursing attempts, my left nipple fell off. That's right, it fell right off and didn't even bleed. Nice, huh?

I should also mention that the fabulous doctor that I found a few months ago will no longer be delivering babies as of July because as a small 2 doctor practice they can't afford the insurance any longer. So I am going to stick with them for a little while until I can make an educated decision on who will birth it if I make it that far. I am considering going out of town for two reasons. First, the other single practitioner doctor is addicted to episiotomies and doesn't appreciate input from the mom on how things will be run. Second, the big practice that births almost everyone's babies in this town has been labelled by my G.P., my pdoc, and a number of nurses I have talked to as a "Baby Factory". Now, I have at least a couple of friends here who went through their system and were quite satisfied. I, however, am a self proclaimed difficult patient, and they don't deal well with people like me. I have tried them for routine GYN stuff, and walked out in tears or in a fit of rage. I don't need either while I am pregnant. My friends think i am a bit crazy, I think, because of my view point. So, I am looking into the neighboring areas for good docs and my current doc will have some info for me about what they think of the other doctors.

I have mixed feelings about midwives. Some seem fabulous, while others seem like old battle axes. And I don't really feel like leaving it up to the luck of the draw. Plus, all the local midwives are in cahoots with the baby factory. It's like a monopoly around here.

Then, there is the idea of a doula, added into the mix. Sounds like a particularly attractive option for someone like me who has a very high chance of postpartum psychosis, according to my pdoc. Given those odds, I think Husband and I may need a little help and coddling, especially after the birth. I am a bit concerned that Husband will feel like the doula is usurping his position as my supporter, but perhaps the doula will be a good person for him to talk to if and when he has concerns about me, especially once he becomes comfortable with her. We will be talking to my doula choice next week sometime. I will let you know.

In the meantime, I have an incredible craving for turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Trying to convince my vegetarian husband to incorporate gravy into all of our meals has been a bit of a stretch. Although, he is really trying hard. Mushroom gravy seems to do the trick, but it still doesn't go well with pizza or salad. It's incredible how I can be so nauseous and so ravenously hungry at the same time.

There's a pooter in my cooter. (now with a photo, per your request)

I have been really really struggling for the last week on how to post my news. And since I haven't come up with a good way to say it, I'll just get it out there. There is a pooter in my cooter, and that's a good thing. Let me explain...

Monday, AF still hadn't shown her ugly head, so I thought, "What the hell, might as well waste a stick." And because I have no patience, I interpret the results as soon as I see the urine do the capillary crawl into the test area. I know, I know, this is a big no, no. Of course, there was a brilliant control line, and apparently nothing in the test area. So I sat there contemplating my extended stay in Crazyville and then finished up. Right before I was about to throw it away, I looked at it again, and what do you know? If I squinted, I could see the faintest of lines. "Is THAT a line? Is that really a line? Is that what positive lines look like? Holy crap, I think that's a line." So I ran upstairs and stuck the urine soaked stick in Husband's face, and asked if he saw a line. He saw the line too. Then I ran downstairs and pulled out Friday's BFN stick from the trash, there were two lines on that one too. (Yeah, I know, that's another big no, no. But hey, I am past rational at this point.) Holy cow, I think I am pregnant.

Then I took a picture of it and sent it to 2 women friends for a second and third opinion. They saw the line too. Husband was still skeptical and tried to remain cautiously optimistic. In the meantime, I couldn't stop rolling the word line over and over in my head, all day long. I am sure it's the only day of this pregnancy that someone could say that I glowed. Not from the hormones, but from the shear excitement of it all. By the next day, I was sure I had imagined the whole thing and tried another stick. Another line, a bit darker than before, but not by much. As I repeated the test every 24 hours, the line got increasingly darker. By Thursday, I was convinced that I was pregnant.

By the way, with the first positive test, I started to freak out about the Ser0que1 I am still taking for sleep and sanity maintenance. I had successfully gone down from 300mg to 100mg, but any lower and I couldn't sleep at all. After consulting every possible drug and pregnancy database, I remained concerned about the drug's affect on my blastocyst. So, I made the unwise decision to go down to 25 mg on Wednesday night. I didn't sleep but maybe 2 fitful hours. Plus, the stress of being snowed-in, caused a flare up of my supposed interstitial cystitis, and then the nausea set in. On Thursday, I was a puddle of tears. A bawling, mess, who eventually threw a magazine across the room out of frustration.

Thursday night, I succumbed to exhaustion and insanity, and ramped my Ser0que1 back up to 50mg. That did the trick. I slept soundly and dreamed like crazy. I will skip the details of the main dream to get to the good part. In the dream, I am riding my bicycle while nursing my newborn. Oh, and my nipples were 4 inches long. My mother, on another bike, asks me what we named the baby boy. My response: Pooter. I named our child Pooter. I have no idea where in the world I came up with that name, but there it was. When I woke up, I thought, hey, there's a Pooter in my cooter. Husband does not find this nearly as funny as I do.





Ask and you shall receive...










As a side note, I am going to try to comment on the last post right before I write another post now. This way, I can respond to your comments. So, now you know, in case you feel like checking it out. Otherwise, just ignore me.