34 weeks 4 days

I've been exactly this pregnant four times. Given the time of night though, only three of these have been with a live baby. After tomorrow, which is the gestation at which A was delivered, and provided nothing exciting happens between now and then, it heads downhill. I remember sitting in the doctor's waiting room at my first several appointments of this pregnancy and thinking that it doesn't actually compute that (a) I would get as large as the women there, and (b) if that happened, that it would be for the fourth time.

I'd said for years that I wanted three children. It turned out that what I actually meant is that I'd wanted to raise three children. Not exactly a semantic difference, as it turns out. In the months after A died, one thing that I kept returning to was that I used to think that when it came to the number of children in a family, four seemed like a qualitative jump from three. And suddenly if we still hoped to get to raise three, we were going to end up being parents of at least four. Seemed crazy, as an idea.

So, how do you eat an elephant? Piece by piece, as it turns out. I am this big. And this is my fourth child.

Monkey has this teammate. They were on the team together the first year they were competing. The family left the gym at the end of that season, but they just returned last week. In the middle of a group conversation in the observation room, the mom asked me what number this one is. For the briefest of split seconds I considered a long form answer, but dismissed it in favor of a matter-of-fact "fourth." I am sure at some point she will count those present and be confused. And if she asks, I will tell her.


I expected to be much more of a mess in the last day or so than I've been. Paradoxically, I think it helped to have had an actual concern to deal with today. Yesterday, the Cub woke up with some strange stuff on his skin. We thought it was a mark he left by playing with the dog's leash. But in the afternoon it was clearly a rash, disorganized, irregular, and pretty well all over the place. So off to Children's we went, where they determined the rash to be hives, most likely viral. And since there is one virus that can cause hives and could also cause trouble in the final trimester, they told me to call my practice and report the developments. The Cub got Benadryl and his skin was was clear as day by morning, though something was starting up again tonight, so he's now medicated again.

And I called the practice today and discussed the situation with a triage nurse. She explained exactly how long the wait for test results would be (about five days) and what they would do during the wait (monitor, duh). She also said I could come in today, but because of how long the test takes, she thought it would be fine to wait until my appointment on Tuesday morning. Wanting to cover my bases and because today is, you know, 34w4d, I asked if she'd mind checking with my doctor on whether he approves of the plan. She said sure, and promised to call either way. When she did, a couple of hours later, she sounded really pleased with herself. The word from Dr. Best was that he thought waiting until tomorrow would be fine, though he was surprised that I hadn't been tested for the immunity to the virus before.

And so this nurse went back through my records "all the way back to 2007," as she put it, to find that Dr. Best did test me for it (as part of the post-stillbirth search for clues, I surmise), and that I am, in fact, immune. When I got off the phone with her I was just happy and grateful to be with this doctor and in this practice. I felt supported and cared for. I still would've rather the Cub didn't get sick, but if he was going to, in a weird way, this was pretty good timing for it-- even though JD was on the plane flying across an ocean while we had our little ER adventure, a very good friend was visiting, and she stayed home with Monkey and her playdate. This very same friend also kept me sane today just by being here. And the confidence-building interaction with the practice helped a lot. I was also hoping to garden today, but the drizzle made that not so very attractive. Well, I guess you can't always get what you want. 

Yesterday was the gestational equivalent of the last good day-- the last full day when A was alive, the last day when I was just a pregnant woman with a history of some obstetric complications. Most likely, his fate was already sealed sometime that day. But we didn't know. And so I might've expected a curve ball from yesterday, by which I mean I wouldn't have been surprised to have had my ass kicked by yesterday. I don't think I did. (The Cub's preschool, same one Monkey went to, same one A would've gone to, had an end of the year celebration in the morning. I started crying as soon as they turned on the first song-- a tune I remember from Monkey's time at the preschool,-- and the curtain opened on the row of graduates at the front of the stage. I wasn't picturing him in that row. I think it was the music, actually.) Though the day did manage to make me clunk out without writing last night. Which makes yesterday the one out of seven days that I take off from blogging. Better publish this then, or it will be two in a row...

Known unknowns

This hasn't been an easy pregnancy. Early on it was physically more challenging than the previous ones, except for the nausea, which was better than with either of the boys. But as time went on, physically it has become less hard than the last time around. Not in every aspect (carpal tunnel is definitely worse, for example), but on aggregate I am fairly confident that this is the case. I also feel more compact, move easier, and, to be completely honest, look better than last time. I think most of that can be attributed to the Insanity thing I did last summer. As evidence I proffer my upper arms-- there's actually still some definition there, all these months later. Most importantly, I've only had two visits to L&D so far, and no hospitalizations. With the Cub, at the dates I am now I was newly back from a weekend of mag sulfate and steroids at the hospital.

What has been hard is the uncertainty. Hard isn't even the exact right word here. Exhausting is probably more apt. And by this I don't mean the the global kind of anxiety, the will she or won't she make it kind. That kind I try not to even allow myself to entertain, though I know it's always there. The way I know is that it jumps out of whatever fold dark corner it hides in to grab me by the throat with its cold clammy hand every time I am not sure I've felt enough activity in the last X amount of time. But here I mean more the pedestrian kind of anxiety, where every plan is by default soft and subject to however the hell the day will unfold.

Real contractions started a week earlier than with the Cub, at 28 weeks and one day. That happened to be the day of my first BPP, and Dr. Best was there for it. I joke that I get to call the contractions stupid because they are not doing anything to the cervix. Which, of course, if I am to have contractions, is the way I'd prefer them, thankyouverymuch. And since they are non-productive,  their effect is to annoy me, and to occasionally royally mess up my immediate plans by either causing me to surrender to the couch or to actually send me to L&D.

Each individual episode of sustained contractions is not what is actually exhausting. Sometimes they are, if they impact my ability to sleep. But most of the time it's rather the possibility that a day may include such an episode, or that the amount of activity might decrease enough to cause concern that messes with my head. I get up in the morning with some idea of what I absolutely need to accomplish that day and what would be nice to accomplish. But all of that is against the background of knowing that even absolutely need to is more like hopefully will be able to.

Those absolutely need to items are about immediate and essential needs-- food, transportation, clean dishes. The would be nice to accomplish items are things that make life feel less out of control-- excavate the bedroom, for example (almost finished now; and please don't ask me how long it'd been since we let things begin to pile up in that corner and on that surface and also over there-- it's actually embarrassing), or plant this year's garden (not done, but hopefully Monday), or do all the laundry as opposed to just the most critical load or two, or clear up the sewing/mending pile. I've been making slow, but steady progress through that list since the semester ended. But it's not done, and, realistically, done is well more than a day away.

I think that if I could clear this list, I would feel less anxious in general. I mean checking things off a list is always gratifying, but here especially getting things off the list means they won't need to be done after, however after turns out. But maybe I am kidding myself. Maybe this is just the level of crazy that a pregnancy inspires in me now, and if I solved this bit, I would find that the hum of my inner monitors would pick up to compensate. There's only one way to find out, though, and that is to clear the list and see what happens. If I manage to get that done, I guess we'll find out.   

Department of gripes and observations

Damn, ladies. You sure know how to make a girl feel special. It's really nice to know you haven't kicked my silent ass out of your readers yet. I am firing up my own tomorrow, and will start to catch up with everyone then. Let's see if I still remember how to leave a comment... :)

Meanwhile, I (re)discovered that falling off the blog writing wagon is extremely easy. For example, I nearly rolled off of it in my sleep just now when the little 45-50 minute nap I was allowing myself to take expanded and almost claimed me for the night. (That would've been embarrassing, given my lofty posting goal for the month.) But as they say in the movies and bad sitcomes, I am up, I am up.  Though not enough to get especially thoughtful. So I guess today's post will be brought to you by the gods of small chuckles and unfortunate choices.

Starting with the chuckle. I gave myself one with the juxtaposition of the two books I picked up while shopping last weekend. So I got this

 
... and also this: 

Um... guess which one's for a book club?

I got them at Costco, along with an assortment of other items, random and not so much. It probably just goes to show that I am easily amused, but the bit that served to amuse me was imagining buying the same two books together online, thereby causing a number of very confused double takes from the hypothetical future customers looking at either of these and seeing the other pop up under "customers who bought this book also bought..."

Transitioning ever-so-gracefully to the unfortunate choices part now. So maybe I am not altogether easily amused because Fifty Shades? It mostly annoyed me. It was picked as the inaugural book for the fledgling book club a friend is starting because it is what "all the girls" are reading now. For the record, that email exchange, where the book club was proposed and the book picked, was the very first time I heard about it at all. Yes, I live under a rock. Why do you ask? (But at least when SNL did a parody commercial featuring the book literally days later I already knew what they were talking about.)

My problem with the book is that it's so very poorly written. It features a narrator who's graduating college with a degree in English Literature. So then why is her language so barren? Why is her vocabulary so limited, why does she utilize the same damned turn of phrase every other page and why, why, why does she repeat words in subsequent sentences or even within the same sentence? Here's the one that made me groan out loud, and I swear I am not making this up. My voice is quiet, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice. No, really, this is in a book. Sold by a major publishing house. A book that made about gazzilion dollars, my $9.99 among them. 

Which is really what burns me-- I paid actual money for this. And, apparently, I am supposed to read the other two books from the trilogy before we meet in two weeks. I am soooooo not paying one red cent more. I am going to be a good sport and read them, but I am planning on borrowing the remaining books. To be fair, email exchanges between the characters are a decent read. But anything that involves even a touch of narration? Teeth-numbing. Too bad I don't have a tooth ache that needs taking care of. (In stark contrast, I started Drift the other day, and ahhhhh... my brain exhaled and said "thank you.")

So spill the beans-- have you read the Shades? Whatdayathink? Either way, see the SNL skit, just not at work.

Come what May

Last time I wrote here, it was May, of 2011. I thought I was finally back from hibernation, with thoughts and ideas and things to say. It's May again, almost not May anymore, of 2012. Almost 13 months since my last post. Three days less than that since the event that made it hard to speak for a long while. It really shouldn't have been this monumental. My grandmother was in a nursing home because of the rapidly progressing Alzheimer's. She wasn't herself, hadn't been for a long time. Her death was really a good thing for her-- what she had at the end was no life at all. And in that sense, it should've been a good things for all. But of course, as with all things death, it turned out to be much more complicated.

May 6th last year was a busy-busy day. A busy, but a very good day. I took Monkey and a friend to see older girls from her gym compete at a national-level meet, I stopped by an old place of employment to drop off student work, and after a very short pit stop at home, went to a girls' night out. Promising, no? Until the phone call from my sister. "Go outside," she said. I still remember that I didn't understand what she wanted. I didn't want to get up, and I thought she was telling me she's passing nearby the restaurant and wants to wave at me. Instead, she wanted to tell me that our grandmother took a sudden physical turn for the worst, and, just like that, she wasn't expected to last the night. She didn't. She died while I drove home from the restaurant.

The next few days are not actually a blur. I can trace them more vividly than many a day since then. One of the things we did was put together a collage of our grandmother's pictures. Well, my sister, she of software riches, did. I asked her to email me the scans of two of my favorite pictures -- I thought I would write of our grandmother, and soon. I have the pictures, but writing about her has not yet happened. Maybe now, though. I feel somehow steadier.


And so it is May again, and almost not May anymore. And a lot has happened. We have a puppy. By now, a respectably sizable puppy. He's over six months now, and, true to his breed, a lean and beautiful mischief machine. Monkey is 10. That's a little crazy as a concept, but even with all that the age brings, I have to say I like who she is, who she is becoming. The Cub is going on four, and is an incredible mix of sweetness, wiry energy, imagination and stubbornness, with a side order of strange little anxieties.

And (deep breath) I sit here today 34 weeks into what I hope is my last pregnancy. If this baby girl lives. I allow myself small little glimpses of what that might be like. But when people at the school or at Monkey's gym talk about "when" or any other sort of thing that implies how done this deal is, I just want to crawl into a small dark hole. I can't take it, though for the most part, somehow, I take it. It's four days now to the gestational age when A died. JD will be out of town when we roll up on it. But a good friend from college will be visiting. And Dr. Best is as ever vigilant and most kind. "We don't keep track of frequent flier miles. If anything at all feels off, call and come in. We understand." That's on top of my now twice-weekly monitoring. When I first called the practice to say I needed them again, Nurse Kind called me back with appointment dates and just to talk. "Are you ready for this?" she asked. "No," was my answer, with two "but"s attached-- I was more ready than I was a year before, when I first thought we'd try, but more importantly, I told her it would've been a lot harder to decide to jump again if we didn't know they were there to help us along.


Two weeks ago we went to the 50th birthday party for someone who was rather influential in our formative years-- he was a somewhat older grad student who was in charge of our living group for most of my undergraduate years. We were there when he and his wife brought their middle son home, to the tutor's apartment in our living group. So even though it's a terrible cliche, and even though I know it can be incredibly annoying and embarrassing, I couldn't help myself when I saw that kid walking through the room two weeks ago-- almost 17, way taller than me, and still completely recognizable. Last I saw him, a few years back, he was still a kid. Now-- a young man. His older brother, who did homework in our student lounge and had dinner with us, and pretty much thought of us as the coolest thing since sliced bread, he's married and has a baby. And still remembers and likes us. Damn! And a little bit of a mindfuck, I guess-- makes the math of our own ages pretty inescapable.

As the music started to play, I was chatting with the college friends seated at our table. JD, however, was watching the dance floor. He leaned over to me to point out that without being told, the two older boys got up and invited their grandmothers to dance. I knew what he saw, what he meant-- there will never be a day when both of our mothers are dancing with their grandsons at the same time. Another tiny never in a long string of nevers for us, but for whatever reason for JD, this one went deep. This one is not objectively easier or harder than any of the thousand cuts we've stumbled into over the years, or the many that I am sure are still to come. Each one revealing and underscoring the depth of the chasm that can't be remedied, can't be made better.

While I was away from here, I still occasionally wrote for Glow in the Woods. And this week I am there again, talking about that chasm, about how the enormity of it dwarfs all things, and how that makes me bristle at the idea of their deaths having a meaning or a reason. Please stop by, if you are in the mood.

I've been away too long. I am not saying this because I am under any kind of delusion that the blogoverse didn't keep spinning without me-- I am fairly sure my absence made not much of a difference to others. But I've missed this space, as I always do when I am gone. I want to be back in a real way, not haphazardly, as I've done since the Cub was born. So I am going to try to do for my mind what I did last summer for my body-- I am employing a commitment device, my very own blog writing marathon. Last summer I did the Insanity program-- 9 weeks of stringent exercise (on DVDs), 6 out of 7 days a week. I am declaring this to be my blog goal for the next month-- writing 6 out of 7 days for the month of June. For my own sake, I hope I stay on the wagon.

Wondering, slightly off-topic

If anybody is still here, and on the off chance you still want to know where the hell I've been, I'll tell you. I spent the last day and a half same place most you likely did-- glued to screens and speakers, catching up on details and coverage. (Where I've been for months before that is a separate question, one I keep meaning to address in something other than a sidetracky note in parenthesis.)

As you undoubtedly know, among the coverage from the Pentagon and from Pakistan, and from the White House, there is coverage from Ground Zero and from many a studio where family members of those who perished on September 11th have come to answer questions about How They Are Feeling Now.

A digression, or a sidetrack, if you will. About two and a half years ago Elizabeth McCracken's An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination started making rounds in our little corner of the blogosphere, and so did the lines from the book that many of us wanted on t-shirts (or carved carefully and lovingly into rotten tomatoes conveniently available to us any time the urge to throw one, or at the very least the line on it, at the clueless/malevolent overtook us). One of those lines, one quoted frequently and with gusto by many a babylost mother was "closure is bullshit."

Back to present day. I notice one persistent theme in the coverage. Every time a relative or a friend of a 9/11 victim is interviewed, no matter the outlet, there is always that ridiculous question-- "does this provide closure for you?"

And so, though I know that is not the main thrust in the events that have been unfolding around the world since early hours of Monday morning Pakistan time (not entirely surprising, this, as I do tend to, from time to time, you know, digress... wait, where was I? oh, yes-- not entirely the central point, but...) I wonder whether maybe, just maybe, this time it will finally sink in.

Because in an inspiring display of dignity (and honestly, I find myself offended for these people every time they are asked about this), every single relative that I've seen or heard has said approximately what Elizabeth wrote, though in language more suited for mass media,-- there is no closure, there is no such thing, it doesn't exist, he/she/they are still dead, and we still miss them and have to live without them.

Closure is a convenient stamp. It is a useful plot device, and it is a great marker for those unaffected who want those affected to be OK-- what you need is to get closure and move on. I hope it will sink in, but I know it's unlikely. The allure of simple explanations and carefully wrapped up stories is too strong, and we're only human. And yet, knowing full well that I am pretty much hollering into the wind, I want to echo Lee Ielpi, father of Jonathan, firefighter who perished on 9/11, as quoted in the NYTimes this morning: "No closure. That word should be stricken from the English language."

Almost here

Almost here. That's both it, another anniversary, and me. For me, that's about this place. The place I miss and want to inhabit again. The intensity varies through time, from burning to simmering, but it's always there. Always, despite the months and months of terrible neglect. I see the weeds all around, and I don't expect anyone to still be wondering by, looking for me. So I know it's not about the audience. It's about me. I still want to be here, still need to be here.

A few months ago now (ouch, already?), I told a couple of bloggers I met for the first time that night (hi, gals, if any of you still have this place in the reader) that my first post back would be a "how do you know you are still a blogger?" and would essentially boil down to "if you are constantly composing posts in your head, you're it." And I am. So I guess I am.

Last calendar year deserves a post all its own, and it will probably get one, sometime next week. This past month, January. Well, it should've gotten a small stable of posts, but except for the one I had on Glow earlier, this is it so far.

But what's there to say, this fourth time around? I miss him. Still, always. In some ways that are now familiar, and in some ways that are new and sharper for it. Thoughtless things people say can still get me. Sometimes in a new way. The one that happened earlier in the fall, but then crept back into my head and heart to mess with both earlier this month, was about how insignificant A is to others. It hurts, and it hurts worse for the casual manner in which she did it. And yet, as with other things, once I dissected that enough to understand what in it was so hurtful, it receded. These things always do. The one that doesn't is the simplest and the most basic of them all-- he is not here. He will never be here.


Four years ago I was still just a pregnant woman.

Time, flight of

Back in April I said I am taking 2-3 weeks off. Ha! Tomorrow it will be 18 weeks. 18, which is, 3 squared times 2 ([3^2]x2). I did that for a bit-- thought as each week drew to a close that come Monday I will definitely post again, and, because nerd is who I am, not just what I do, found a way to represent the number of weeks it was in terms of 2s, 3s, and mathematical operations-- 2+3, 2x3, 2x2+3, 2^3, 3^2, 2x(3+2), 3^2+2. I think that's where I stopped, at 11 weeks out-- it got too depressing as each week zoomed by with a cackle and a whooooosh.

It was about the house projects at first. Then it was all about the job-- a great interview the very day of that last post, an interminable wait, a growing panic, and an official rejection email. Yup, email. Some more drama, twists and turns, and finally an offer of adjunct position for the fall. More drama yet with the course planning and coordination, then a major plot twist and a cliffhanger. The latter only resolved as of two weeks ago, prompting a mad dash of meetings and emails trying to get the course organized, coordinated and ready to go.

I am still in the middle of that dash, and will be right through the first part of the term at least. Because damn, but it's impossible to put the whole course together in the time I had from the final staffing assignment to the start of the course. Not happening is all I am saying. Also, there's the crazy and fun science thing I am doing at Monkey's school. Not paid, but I am getting to put a lot of my crazy ideas into practice, so that's a plus.


I haven't been entirely unplugged since that last post. I've peeked, here and there. More lately, as I've tried to get back to this place. And now I sit here, a mere hour (exactly) until the point in time when my youngest son turns two. If I look at him or, say, pick him up, two seems just about right for the heft of him, and for what he is up to these days. Though two also seems like a lot. And it just doesn't feel like it's been that long.

Or maybe it has. I am feeling ready to talk about the last part of my pregnancy with the Cub, and his early days, and what the whole thing did to my head and my heart. Last year the topic still felt tender, the way it doesn't anymore. Tonight I've been walking through the timepoints, two years ago. I am feeling a sort of a removed wonder, tenderness towards the people in the moving pictures in my head, towards the moments in those moving pictures. But I am not there, in the moment. I am here, this side of it all. Though I am compelled to watch again, to trace the timeline.

So I guess two fits what I am feeling, or what I am feeling fits two. I guess two it is then.


I've missed you all. I've missed this place. I've had things to say. I have things to say. Hopefully, I can find time to say them, and time to be a good blog reader as well as a writer-- time to read, time to comment, time to be there.




And if you have a bit of time, would you please stop by Sally's as she is walking through her hard days-- from Hope's due date today towards her birthday on Thursday, the 19th?