I'll be honest. I can't get out of this blogging limbo I find myself in. I don't really have much to say, and even on the rare occasion that I do, I don't know if I want to say it. There are feelings to be hurt, fragile emotions to shatter, and I don't want to be that IF blogger. I know I rambled on and on about this a couple of months ago, but I anticipated that things would change and I would grow into this new role a bit better than I have.
Oddly enough, I only want to talk about this pregnancy with IFers and "recovering" IFers. Normal pregnant and formerly pregnant women need not apply. Problem is - a lot of those IFers aren't interested, and I understand that. Nonetheless, it doesn't make pregnant blogging any easier. I'm on the cusp of either being completely open about it all and saying fuck it, or going AWOL for lengthy periods of time just to avoid the hassle.
That said, I'll just throw in my pregnancy-related update here. I had my first proper scan on Friday and saw Enid in all of his/her arms-and-legs-flailing glory. I've likened his/her frantic actions to a manic rope climb in gym class, and The Dude and I have been staging frequent reproductions in our front room to entertain ourselves. I have two photos to commemorate the occasion - one with rounded baby head and body quite clearly visible, and another featuring Enid as Skeletor. It ain't pleasant, but the closet goth in me enjoys showing my skeleton baby to relatives to freak them out.
So there it is. I'm 16 weeks today and slowly getting used to the idea that there might be a baby in my own personal fucked up uterus. I am not quite believing that it will result in a live baby, and certainly not a live, healthy baby, but there could be something flip-flopping around in there. See, pregnancy does not kill off the infertile inside us all. I have a feeling I will be harbouring dead baby thoughts well into any child's teenage years. Limbo is always going to be close at hand.
2/23/2006
The big bang
Things have been a bit...dull here at BarrenAlbion lately. Trying not to be a Pregnancy Bore is hard work, and as many have noted before me, your life becomes very boring very quickly. I can't talk about ongoing protocols, recount an entertaining visit to get my cooter poked, or lament that I cannot get pregnant regardless of how hard I try anymore. I'm in a great position for which I cannot complain, but jesus if it doesn't make for a tedious blog.
So, in these desperate times I'm afraid I'm going to have to resort to my usual trick - talking about sex. Sex brings in the commenters. Sex makes the silent speak. Discussing it is pretty much this month's pathetic attempt to convince readers that despite what current blog content may indicate, I'm still just a cynical, messed-up perv.
This isn't about the hot, passionate sex I'm having every day with my husband. That is because such a thing doesn't exist, nor has it ever, come to think of it. Instead, this is about the hot, passionate sex I'm having every night with men other than my husband. No, this sex does not take place in reality, as in reality not many men dig chicks with bulging stomachs and back cavities. I'm not saying that that's not hot, because I'm sure due to me even typing "sex" and "back cavities" in the same post will yield searches like "back cavity shagging" and "hot bitches with back cavities" soon enough.
For the past few weeks I cannot escape having sex with irresistible men in my dreams. It's a chore, but someone simply must do it. These are not men I know in my daily life, nor are they famous men. Last night it was a dashing, dark-haired man wearing a 1920s style suit with a fedora. He was telling me how I would never love him, and I consequently shoved him up against the wall and uh, showed him that perhaps I did. At the very least, I liked him very much. At some point, Paul Rudd turned up but dream Pru just wanted to hang out with him rather than showing him her world. On reflection, dream Pru has issues because real life Pru would certainly consider any offers he made. Granted, my tastes tend to run more along the lines of the rugged sexiness displayed in a man such as this, but I'm sure Paul Rudd would be good for a sympathy shag. That's me being sympathetic to him by the way, not the other way round.
I have been waking up most mornings feeling horrible for having no sex dreams about The Dude. I know they say that in the second trimester you are horny as a horny toad, but I didn't think that would involve nightly dalliances with random men. The very worst thing of all is that in the dream I acknowledge to myself that I am married to The Dude, but I come to the conclusion that either he won't find out, or that the decision was made somewhere along the line to have an open marriage. Consequently, I go straight for the shag.
I'm hoping these dreams at least slow down a bit, or perhaps dream Pru becomes less of a slut. Dream Pru - go to the movies, have a nice dinner, go to a museum, but stay away from cocks that don't belong to your husband. I don't have much faith that this will be the case though, thanks to that evil bitch who keeps making me think of "Quills". I'm not a fan of the Marquis de Sade, but I do love a sexually repressed priest. Um, and this sexually repressed member of the clergy. Hester, you lucky bitch.
Yeah...umm...there is no hope for me, is there?
So, in these desperate times I'm afraid I'm going to have to resort to my usual trick - talking about sex. Sex brings in the commenters. Sex makes the silent speak. Discussing it is pretty much this month's pathetic attempt to convince readers that despite what current blog content may indicate, I'm still just a cynical, messed-up perv.
This isn't about the hot, passionate sex I'm having every day with my husband. That is because such a thing doesn't exist, nor has it ever, come to think of it. Instead, this is about the hot, passionate sex I'm having every night with men other than my husband. No, this sex does not take place in reality, as in reality not many men dig chicks with bulging stomachs and back cavities. I'm not saying that that's not hot, because I'm sure due to me even typing "sex" and "back cavities" in the same post will yield searches like "back cavity shagging" and "hot bitches with back cavities" soon enough.
For the past few weeks I cannot escape having sex with irresistible men in my dreams. It's a chore, but someone simply must do it. These are not men I know in my daily life, nor are they famous men. Last night it was a dashing, dark-haired man wearing a 1920s style suit with a fedora. He was telling me how I would never love him, and I consequently shoved him up against the wall and uh, showed him that perhaps I did. At the very least, I liked him very much. At some point, Paul Rudd turned up but dream Pru just wanted to hang out with him rather than showing him her world. On reflection, dream Pru has issues because real life Pru would certainly consider any offers he made. Granted, my tastes tend to run more along the lines of the rugged sexiness displayed in a man such as this, but I'm sure Paul Rudd would be good for a sympathy shag. That's me being sympathetic to him by the way, not the other way round.
I have been waking up most mornings feeling horrible for having no sex dreams about The Dude. I know they say that in the second trimester you are horny as a horny toad, but I didn't think that would involve nightly dalliances with random men. The very worst thing of all is that in the dream I acknowledge to myself that I am married to The Dude, but I come to the conclusion that either he won't find out, or that the decision was made somewhere along the line to have an open marriage. Consequently, I go straight for the shag.
I'm hoping these dreams at least slow down a bit, or perhaps dream Pru becomes less of a slut. Dream Pru - go to the movies, have a nice dinner, go to a museum, but stay away from cocks that don't belong to your husband. I don't have much faith that this will be the case though, thanks to that evil bitch who keeps making me think of "Quills". I'm not a fan of the Marquis de Sade, but I do love a sexually repressed priest. Um, and this sexually repressed member of the clergy. Hester, you lucky bitch.
Yeah...umm...there is no hope for me, is there?
2/20/2006
Flying toward that big, glowing disco ball in the sky
Because last week just wasn't bad enough, it also ended with the death of my beloved Desmond. Long-term readers may be familiar with my occasional references to the cantankerous yet lovable gay canary that lit up my life for just over three years. In case you forget, or if you never had the pleasure, a lovely picture accompanied by endless gushing by me can be found in this post.
Desmond, also known as Monty/Montague/Manch/Nutbug was fine when I left for work on Friday. He desperately wanted out of his cage to sit and gorge in his food tin, which he often did for hours on end despite the constant presence of a food container in the cage. I said goodbye to him as I always did, not imagining that he wouldn't be there when I got back. It seems he was a bit too quiet a few hours later, and when The Dude went to check on him he was lying on the floor of his cage paralysed. The Dude was always so fearful of picking him up as Desmond was so tiny and delicate, but he didn't want to leave him to die on his sandpapered floor littered with seed and Monty poop. A few minutes later Desmond died in The Dude's hand, with The Dude stroking his head.
The Dude told me when he picked me up for a doctor's appointment midday. He was hoping to avoid telling me until the end of my work day, but he couldn't keep it to himself. I cried, as I am always inclined to do, but gathered my composure before my appointment. I felt surprisingly fine for the rest of the day, until that evening when the finality of Monty's death hit me. Who would we alter song lyrics for now? Top 40 pop songs just don't sound the same when you're not injecting the words "Monty" "gay" and "canary" into them. Who would hop after us around the flat, then quickly fly away and hide when we acknowledged being followed? Most importantly, he would no longer be there to help himself to our plates of food, which he considered himself perfectly entitled to do. He had a particular fondness for salads and small dishes of sour cream in case you're curious.
I am well aware that many people cannot fully grasp the bond owners have with their pets, let alone an animal that appears so detached and uninvolved like a bird. Pre-Monty I wouldn't have thought myself capable of loving a small caged bird as much as a dog or cat, but it seems that I can. The curse of the IF-inspired purchase of a pet is that it will become your child. It doesn't matter if it is a cuddly dog that reciprocates your affection, or if it is a tiny bird with a bowl cut and a penchant for glitter and stilettos. Granted, in its lifetime that pet will be the most spoiled and well-looked after animal because of all the attention IFers readily provide, but it makes loss all the more difficult.
So, because even in death I still want to show off my favourite camp canary (may he rest in peace amongst all the seed and sour cream imaginable), here he is looking dashing in his food tin:
Desmond, also known as Monty/Montague/Manch/Nutbug was fine when I left for work on Friday. He desperately wanted out of his cage to sit and gorge in his food tin, which he often did for hours on end despite the constant presence of a food container in the cage. I said goodbye to him as I always did, not imagining that he wouldn't be there when I got back. It seems he was a bit too quiet a few hours later, and when The Dude went to check on him he was lying on the floor of his cage paralysed. The Dude was always so fearful of picking him up as Desmond was so tiny and delicate, but he didn't want to leave him to die on his sandpapered floor littered with seed and Monty poop. A few minutes later Desmond died in The Dude's hand, with The Dude stroking his head.
The Dude told me when he picked me up for a doctor's appointment midday. He was hoping to avoid telling me until the end of my work day, but he couldn't keep it to himself. I cried, as I am always inclined to do, but gathered my composure before my appointment. I felt surprisingly fine for the rest of the day, until that evening when the finality of Monty's death hit me. Who would we alter song lyrics for now? Top 40 pop songs just don't sound the same when you're not injecting the words "Monty" "gay" and "canary" into them. Who would hop after us around the flat, then quickly fly away and hide when we acknowledged being followed? Most importantly, he would no longer be there to help himself to our plates of food, which he considered himself perfectly entitled to do. He had a particular fondness for salads and small dishes of sour cream in case you're curious.
I am well aware that many people cannot fully grasp the bond owners have with their pets, let alone an animal that appears so detached and uninvolved like a bird. Pre-Monty I wouldn't have thought myself capable of loving a small caged bird as much as a dog or cat, but it seems that I can. The curse of the IF-inspired purchase of a pet is that it will become your child. It doesn't matter if it is a cuddly dog that reciprocates your affection, or if it is a tiny bird with a bowl cut and a penchant for glitter and stilettos. Granted, in its lifetime that pet will be the most spoiled and well-looked after animal because of all the attention IFers readily provide, but it makes loss all the more difficult.
So, because even in death I still want to show off my favourite camp canary (may he rest in peace amongst all the seed and sour cream imaginable), here he is looking dashing in his food tin:
2/15/2006
Oh, the places you will go!
There is a side effect of pregnancy that had never occurred to me before this week. When you are pregnant, for some odd reason you cannot be given powerful drugs to make you feel better. IF drugs aside, I am generally not the type to take a medication for every ailment. Ever since the 2-year numb snatch debacle of my early 20s thanks to some potent anti-depressants, I'm a bit wary of medicine, even if its primary goal is to make the bad stuff go away.
This enlightenment has happened thanks to a nasty infected cyst that appeared on my back about a month ago. I made regular GP appointments to sort it out, as the beast soon became inflamed, grew to about 6cm in diameter, and prevented me from moving in certain ways or laying flat on my back. Two week-long courses of antibiotics later, and the cyst remained angry and painful. I went to the GP again on Monday, hoping they would lance the fucker/burn it off/stab it with a butter knife, or undertake any measures possible to remove it. The GP lifted my shirt, recoiled in horror, then demanded that I have something done about it that very day. Thinking that they would drain it there in then, I felt much relief. That is, until he said, "Yeah...that's a bit beyond this office's remit. I'm going to call the hospital, and you'll need to go right to their A&E (Accident and Emergency, in Yankspeak, ER)."
Phone calls were made, letters scribbled in the illegible scratch that doctors are particularly fond of, and I headed to the A&E. After much waiting in a number of different rooms and being prodded by a handful of doctors and nurses at varying intervals , I was given a bed in the Surgical Ward about 6 hours after my arrival. At this point, I was thinking that this shit was getting a bit serious. Why would I need a bed if they were just going to drain it? Prior to all the waiting, I anticipated being back at my desk at work by 3pm. Oh, you silly, silly, stupid girl.
The main talks given to me by the people in the know ranged from draining it, which wouldn't require any anesthetic, to excising it under a general. I was with them for all of the options until the fateful words were uttered regarding the general - May increase risk of miscarriage. I explained to the main surgeon, Dr Asshead, that I wasn't keen on anything that put Enid at risk. It's a sensitive topic for any woman to ponder, let alone an IFer who has just finally released a massive exhale of relief at emerging seemingly unscathed from the perilous first trimester. The last thing I wanted was to leap back into that zone, which Dr Asshead did not appear to comprehend. Dr Asshead, in fact, was far too casual about the whole miscarriage issue, repeating often that it was just a "small risk". I calmly told Dr Asshead that though I understood this, it wasn't good enough. After Dr Asshead left in a huff at my rebuking of his general anesthetic idea, I cried for 45 minutes at the thought that this decision even had to be made. The Dude had to keep handing me tissues while the old crone in the bed opposite mine stared at me, deciding that was the time to start having a morbid fascination with my misery.
After even more waiting, Dr Asshead came back to say that he could try and do the procedure under a local, but he might not be able to get the entire cyst removed. He pushed again for the general, I said my piece again, there was awkward silence, and then he said in a huff, "Fine. Just sign the consent form for the local. I will warn you though, as we're going to attempt to excise it and we typically do that under a general, it will be very painful." I was wheeled into the operating theatre, where there was a team of about 12 people waiting. I think the last thing a scared person needs to see before being operated on is a group that large for something you thought was not supposed to be a big deal.
Dr Asshead told me to prepare for a small prick while he injected the local, and no, despite wanting to I didn't make any jibes about how I hear that all the time. He said the sensation was akin to being stung by a small bee. For a fleeting moment I thought that yes, it was sort of like a small bee sting. That was soon followed by the most excruciating, swear-inducing pain I have ever felt. Rather than a cute little honeybee with one stinger, my bee had suddenly morphed into a Great Dane-sized killer bee with 100 stingers, climbing into my infected cyst and having an epileptic fit. I stared at the woman whose job it was to pat my hair and tell me how brave I was being, though I desperately wanted to punch her in her cute pixie head and call her a stupid, elfin motherfucker for not warning me that hey...this shit is going to hurt like hell.
The agony continued to the point that I felt as if I was going to throw up. I could feel Asshead carving into the cyst, squeezing it, then carving again. I could feel the scalpel scraping under my skin and coming a bit too close for comfort to my spine. My entire body was tensed as much as it could be, and through my gritted teeth I was trying to continue the conversation Pixie Head and her cohorts were trying to have to keep my mind off things. I have always viewed myself as having quite a high tolerance of pain, but now I think that either this was the ultimate test, or I am just a big pansy after all.
After a few reassurances that it was almost done, the only thought I could muster aside from wishing death on everyone around me was that I hoped that in life I am not confronted with many things as painful as that procedure. Childbirth was of course what came to mind immediately, and I thought that if it is more painful than having a huge cyst excised from your back under a local anesthetic, the kid is just going to have to deal with living in the placenta forever.
Once I was back in my bed, I couldn't stop crying. I wasn't in too much pain, but the residual emotion of having been in so much pain was raw. The Dude was freaking out, thinking that it must have all gone horribly wrong and after a half an hour of sobbing and snotting, I was able to tell him that there was no way I could ever accurately put into words how agonising the procedure was. I tried not to think how effortless it all would have been had I been sedated, though I know that is a decision I couldn't have made without living in fear even more than I already am. One of the nurses, clearly a comedian, told me that she could give me some painkillers post-op. I perked up a bit at the thought of being able to move without wincing, when she looked at my chart and said, "Oops. Haha. You're pregnant. Nevermind." Haha indeed.
I'm back at home now, having spent a total of 24 hours in the hospital. I have to get my dressings changed by a nurse once a day, and it seems I now have a fairly deep cavity in my back that I hope will heal normally. Despite trying to convey the gravity of the situation to my family and dear husband, I am now subject to jokes about storing change in the cavity, and receiving emails entitled "This one's for the cavity".
To ease our minds, we whipped out the doppler last night to ensure that Enid was not adversely affected by her host's recent intense emotional and physical pain. She responded with a resounding, powerful heartbeat right away, reassuring us for at least another day that we're still in this. Once I was confident that Enid was still around, I told The Dude that this kid better be a fucking dream, making me go without sedation when getting a hole carved into my back. It almost makes me want to take pictures of the carnage, so that if Enid is ever an asshole, I can wave cavity pictures at him/her and shout about how my love for him/her surmounted my desire to be in as little pain as possible. Now that's parenting.
This enlightenment has happened thanks to a nasty infected cyst that appeared on my back about a month ago. I made regular GP appointments to sort it out, as the beast soon became inflamed, grew to about 6cm in diameter, and prevented me from moving in certain ways or laying flat on my back. Two week-long courses of antibiotics later, and the cyst remained angry and painful. I went to the GP again on Monday, hoping they would lance the fucker/burn it off/stab it with a butter knife, or undertake any measures possible to remove it. The GP lifted my shirt, recoiled in horror, then demanded that I have something done about it that very day. Thinking that they would drain it there in then, I felt much relief. That is, until he said, "Yeah...that's a bit beyond this office's remit. I'm going to call the hospital, and you'll need to go right to their A&E (Accident and Emergency, in Yankspeak, ER)."
Phone calls were made, letters scribbled in the illegible scratch that doctors are particularly fond of, and I headed to the A&E. After much waiting in a number of different rooms and being prodded by a handful of doctors and nurses at varying intervals , I was given a bed in the Surgical Ward about 6 hours after my arrival. At this point, I was thinking that this shit was getting a bit serious. Why would I need a bed if they were just going to drain it? Prior to all the waiting, I anticipated being back at my desk at work by 3pm. Oh, you silly, silly, stupid girl.
The main talks given to me by the people in the know ranged from draining it, which wouldn't require any anesthetic, to excising it under a general. I was with them for all of the options until the fateful words were uttered regarding the general - May increase risk of miscarriage. I explained to the main surgeon, Dr Asshead, that I wasn't keen on anything that put Enid at risk. It's a sensitive topic for any woman to ponder, let alone an IFer who has just finally released a massive exhale of relief at emerging seemingly unscathed from the perilous first trimester. The last thing I wanted was to leap back into that zone, which Dr Asshead did not appear to comprehend. Dr Asshead, in fact, was far too casual about the whole miscarriage issue, repeating often that it was just a "small risk". I calmly told Dr Asshead that though I understood this, it wasn't good enough. After Dr Asshead left in a huff at my rebuking of his general anesthetic idea, I cried for 45 minutes at the thought that this decision even had to be made. The Dude had to keep handing me tissues while the old crone in the bed opposite mine stared at me, deciding that was the time to start having a morbid fascination with my misery.
After even more waiting, Dr Asshead came back to say that he could try and do the procedure under a local, but he might not be able to get the entire cyst removed. He pushed again for the general, I said my piece again, there was awkward silence, and then he said in a huff, "Fine. Just sign the consent form for the local. I will warn you though, as we're going to attempt to excise it and we typically do that under a general, it will be very painful." I was wheeled into the operating theatre, where there was a team of about 12 people waiting. I think the last thing a scared person needs to see before being operated on is a group that large for something you thought was not supposed to be a big deal.
Dr Asshead told me to prepare for a small prick while he injected the local, and no, despite wanting to I didn't make any jibes about how I hear that all the time. He said the sensation was akin to being stung by a small bee. For a fleeting moment I thought that yes, it was sort of like a small bee sting. That was soon followed by the most excruciating, swear-inducing pain I have ever felt. Rather than a cute little honeybee with one stinger, my bee had suddenly morphed into a Great Dane-sized killer bee with 100 stingers, climbing into my infected cyst and having an epileptic fit. I stared at the woman whose job it was to pat my hair and tell me how brave I was being, though I desperately wanted to punch her in her cute pixie head and call her a stupid, elfin motherfucker for not warning me that hey...this shit is going to hurt like hell.
The agony continued to the point that I felt as if I was going to throw up. I could feel Asshead carving into the cyst, squeezing it, then carving again. I could feel the scalpel scraping under my skin and coming a bit too close for comfort to my spine. My entire body was tensed as much as it could be, and through my gritted teeth I was trying to continue the conversation Pixie Head and her cohorts were trying to have to keep my mind off things. I have always viewed myself as having quite a high tolerance of pain, but now I think that either this was the ultimate test, or I am just a big pansy after all.
After a few reassurances that it was almost done, the only thought I could muster aside from wishing death on everyone around me was that I hoped that in life I am not confronted with many things as painful as that procedure. Childbirth was of course what came to mind immediately, and I thought that if it is more painful than having a huge cyst excised from your back under a local anesthetic, the kid is just going to have to deal with living in the placenta forever.
Once I was back in my bed, I couldn't stop crying. I wasn't in too much pain, but the residual emotion of having been in so much pain was raw. The Dude was freaking out, thinking that it must have all gone horribly wrong and after a half an hour of sobbing and snotting, I was able to tell him that there was no way I could ever accurately put into words how agonising the procedure was. I tried not to think how effortless it all would have been had I been sedated, though I know that is a decision I couldn't have made without living in fear even more than I already am. One of the nurses, clearly a comedian, told me that she could give me some painkillers post-op. I perked up a bit at the thought of being able to move without wincing, when she looked at my chart and said, "Oops. Haha. You're pregnant. Nevermind." Haha indeed.
I'm back at home now, having spent a total of 24 hours in the hospital. I have to get my dressings changed by a nurse once a day, and it seems I now have a fairly deep cavity in my back that I hope will heal normally. Despite trying to convey the gravity of the situation to my family and dear husband, I am now subject to jokes about storing change in the cavity, and receiving emails entitled "This one's for the cavity".
To ease our minds, we whipped out the doppler last night to ensure that Enid was not adversely affected by her host's recent intense emotional and physical pain. She responded with a resounding, powerful heartbeat right away, reassuring us for at least another day that we're still in this. Once I was confident that Enid was still around, I told The Dude that this kid better be a fucking dream, making me go without sedation when getting a hole carved into my back. It almost makes me want to take pictures of the carnage, so that if Enid is ever an asshole, I can wave cavity pictures at him/her and shout about how my love for him/her surmounted my desire to be in as little pain as possible. Now that's parenting.
2/10/2006
The world according to Zeus
After much ado, Miss Zeus Napoleon Dynamite Swearengen, now known as Luciana (Lucy) has entered the world. As you may know, my good friend Lumi over at Illumination, maybe was all kinds of pregnant for like, 300 weeks, and now she is not. It has been a hard old journey filled with 2 failed inductions, 15 hours of labour, cervical swelling, an eventual Caesarian, and one very anxious UK internet auntie-to-be.
Lucy was born on Thursday at 3.19am weighing 8 lbs, 15 oz and measuring in at 20 inches. I hear the boob-latching thing is going well, and Mom, baby, and The Boy are doing well. When I spoke to Lumi, she seemed in good spirits, if not a bit overwhelmed at all the drama in the past few days. I will say that there was no mention of either donkey balls or Joe Pesci, though I think I heard a few mutterings of "fuck". This is why I love the girl. She births a child one moment, and is back in shape and swearing like the Lumi we know and adore.
Lumi claims she will be up and blogging again soon, and she may even have a computer being hooked up at her house this very moment. We can but hope. Welcome to our little foul-mouthed world Lucy!
Lucy was born on Thursday at 3.19am weighing 8 lbs, 15 oz and measuring in at 20 inches. I hear the boob-latching thing is going well, and Mom, baby, and The Boy are doing well. When I spoke to Lumi, she seemed in good spirits, if not a bit overwhelmed at all the drama in the past few days. I will say that there was no mention of either donkey balls or Joe Pesci, though I think I heard a few mutterings of "fuck". This is why I love the girl. She births a child one moment, and is back in shape and swearing like the Lumi we know and adore.
Lumi claims she will be up and blogging again soon, and she may even have a computer being hooked up at her house this very moment. We can but hope. Welcome to our little foul-mouthed world Lucy!
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