Well. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but here we are. You've got until the day after tomorrow to get out of my body, or face forceful removal.
I'm tired and I'm ready to be on the other side of this. You, on the other hand, seem pretty content where you are. In fact, today on the sonogram, as you tugged on your feet, you actually paused for a moment and waved. You. Waved at us. The sonogram tech ("Dracula") said, "He ees sayink, 'Hi, Grandma!'" At which point, my mom, your grandmother, burst into tears. So, you know, good job with that, bro.
Despite the medical team's insistence that you are not safe in there, it seems like you and my body have different ideas about that.
After a membrane sweep this past Monday - which I won't go into detail to explain, go Google it, or mind-sync, or whatever crazy high-tech method of research you have available in the future - and an abnormally high blood pressure reading, it was determined that Tuesday I would most likely be induced because of a concern over signs of preeclampsia. I guess that was a notion you were not interested in entertaining, because yesterday, after packing for the hospital, ready to be admitted, another exam showed that my blood pressure had dropped by 30 points back into a very safe zone. So, it was another - more intense - round of membrane sweeping and a suggestion to go home and wait until tomorrow.
Which is now today. And, buddy, you are not budging.
Back at the clinic today, there's no evidence that you've progressed at all. Just a glib wave to us on a sonogram screen. And one more really painful membrane sweep.
Now, I'm home. I've just taken castor oil milkshake, which tasted like a melted vanilla candle, and I'm just waiting. Apparently, in a few hours I should start to have violent cramps. That will hopefully turn into labor (which is weird to think about, let alone HOPE for), but honestly, at this point, I'm skeptical that your coming out of there by way of anything less than two burly bouncers escorting you.
In short, time is running out. The lights are coming up in the bar. You don't have to go home (yes, you do), but you can't stay here (in my uterus).
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
September 23, 2013
The end is nigh, my son. We are in the last few days, you and I, of being nestled together like a set of Russian dolls.
Despite my coaxing and pleading, and various homeopathic attempts to coax you out of your cocoon early (as per our medical team's insistence), you've hung in there stubbornly. So. This is it. It's Monday morning, and we are going to get a membrane sweep from the midwife this afternoon. And if that doesn't get you in gear, then we have to set up a plan for induction on Friday. Please let's not go that route, kiddo. We are a team. Let's not start off on the wrong foot by not working together here.
Coming out of our previous appointment last week, out on the sidewalk I saw a woman smoking a cigarette while nearby her small son dangled his feet off a bench and slurped on a popsicle. She took one look at me and declared, quite loudly, "Jesus Christ! You are HUGE!" I smiled a tight smile in reply. Then her son chirped out from his perch, "Are you pregnant??"
I looked at him, softening my smile and answered, "What do you think?" He shrugged. "Are YOU pregnant?" I countered. The boy laughed at the crazy idea.
I have to reiterate how much I will not miss these particular conversations. The ones where strangers feel its okay, and in fact feel the need, to tell me just how my body, and I guess by extension your body, makes them feel. I'm tired of being on the receiving end of shocked looks and comments from people I have never seen before and who've not even bothered to ask my name.
Let's make a deal, son. You and me, let's try real hard not to be like the duo we encountered last week. Step one is no smoking, eating popsicles and talking to strangers in Flatbush. And we'll see where that leads us.
Despite my coaxing and pleading, and various homeopathic attempts to coax you out of your cocoon early (as per our medical team's insistence), you've hung in there stubbornly. So. This is it. It's Monday morning, and we are going to get a membrane sweep from the midwife this afternoon. And if that doesn't get you in gear, then we have to set up a plan for induction on Friday. Please let's not go that route, kiddo. We are a team. Let's not start off on the wrong foot by not working together here.
Coming out of our previous appointment last week, out on the sidewalk I saw a woman smoking a cigarette while nearby her small son dangled his feet off a bench and slurped on a popsicle. She took one look at me and declared, quite loudly, "Jesus Christ! You are HUGE!" I smiled a tight smile in reply. Then her son chirped out from his perch, "Are you pregnant??"
I looked at him, softening my smile and answered, "What do you think?" He shrugged. "Are YOU pregnant?" I countered. The boy laughed at the crazy idea.
I have to reiterate how much I will not miss these particular conversations. The ones where strangers feel its okay, and in fact feel the need, to tell me just how my body, and I guess by extension your body, makes them feel. I'm tired of being on the receiving end of shocked looks and comments from people I have never seen before and who've not even bothered to ask my name.
Let's make a deal, son. You and me, let's try real hard not to be like the duo we encountered last week. Step one is no smoking, eating popsicles and talking to strangers in Flatbush. And we'll see where that leads us.
Friday, September 13, 2013
September 13, 2013
I had to take a few weeks off from writing because the inevitable has happened: I've begun powering down. We are at the 38-week mark, almost there. Almost time. Almost done with this phase. And not too soon, I think, because I'm not just tired (although I am that), but I'm tired of being pregnant, I'm tired of dropping things and not being able to pick them up, I'm tired of not being able to breathe, sit, lay down, walk, get dressed, get comfortable without careful planning. I'm tired of strangers shouting gender predictions at me. I'm tired of everyone worrying about me. I'm just so tired.
So. Please forgive me for not having the energy to write for a few weeks. I'm finding these days that I can set a goal of accomplishing one medium-sized task a day (like going to the grocery store or a doctor's appointment) and that's about it. Also, like I said, sitting has gotten tricky. And add to that sitting and figuring out how to balance a laptop so that I can reach it without balancing it on my belly (and also your ass) has become harder for me to figure out than calculus. And I never took calculus classes.
Now that my prologue's out of the way, what did I want to tell you about? There is a subway story I want to tell you, so let's start there and see what happens.
A couple of weeks ago, riding the subway into Manhattan, a young man (probably early twenties, if I had to guess, but I don't so I won't) gets onto the car we're riding in. I could tell he was going to beg for money, not so much because of his appearance (which was by no means neat, but far from bedraggled) but because of a tell-tale beggar's move: He boarded the car, which was less than half full of seated passengers, and stood, leaning against one of the poles in the middle aisle, silent, surveying, and waiting for the doors to close. Classic move. Wait until the doors close to start your speech, whatever it is, that way your audience is captive. They may not respond, but at least they have nowhere to go.
I watched him because I like watching people. There is a part of me that is fascinated by the gumption that it takes (rightly or wrongly) to stand in front of a group of strangers and declare that you need help, want money, are hungry, are struggling. I am not naive. I know that it's not always an honest plea. I've lived in New York long enough to see the same people give the same stories (or sing the same plaintive, off-key songs) to mostly indifferent crowds over and over. But - and maybe it's the actor part of me - I'm always drawn in. Whether it's based on a true story or wholly a work of fiction, I am the audience and I respect the performer. I give eye contact. I smile, if I can. If I have a dollar, or an apple, or a whatever, I give it. Not because I believe I am changing someone's life, but because I want to acknowledge, at least for a moment, that we are a part of each other's lives. I've really begun waxing philosophical here. Back to the plot:
So this young man, I can't remember exactly what he said, other than the standard-issue plea for donations to his cause, the gist of which seemed mainly to be that he was down on his luck, but what I do remember is that he was carrying a tiny kitten which was peeking out of the ratty messenger bag slung across his chest.
I don't know the official stats on this, but I'm willing to wager that panhandlers who incorporate small children or animals into their presentation generally make out a great deal better than their peers who choose to go it alone. Maybe it makes me a dummy to fall for this, but at least I recognize it for what it is, or what it potentially is (if I may remain optimistic about humanity).
Even knowing this, I watch him, I see the tiny cat, blinking it's little kitty eyes at its surroundings, but more than that, I see other passengers look away. Look away from this guy and his speech. And it's that, really, that makes me want to reach out to him. Not his words, not his kitten, not the belief that I could change his life, but the sadness I feel witnessing to so many good people looking away from him.
I reach into my wallet and pull out a crumpled one dollar bill. He's in the middle of the car, slowing making his way toward me, at the opposite end. He looks at me, and I smile and nod, and he approaches.
I hold out the bill and ask him how he's taking care of this kitten. He tells me they get by. I put the dollar in his hand, and I squeeze his hand in mine and tell him, "Take care of yourself. And that little baby." He squeezes back. He smiles. He nods. He thanks me. He leaves.
And after he exits, I realize what I've just done. I've tricked him into letting me hold his hand for a moment. And I will gladly trick someone else, too, if given the chance.
So. Please forgive me for not having the energy to write for a few weeks. I'm finding these days that I can set a goal of accomplishing one medium-sized task a day (like going to the grocery store or a doctor's appointment) and that's about it. Also, like I said, sitting has gotten tricky. And add to that sitting and figuring out how to balance a laptop so that I can reach it without balancing it on my belly (and also your ass) has become harder for me to figure out than calculus. And I never took calculus classes.
Now that my prologue's out of the way, what did I want to tell you about? There is a subway story I want to tell you, so let's start there and see what happens.
A couple of weeks ago, riding the subway into Manhattan, a young man (probably early twenties, if I had to guess, but I don't so I won't) gets onto the car we're riding in. I could tell he was going to beg for money, not so much because of his appearance (which was by no means neat, but far from bedraggled) but because of a tell-tale beggar's move: He boarded the car, which was less than half full of seated passengers, and stood, leaning against one of the poles in the middle aisle, silent, surveying, and waiting for the doors to close. Classic move. Wait until the doors close to start your speech, whatever it is, that way your audience is captive. They may not respond, but at least they have nowhere to go.
I watched him because I like watching people. There is a part of me that is fascinated by the gumption that it takes (rightly or wrongly) to stand in front of a group of strangers and declare that you need help, want money, are hungry, are struggling. I am not naive. I know that it's not always an honest plea. I've lived in New York long enough to see the same people give the same stories (or sing the same plaintive, off-key songs) to mostly indifferent crowds over and over. But - and maybe it's the actor part of me - I'm always drawn in. Whether it's based on a true story or wholly a work of fiction, I am the audience and I respect the performer. I give eye contact. I smile, if I can. If I have a dollar, or an apple, or a whatever, I give it. Not because I believe I am changing someone's life, but because I want to acknowledge, at least for a moment, that we are a part of each other's lives. I've really begun waxing philosophical here. Back to the plot:
So this young man, I can't remember exactly what he said, other than the standard-issue plea for donations to his cause, the gist of which seemed mainly to be that he was down on his luck, but what I do remember is that he was carrying a tiny kitten which was peeking out of the ratty messenger bag slung across his chest.
I don't know the official stats on this, but I'm willing to wager that panhandlers who incorporate small children or animals into their presentation generally make out a great deal better than their peers who choose to go it alone. Maybe it makes me a dummy to fall for this, but at least I recognize it for what it is, or what it potentially is (if I may remain optimistic about humanity).
Even knowing this, I watch him, I see the tiny cat, blinking it's little kitty eyes at its surroundings, but more than that, I see other passengers look away. Look away from this guy and his speech. And it's that, really, that makes me want to reach out to him. Not his words, not his kitten, not the belief that I could change his life, but the sadness I feel witnessing to so many good people looking away from him.
I reach into my wallet and pull out a crumpled one dollar bill. He's in the middle of the car, slowing making his way toward me, at the opposite end. He looks at me, and I smile and nod, and he approaches.
I hold out the bill and ask him how he's taking care of this kitten. He tells me they get by. I put the dollar in his hand, and I squeeze his hand in mine and tell him, "Take care of yourself. And that little baby." He squeezes back. He smiles. He nods. He thanks me. He leaves.
And after he exits, I realize what I've just done. I've tricked him into letting me hold his hand for a moment. And I will gladly trick someone else, too, if given the chance.
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