The Elusive “Glow” October 11, 2008
Pouring over my work schedule trying to switch out of tough rotations during my due date without arousing suspicion, I started getting nauseated. I am not queasy of stomach, never vomit. Had sea sickness once in Australia while scuba diving but while everyone was purging over the boat’s deck, I kept my eye on the horizon and dealt with the hour ride.
This was very different. “Morning sickness” was “all day with a preponderance of noon-4 sickness.” In fact, while writing this at week 17, I still have some and boy it is bad. I feel like I’ve been on a little boat in choppy waters for the last months, like we’re lost at sea, like the 3 hr tour gone bad but the island was never found.
It was terrible starting week 6-couldn’t eat anything. Anything except that “one thing” and that changed day-to-day. Egg salad sandwich (before I realized I can’t have mayo). The infamous fried chicken day when all i wanted was KFC. No other type of fried chicken, only KFC, like we used to have in 1986 when we first came to this country and all of my parents’ friends worked in the KFC in Kenvil, brining home delicious left-overs. Crispy, juicy, hot thigh. Tim still loves the fact that I bawled, not teared up, not cried, but bawled, when he took away the KFC website from me trying to find a still open at 11 pm fried chicken retailer. The next few days I ate so much poultry I still can’t look at birds. Polish dill pickles cut through nausea like a knife and explained why pregnant women cling to them for dear life. Everyday before work, I’d go to the fancy grocery store near us, Agata and Valentina, and get 4 different kinds of prepared foods, a desert-usually a cream puff, a drink. At work, I’d eat almost none of it, but would frequently run over to have a bite, just to kill the nauseating metallic taste in my mouth.
And the fatigue. It was unbearable. I went from being an active energetic person able to go to the gym at 6 am before my 12 hr ed shift, bike both ways, take out Rio, and organize some residency thing, to barely being able to make it up 3 flights of stairs. I usually had to rest for 10 minutes on the couch when getting upstairs. We live in a old TB sanitarium and I actually used the little seats between floors designed to give bleeding lungs a break.
Working was horrific. I’d get out of my cab and get to my shift ready for a nap. I had given up caffeine which was a rough adjustment. My productivity was pathetic. My concentration poor. I just wanted to sleep. Instead of the pregnant glow, I had the pregnant hauling ass look. I never went out with friends. People asked me if I was OK, if there was something wrong, told me I looked tired. And I couldn’t tell anyone the cause.
I might have been more keen on sharing my good news on the early side except our OB told us that our yolk sac, at 5 mm, was too big and that the baby might die. She softened this with a miracle story about a friend whose messed up yolk sac produced a healthy child who is now going to kindergarden. Not comforting. So we were terrified to tell anyone about our little nauseating munchkin, even our parents. “Let’s just wait it out and see if the baby catches up with it’s yolk sac and continues to have a heartbeat.” Incidentally, the upper limit of a normal yolk sac seems to be 6 mm, as I later discovered, but by this time Tim was freaked out and the idea of sickly embryo was planted. The first of scary baby health issues (see “Is Larry Retarded” entry).
This is how my first trimester was spent. Sounds awful, but I purposefully left out the great stuff so you’d feel both awe and pity for me. There were the good times. Tim and I were ecstatic, thinking up weird baby names, “Moe, Loretta, Larry…”, planning the baby’s educational career which inevitably ends with a Harvard degree (ok, that’s more me), imagining family vacations in Maine and Poland, looking online for “Big Sister” T shirts for Rio. I ultrasounded myself weekly every Wednesday to check on the yolk sac and fetal heart, see the baby moving, recording the videos for Tim. Every Sunday, we look at the week-by-week pregnancy calendar to see how the baby is developing. “size of a pea” “size of a peach pit and has fingers.” We had our own little secret and it made us so happy. The anticipation of what our families would say and how we would tell them (see Birthday Brunch Entry). The thoughts that a baby would soon be a part of our lives forever. The hot maternity clothes I would wear. As soon as I got out of my funk.
The Things We Give Up October 11, 2008
As a pregnant woman, you expect to make sacrifices for the baby. I’ve always been OK with giving up hard drugs like heroin, cocaine, crack, preventing fetal alcohol syndrome, increasing birth weight by quitting smoking. It just seemed like a good time to make a few key life changes.
But soft 
cheese? (look how good it looks)
I mean really, is that necessary? Deli meats? Sushi? Hot dogs? Lox? Mayo? Rare steak? Kielbasa? What is a snobby Polish NYer to eat? What do women in Paris, Krakow, and Oslo do? I’d like to see the numbers on how many babies died of Lox poisoning or EColi or over-saturation with nitrates from bologna (what I wouldn’t give right now for one slice of bologna). But still I forgo all this deliciousness and have added my own vices to the verboten list- the most significant and career inhibiting-caffeine, even though it’s apparently allowed. Don’t ask me why a performance enhancing drug is OK but a slab of $20 Brie is considered Listeria infested.
Other sacrifices I’ve made that are not necessary. Running. Seems like it’s not contraindicated but I just don’t feel right doing it. With every step, I imagine the baby falling through the cervix. Tennis. Bleaching my teeth. Highlights. Manicures (although I am flexible with that one). Taking care of Rio (for no health reason, just laziness, see blog about intense fatigue). Taking care of Tim (as much).
The hardest thing to give up has definitely been my long-planned research trip to the border of Burma. October was supposed to have been spent on the border of Burma and Thailand, training Burmese refugees in basic medical care through Columbia’s International Emergency Medicine Fellowship-an amazing experience that I had been putting together for months. Unfortunately, that part of Burma is “resistant malaria falciparum endemic” meaning that the baby would almost definitely contract a horrible and resistant malaria during the crucial organogenesis phase, esp since pregnant women are apparently mosquito magnets (is it the glow?). So no international research, even though I still considered it…how bad can a little malaria be?
Things I plan on giving up still:
My body. Right now I’ll be the first to say I look amazing. My boobs got so big it makes me wonder how I ever did with anything less voluptuous. My tummy is still small, my hair is thick. Ok, so the acne is as much a problem as it was for Jim Butler in the 7th grade, but makeup has gotten a lot better. Overall, I’m a knockout. However, I realize and anticipate the stretching of the belly so big that the skin cannot but sag, hips widen and potentially create a “mom ass,” nipple areolas so big they seem to be the cause of the low hung bust. These I can deal with. Nothing compares with the ultimate carnal sacrifice… (sorry parents and kids) …The Vagasshole.
The Vagasshole was coined by Tim after I explained to him that with 4th degree tears from childbirth, you can actually damage so much of your perineum that the anus and vagina become one. A gyn consult on a patient in Urgent Care actually stated “cannot locate anus.” It may be funny to many of you, but I’m not laughing.
I couldn’t even wait 6 weeks for a West Elm couch October 11, 2008
What do you do after you find out you’re having a baby in 9 months. On the one hand, it’s a long time away. I’ve never had to wait 9 months for anything. A couch comes in at most 6 weeks, and that is even infuriatingly too long. On the other hand, there doesn’t seem to be enough time to change your entire life around in preparation.
I spent hours looking around our 350sq ft 3rd floor walk-up that we adore trying to imagine how it would work, “if we loft the bed and put in a futon, get rid of the dining room table and open up the balcony, a baby bouncer just might fit.” We’d need a bigger place, a full-time (or a live-in?) nanny, baby equipment. Oh, the baby equipment.
There was what I call “Baby Gear” Magazine, full of new strollers, breast pumps, baby carriers, and pregnant mom outfits. Unfortunately, there are not as many versions and issues as “Modern Bride,” my last era of magazine obsession, as pregnancy products don’t really vary month-to-month. There’s only so many ways to change a boob suction device and make it hot. Same category as the “Tough Titties” nipple cream. Yikes. A lot of “Dear Abby, my vaginal discharge has been thicker and fuller than before I got pregnant, should I be worried?” type of columns.
And speaking of couches, we needed a new couch. I imagined a sexy West Elm brown leather modern sectional but could accept a Jennifer Convertibles pull out. And a new rug. Curtains. A metal mesh chair. To match the metallic blue walls. Our entire life was going to change, including our dining room table which I planned on painting a rusty red to match the Communist propaganda posters we have on display. Yes, we would be the cool NY young family, with modern ( imposter overstock) furniture and edgy baby décor. Our place would be a model of cleanliness and organization, mostly because of “Contain Yourself” approach I would take on in the next few months.
See picture below of how I imagine our next apartment; feel free to place a baby bouncer where ever you feel it won’t interfere with the feng shui.
So we thought we were sterile… we were wrong… October 11, 2008
Why would 2 young healthy people think they were sterile you might wonder. It has to do with the fact that as a physician, I am a terrible pill-taker. Hate pills. Hate to take them. Hate to remember to take them. I have taken Advil maybe 5 times this year (only when forced by non-medical people). Would probably die of sepsis before I took a long course of antibiotics. Even now, the most awful part of pregnancy are the huge horse pills that taste like rock and scratch the throat on the way down then make me nauseated and give me reflux. It’s Tim’s job to get them ready for me and make sure our kid doesn’t have neurological deficits. So as you can imagine, birth control pills were never a favorite with me. Sure I took them, but I would miss a day here, a couple days there, forget them altogether.
This lack of consistency coupled with my poor understanding of my menstrual cycles led to many a wasted dollar on pregnancy tests. I had bought so many over the years that Tim issued an official ban. No pregnancy tests until I show baby belly. Still, I snuck in one here and there. Of course, they were always negative and sadly, I would report to Tim, “we’re not pregnant.” Tim would often accuse me of having a barren womb. Not that we were trying. Between my residency and Tim’s Ibanking my maternal instincts were easily crushed by overnight shifts and Rio’s humble needs (poop, pee, occasional exercise). We could not even handle doing laundry and got a Polish housekeeper.
Around April, we decided birth control was a waste of money, we are sterile. If we started trying now, it would take about 2 years before the denial wore off and we went to invitro. We were ready to start trying for family, no matter how long it took. I started learning about menstruation cycles and figuring out ovulation. May and June were fun.
In July, I started wondering about my period, thinking that I really have to start paying attention to when I am due. It seemed that it had been over a month since the last one, but I had no idea how long my cylces were. Told Tim I was getting a pregnancy test with one answer “don’t.” He quickly forgot we ever had the conversation. At the Duane Reade, I stood in front of the aisle and almost bought the “sperm counter” instead. It was more expensive but might yield more information. Went for the pregnancy test, giving my man the benefit of the doubt. You can imagine my reaction when I saw 2 faint red lines. Ecstatic. Pure joy.
Had to figure out a way to tell Tim. Cleaned up, got dressed up, ordered Afghani food, got a bottle of nonalcoholic champagne. Somehow the pee sticks had to make it into the announcement, although I wasn’t sure how this was going to happen. They were, afterall, sticks I peed on so even in a ziplock baggie they were a bit on the icky side. I wanted to somehow attach them to the sparkling wine which was in the fridge. Last minute I almost pinned them to Rio’s collar so Tim would find them when she greeted him downstairs and decided against it lest Tim though Rio had been a bit too loose at doggie day care. Finally I stuck the baggie in an envelope and taped it to the nonalcoholic champagne. Tim thought it was just another romantic night and as he reached into the fridge for “the wine” he was a little perturbed that I bought the wrong kind of alcohol, “hey, this doesn’t have any alcohol in it.” He still didn’t get it when he saw the pee sticks. I always bring weird leftover stuff from the hospital. Finding pee sticks in the fridge was not that different than pulling out a gonorrhea culture tube from my pocket at one of Bartek’s friends’ parties. Finally, I had to just say it flat out. “You’re going to be a daddy.”
