One miserable month…One amazing gift

The Last Month. I could write an entire series on The Last Month, only I would change the series name from The Pregnancy Diaries to A Month of Fiery, Evil, Miserable Hell on Earth. I think it would be a big seller, don’t you? I’m just being honest, and who doesn’t like honesty? Even if it means hearing the worst of the worst of the worst. I promise it will end on a high note!

Oh, the last month. We made it! My husband is relieved that it’s so close, but I worry it’s more to get me back to normal than to meet his son. Maybe it’s a little of both, but with my constant complaining and sudden 2 a.m. teary outbursts and a complete and utter inability to do ANYthing on my own anymore, I’m guessing it’s about 30/70 – 30% being “to meet my son” and 70% being “to shut her up.” It truly is amazing what has occurred in the past 30 days. Yes, hitting full-term was a very big deal. A wave or relief swept over me as he could now join the world at any minute and be healthy and happy. We made it. I have grown him for 39 weeks and we made it. WE MADE IT! I have to admit that I feel like I was pretty strong and self-sufficient up to this point. But, man oh man, when it rains, it pours and when your overdramatic to begin with, a slight drizzle can become a freaking monsoon in a heartbeat. My mama monsoon season has lasted 30 straight days. Here is an inside look into the life of Last Month Nicki:

Three weeks ago… I woke up with my first “contractions” in the middle of the night. I thought it was just the urge to pee, but it turns out that my body corrolates the two (peeing and contractions), so every time I woke up to pee, I laid back down and got pretty severe cramps. It was like getting your period 7 times a night, without the mess, of course. This is when the lack of sleep started. My new nightly routine came out of left field: Go to bed at 11. Get up at 12:30. Pee (not NEARLY enough to make the trek worth it, in my opinion). Stumble back to bed and wake up husband to move dog who felt the need to keep my pillow warm while I was away for 30 seconds. Lie back down. Cry because the contractions were hurting. Cry harder to wake up husband. Husband awakes. I feel like I fulfilled my duty by making us BOTH suffer from lack of sleep (hey, I can’t do this alone!). Fall back to sleep. Then, repeat this series at the hours of 2 a.m., 4 a.m., 5:30 a.m., and 7 a.m. And, this has yet to subside. Same routine, different night.

Two weeks ago… I started lacking a real concern with my physical being. Not my internal or well-being, but my physical being. Examples: I have not shaved my legs or armpits in over two weeks. Washing my face has become “optional” at bedtime. Pajama pants have been worn to work on more than one occasion (I don’t think they noticed, and if they did, at least they were kind enough not to say anything). Oh, and (this is classic) the other morning I woke up and got undressed to hop in the shower and spotted a GIANT puddle of dried toothpaste sitting directly in between my boobs. Are you KIDDING me? It must have just crusted on there from the night before, but, seriously, who doesn’t NOTICE something like that!? I got a pedicure at least. That made me feel sexy for, like, an hour. Red toenail polish can do wonders for the pregnant woman’s psyche.

One week ago… this lovely little boy decided to “reposition” himself into a position that must be comfortable for him, but it is KILLING me. At first I thought it was just a pulled muscle in my back. I operate like my mother in the fact that I have a hard time sitting still, so at 9 months pregnant, I thought it would be a swell idea to paint our side door and do some weeding. Brilliant. That’s me. Absolutely brilliant. I woke up the next morning unable to move my back and it has stayed that way ever since. Doctor Obvious said I should ice it, heat it, and try to get some sleep. “Wow, I’m sooo glad you were able to help me out with that. I’ve just been running laps around my house and smoking cigarettes on my patio while praying to the sun gods to release the tensions in my ribcage.” Duh. So now, in between my trips to the bathroom, incessant crying, and brutal contractions, I get to deal with back pain. And, I gotta tell you, there are NO good infomercials on at 3 in the morning. I’ve learned to keep a disc of Will & Grace in the DVD player so I can just hit Play when I’m unintentionally depriving myself of much-needed sleep.

Currently, I am sitting here at my kitchen table, 58 pounds heavier than when I started this diary and in miserable pain, but I have a light at the end of my tunnel. We scheduled our baby to be induced this coming Tuesday! I keep reminding myself that I have a maximum of four days left of my current life and soon our family of two will become a family of three and there’s no stopping it. It’s a rollercoaster of emotions and I cried for seven hours straight the day I scheduled the appointment. I think I called my mom three times at work bawling for no real reason…mostly because I didn’t know WHAT to feel – anxiety, fear, happiness, worry, hope, joy, and pain. Mix all of those with a fresh batch of hormones and the “I’d like to schedule my baby’s birth for next week, please” conversation, and yes, seven hours of tears IS possible.

But, a large part of those tears are tears of the unknown..tears of relief that I will soon MEET this handsome little bugger that’s been dancing on my bladder for nine months… tears of the inevitable joys of this unknown land called motherhood in which I am about to reside. This last month has been torture, yes. It has not been pretty. I have not been pretty. Nate has not been pretty. Even Chloe the Dog has not been pretty. We all sludge along through our days blinking back sleep like zombies, trying to enjoy our last evenings of together time. But, the gift that is coming will be worth it. I know this. And, not because it’s what EVERYONE says (“oh, it’s so worth it…the second you hold him, you forget all the pain, blah, blah, blah”), but because in those few reflective moments that I allow myself, I can FEEL it. When I’m up at 4 a.m., I find myself touching my stomach and talking to him, telling him stories about his grandparents and how his mommy and daddy met and asking him if he has dimples and wondering what he’ll be when he grows up. I tell him about his Aunt Julie and how funny she is. I explain that Nate’s sisters may look alike for a few years, but if you study them long enough, you’ll learn which is which. These are conversations that I know I will remember (even if he doesn’t) and this is how I know I’m ready to welcome this little person into my life.

And, whenever I do feel like I can’t handle it and the lack of sleep is too much to bear, I read an excerpt by Jeanette Lisefski that my mom sent me in a card from the book “Becoming a Mother.” I share it with you to help tie all my thoughts together:

He slips into this world, and into my arms, placed there by heaven. Through joyful tears I whisper in his ear, “We are glad you are here. We waited so long to see you.” He opens his eyes, and I am transformed – a timeless moment filled with the infinity of what life is. In his eyes I see total recognition, unconditional love and complete trust. I am a mother. In that instant I feel, and in my heart I know, everything I need to know to guide him. We look for ways he looks like us, and ways he is uniquely himself. We have nothing to say, but our hearts and minds are full of thoughts – of our hopes and dreams for him, of who he might be, of what gifts he brings with him and how he might touch the world. It is hard to close our eyes to sleep.

This is probably the final blog post I will write pre-baby, so I ask for your prayers, thoughts, advices and encouragements. Soon, all of these obstacles will be over – the sausage feet, the beer deprivation, the urinating in softball fields, the spilling, the burping, the nausea…and so much more will be beginning. I cannot wait to introduce you all to Baby Boy Brunner!

I came. I saw. I didn’t puke.

Yesterday marked the completion of our birth class. This was something I never thought I would want to do, but the further along I got in this pregnancy, the more I realized I just plain didn’t know. So, what better way to learn it than to spend $90 and attend eight hours of classroom-setting talk-time with ten other couples, watching videos and asking the most basic of questions because, hey, none of us have done this before?

I admit that I was skeptical. Usually, being lectured at isn’t my most effective way of learning, but I was hoping this would be different. We walked in at 8 a.m., armed with our mandatory pillows and blanket, and got comfortable at our table. The couples continued to pour into the room, each one so unique but making the same face that Nate and I had, I’m sure. With every couple that walked through the door, I couldn’t help but think, “Weird…those two had sex and made a baby.” I’m mature, right? But, I found amazement in the diversity of these couples – the tall blonde wife with her short Italian husband, the couple that was probably nearing their 50s, the pudgy couple, the “model” couple, the interracial couple…it was all so interesting to watch. What were we to them? The cliche couple? The brunette couple? The couple that wears their pajamas to class? Who knows. Of course, I was probably the only person playing this game, so it doesn’t really matter.

We all got seated and our teacher introduced herself. Her name was Suzy and she was a fiery redhead from the UK with a gnarly British accent and a vocabulary of words I would LOVE to start using in my everyday life (knickers, mate, fanny, bum…). Her sense of humor started the class off on the right foot as we slowly got to know her better, including the ever-so-important fact that she got into nursing mostly because of her intense obsession with George Clooney (think the days of Dr. Ross).

With our round of introductions, we were asked to give our highs and lows of pregnancy so far, and our husbands were to say what has surprised them the most. “I love feeling my baby kick” and “I have a sore lower back” seemed to be the overall consensus of the room. We changed it up. Nate said he was surprised at how strong I’ve been and that I’m handling it better than he thought I would (oh boy…what was he expecting? I think I’ve been pretty intolerable thus far. Must…try…harder. Must…push…buttons). I explained that my high was telling my parents and my family because 28 years ago, having a child with diabetes didn’t guarantee a grandchild-filled Christmas, and I get to give that to them. How cool is that? That got little to no reaction, so I jumped on the bandwagon of typical “awwww”-responsive answers and quickly added, “And I love feeling my baby kick.” Awwwwwww…Yup. Just as I expected.

The class followed a nice outline of topics including the stages of labor, comfort measures (HA!), pain and medication options, C-sections, and breathing and relaxing methods. I listened closest to what I should pack in my hospital bag and sort of zoned out a lot of the medical talk, due to my weak stomach and jello-limb-syndrome.

The stages of labor were interesting. Early, active, and transition labor (which should just be called bad, worse, and the most-pain-you’ve-ever-felt-in-your-life labor) were discussed in quite some length, including what to look for when your water breaks (color is important – apparently your baby can poop inside of you! Wow, this just gets prettier and prettier).  What I remember most from this discussion were the icons that accompanied it. Early labor was a smiley face with pretty eyelashes and an ear-to-ear grin. Yes, I understand this. You’re happy because the child you’ve nourished for nine months is finally going to be here! Active labor is when the contractions start becoming more prominent. This face was a straight-lined mouth and furrowed eyebrows. She was now distressed and thinking about the pain a little more than the baby. Finally, the face of transition labor was one of complete and utter horror, as if she had just found out her baby daddy is nicknamed “The Jigsaw Killer” just moments after sitting through the supposedly fictitious four-part SAW series. Yeah, THAT kind of horror!

Speaking of THAT kind of horror, I would like to take a moment to discuss “the video.” We watched three in total, but only one is permanently burned into my brain. A quick overview of the movie: Chubby husband does the voice over, narrating each situation as it is shown onscreen. He is obviously whipped and terribly afraid of his angry, beefy, bowl-haircut of a wife. Every time she moans in pain, it sounds like a herd of cows making whoopie, and when she orders him to get ice chips, it comes out in a voice that could’ve easily won her the main role in The Exorcist. The nurses and doctors were decked out with hair from the ’70s and I hope to God they were only acting that “articulate” because they were on camera. “OK, now we are going to check how dilated you are,” says Robot Doctor #1. “How many centimeters is she?” asks a Jan Brady-esque Doctor #2. “Seven,” they say in unison. Smile up at camera. Look away. Act serious. And…Scene!

This continued on for awhile, but the part that we all knew was coming finally came. Camera one – zoom in. Witness crowning baby head emerging from giant woman bush. Cow herds unite! We’ve got a live one! I had to look away or I actually felt that I may vomit right there in the classroom. Interesting as it may be to help understand what goes on downstairs through the whole process, I am not planning on standing on my head to see it on delivery day, so why, WHY must I see it now? I even caught iron-stomached Nate looking away every once in awhile. I don’t know if he was expecting an X-rated swimsuit model to present a peaceful, calm and well-trimmed delivery, but that was so far from what we got, I think it surprised us both! Ahhh, reality. God bless it.

The funny thing is, as nauseus as I was feeling and as much as I didn’t want to look directly at it, that baby came out and the cord was cut and he started to cry. The robot doctors held him up like Simba from the Lion King and, I don’t know if it was the hormones or what, but I was crying (and singing “The Circle of Life” in my head). What a miracle. Chubby Hubby and Exorcist Wife had just brought a little tiny miracle into this world and he was beautiful. He was an adorable, fragile little miracle. So, if I cry and immediately dismiss all the bad and blood I had witness 30 seconds earlier for THIS couple, I can’t imagine how I will feel when it’s OUR baby! OUR BABY!

We toured the hospital and got to stand in the room where each of our little angels would be born. Everything was clean and sterile and as comfortable as it can be in a hospital room. I hate hospitals, period. So, for me to be impressed and semi-comfortable while touring one was a BIG deal. The class ended with breathing and massage techniques. These are supposed to help clear your head of the pain and help you regain focus on something else. I’ve never been very good at mind over matter or “picturing myself in a happy place.” If there is something bad going on with my body and I can feel it, guess what? I’m going to focus on THE PAIN! I can’t help it. And, this was quickly justified when she had us each hold two icecubes in our hand for one minute while doing our breathing techniques to try to focus on something other than the excruciating frost bite developing on our palms. I got through it, but I’m not gonna lie – with each breath, I would picture the nerves in my hand getting black and numb. Breathing was NOT going to help THIS girl! An IV of vodka and pain medications? Now, THAT has possibilities!

I could see the look of anguish in each of the lady’s faces as they dropped their icecubes to the table. Looks of “holy crap, that was hard” filled the room and I knew I wasn’t the only one who wondered how I will get through 20 hours of labor if I can’t hold frozen water for ONE MINUTE! I was not alone. There was fear everywhere. We were all scared. Even if I was the only one looking away from the vagina video and plugging my ears during the epidural details, we were ALL scared. What first-time mother isn’t? If this class taught me anything, it was that fear is imminent. It’s going to be there until the bitter end. But, the tears that flooded the room after each video-baby was brought into the world, screaming nakedly and covered in slime, was a reassuring sign that it will all be worth it. The fear, the pain, the possibilities of emergency surgery, the needles, the pointless breathing…all to hear that baby’s scream. So, so, so, so worth it. In fact, I can’t wait. I never thought I would sit through an 8-hour lecture on blood, poop, and pain and say that I can’t wait to experience it all, but I CAN’T WAIT TO EXPERIENCE IT ALL! Bring it on, world! I came. I saw. I didn’t puke.

My body is a “wonder”land

So, I figured out what my problem is. When it comes to my body, I have a freakishly obsessive fear of the unknown. As a 20-year diabetic, my job has always been to be IN control of what is happening. And not just IN control, but under very tight surveillance of what enters, exits, and impacts my body. I’ve worked for 20 years to perfect this sense of bodily control. And, what larger wrench to throw into the mix than pregnancy, my friends?! We wouldn’t want life to get too easy now, would we?

As a pregnant woman at this stage in the game, I may as well throw all caution to the wind and eat chocolate cake with a constantly-running IV of insulin pumping into my system. That would be just as effective as my feeble, yet intentional, attempts at maintaining control. I’m going to grow back fat. I’m going to develop swollen ankles and stretch marks. My placenta is going to devour 90% of my insulin intake. And, I have no say in the matter. The question is, how am I supposed to cope with my fear of the unknown when I’ve been an “answer person” all my life?

This morning I had a(nother) visit with my OB and she always makes the mistake of asking me if I have any questions. This is when I pull out my sheet of note paper and read down my list of “urgent-answers-needed” inquiries that have come up in the past three days. “How will I know when I’m in labor? What is a birth plan? When will I get an epidural? What are the main differences between a natural birth and an unnatural birth? When should I start pushing? Who, what when, where, why, how!!??”

She tried to give a nice, patient stock answer of “it’s different for everyone” but I wasn’t buyin’ it. No. You’re a doctor. You figure ME out and I would like an individual-case scenario drawn out for me. I want to know when I should go, who I should expect to see, what will be poking me, what potential problems could arise…for ME. Not for the “general public.” Not for the “majority of woman.” No. It’s MY body and you’ve been researching it for as far back as I can remember, so I don’t think a quick timeline outlining my specific expectations is too much to ask for.

OK, maybe it is. Maybe I’m being high-demand. I’ve always been in the driver’s seat, and lately it seems that I’ve been demoted to the trunk, giving the good seats up to Doctor A, Doctor B, Doctor C, and Fetus (and let’s not forget his greedy friend, Placenta). When I sense that I’ve lost that control, I get anxious, and my fear rolls around long enough in my head to create very frightening (though highly unlikely) scenarios. I know my fears stem from stories I’ve heard or movies I’ve watched, but that doesn’t mean they COULDN’T happen to me (with the exception of Pet Cemetary or Poltergeist – hopefully). Then, when I actually SEE some of these horror stories happen to friends or family, I find myself begging to regain control – like if I could know every little detail, I could prevent disaster and prepare my emotions in advance. That’s not how it works. I get it. Wishful thinking is all.

My heart goes out to those who have lost babies, both pre- and post-birth. I can’t imagine working so hard for so long to simply watch something go that you’ve grown to love and nurture. Nothing pains my heart more. And, I know that this had nothing to do with their control.

So, maybe I just need to throw my hands up, get comfortable in the trunk, and sacrifice my body to a new team of experts – baby included. Everything happens for a reason, and whether mine goes in the direction of a Snow White Disney-esque delivery or comes straight out of “that scene” from Aliens, whatever will be will be. Que sera sera.

Ignorance is bliss

Tonight I went to visit a friend who was due yesterday with her first baby. She was still very chipper, active and adorable (and very, VERY pregnant) but admitted several times to being beyond ready for it to all be over. Can’t say I blame her. I’m ten weeks  behind her and I feel that way already. I don’t know if it’s the uncomfortable lifestyle, the disproportionate body parts, or the anxiety to meet your little one, but it happens. For me, I think it happened earlier than usual because I don’t know how much longer I can play my “ignorance is bliss” card and actually succeed at my initial game plan, which was to know as little medically as I possibly could before it was moments from actually occurring. That way, I don’t need to think about it for more than five seconds before I’m living it. What’s the point of dreading something this far in advance? But, the longer I am pregnant, the more I tend to read. And the closer I get to going through the pain of childbirth, the more questions I have. Then, throw in the fact that I’ve seen and heard the experiences from two different friends who have gone through it recently, and you’re bound to crash head-first into some of the inevitable off-limits conversations.

The thing that gets me the most is the “language” of pregnancy. As if the birthing process wasn’t enough, they have to make the terminology that goes along with it so gag-worthy it makes your ears bleed. I can’t read through an online article anymore without reading something that makes me cringe. It’s like Bill Gates sits at home and strategically controls the internet so whatever women read in their first and second trimesters is all smiles and rainbows, and the second you hit stage three (the point of no return), he shuts off the rainbow-meter and replaces every smiley word with “leak,” “tear,” or “rupture.” He knows there’s no backing out now. It’s all or nothing, baby – let’s bring out the big guns! Words that I have been trying desperately to avoid in the past six months include dilation, effacing, crowning, and the dreaded epidural. It seems once you are in your third trimester, these words have somehow become part of your daily life. People start asking more intimate questions. Instead of “when are you due?” you get “have you had any contractions?”  Instead of “cloth or disposable diapers?” you get “are you going to have a natural birth?” How do I know if I”m going to have a natural birth? Does the thought of having a two-foot needle enter my spinal cord scare the bejeesus out of me? Yes. Will I care about the size of the needle when I feel like my vagina is trying to flip itself inside-out? Probably not. But, for now, I prefer to not think about it. So, let’s leave the word “epidural” for the doctors to bring up when I’m IN that moment. You can ask me afterwards. I’ll consider not slapping you then.

As far as falling into the traps of hearing others’ baby-related experiences, I guess that is unavoidable. Tonight, my friend told me a story about…brace yourself…losing her mucus plug. I have so many problems with that last sentence I just wrote I don’t even know where to begin. First of all, WHY must they call it a mucus plug? If I think about it literally, I picture a champagne cork covered in snot popping out of your lady parts like it’s New Year’s Eve. Apparently, according to her, this is not at all what it is like, but I gotta tell you, the “reality” isn’t much better than where my imagination took me. I know she didn’t mean to (she usually filters herself when I’m around) but I actually had to excuse myself from the room and hang my head over the toilet seat for a few minutes. Glad I left the room when I did, because I heard one loud, disgusted,  in-unison “awwwww” from the other girls as I was flushing. Must’ve missed the Climax de Mucus Plug. Darn. I understand fully that there are women out there who want to know everything. They want full details – a play-by-play spreadsheet of how her labor and delivery will go. I am simply saying that I am NOT one of those women. I’m one of those women who hears the words “irritable uterus” or “ruptured membranes” and immediately erases them from her memory. Click-click. Deleted. We signed up for a birthing class and I’ve already made it very clear to Nate that I have no problem getting up and leaving mid-lecture if she threatens to make us watch a DVD with close-ups of a crowning head. “Get in the car, honey. We’re going to Burger King.” I refuse to sit through that, and I guess that’s just how I want to experience it all my first time. Cluelessly. For this girl, ignorance truly is bliss.