An oldie, from my first pregnancy

Oh, the many wonders of being a pregnant woman: the joy, the excitement, that glow…  I’ve gotta tell you- I’m just not feeling it.

Here’s to a little brutal honesty: cheers.  I’m pretty sure I hate being pregnant.  I love the idea of it, and there have been some really, really cool things.  But for most of the day-to-day, I struggle a great deal with these hormones.  I find it nearly impossible to function like I “should” at work, and I just rarely feel like myself.  This becomes a vicious cycle when I begin to beat myself up for not being able to snap out of it. 

And very, very much of this comes from my inability to cope with the small stuff.  Or maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe I only think I can deal with the big stuff, and I just happen to lose it over the seemingly superficial things (or those things I think I should be able to control, like my emotions and behavior)…   At any rate, I’m rather a mess- which is why it’s been somewhat quiet from my little corner of the world.  I am sick to death of hearing myself complain, but I can’t seem to find that wellspring of energy and cheerfulness that used to be in there.

Enough with the vagueness.  I am having a high-risk pregnancy.  It scares the crap out of me, and I waffle between taking serious time to process each new development and moving on to generalized… depression?  Know this: I am healthy as a horse (as in: every test they do comes back with glowing results- my bloodwork, my history- heck, I have gotten compliments on my urine) and the baby is just fine.  I just really suck at being pregnant.  I feel so disappointed in my little body.   And I continue to need more rest and less… Everything Else, which I figured out years after sedentary high school, just doesn’t work for me.  The more energy I spend, the more energy I have.  Being tired physically helps me sleep really well for about five hours- then I’m rejuviated.  Not spending energy makes me listless and lethargic, I lose muscle and appetite, and I am just plain cranky.  By doctor’s orders.

I have struggled with this so much (I believe I shared a glimpse after about 20 weeks, when the complications started rolling in) at work and at home.  Mostly, I just don’t have enough of anything for my job.  I give it everything I can anyway and then I come home unable to be good enough for my time with Sophia, and too miserable to enjoy my time with Matt.  And I hate myself for it.  I just struggle so much to forgive myself for any of it.

And then I really didn’t feel well on Saturday.  I was originally diagnosed with Placenta Previa over two months ago, and now I have been having contractions for about three weeks.  I am at very high risk for hemorrhaging and preterm labor, but I have extensive lists that are supposed to help me to avoid both of those things.  Unless things get Worse.  Lucky for me (can you taste the sarcasm?), I work weekends, so calling the doctor is equal to calling off when I’m out of sick days (what are those, anyway?).   But I called the doctor regardless, fully expecting to be sent home to put my feet up and let things- my uterus- settle down.  But nooooooooooooooo… They sent me to the hospital.  

It is very amusing to witness first-hand how terrified they are of pregnant women in the ER.  I mean, they deal with some really gruesome stuff- you’d think they could handle anything, right?  I no sooner walked in the door and they had me write my name (not sign, date, read, or anything), and they called upstairs, “We have a 28-weeker with contractions!!!!!!!!!!!!!” And I was whisked off in a wheelchair to the pregnant lady place.  Sheesh!  Can’t imagine what happens when you’re actually in labor.  At any rate, I spent the day relaxing in a hospital bed hooked up to monitors that trace the baby’s heartbeat and activity, and track contractions.  As it turns out, when I am sitting with my feet up, my uterus is MUCH less Irritable (<actual medical term for it).  This is where bed rest comes from.  I continue to show no signs of further risk, but my body just isn’t holding up.  It is trying to tell me something.  It is giving me a perspective check. 

Here I am, a workaholic, ready to stop working.  Even two weeks ago I may have told you that my greatest concern was no longer being “allowed” to work.  But eight hours in the hospital can help a girl come to terms with lots of things.  I have been told it’s only a matter of time before I am hospitalized, but three months?!?!?!!?!??!  Shoot me now.  If I could just be Home- I mean- I finally have a home!  Please don’t make me live so far away from my husband!  Yuck, Yuck, Yuck! 

And I know there are women who experience much more difficult pregnancies.  I know there are women whose lives are threatened by the act of trying to bring another life into this world.  I know there are mothers who don’t have incredible health to begin with.  I know there are women who don’t have the support of their families and loved ones.  I know there are women who are abused- even during their pregnancies.  While I waited for the good doctor to come see me on Saturday, there was a woman who spent six hours on the operating table just to give birth (both mama and baby are fine).  I can’t even bring myself to talk about parents who have to fear for the health of their babies…   Who am I with my “potential” this and “risk” that?  Who am I to gripe that I may not be able to work when all the while- I have disability.  This will work out.  Who am I to be so stubborn and proud when my body is telling me that I have to stop?  Who cares if it’s hard to come to terms with?  I am still ahead- and I need to pay attention.

So…  I have my next appointment on Friday.  I have transferred my care (several weeks ago), and I am now in the hands of the very best high-risk OB in the state.  The hospital I got to visit this weekend is where I will deliver, and women are life-flighted from all over when things get tricky during their births.  My situation is not common, but it’s also not unusual.  And I am in really good hands…  So we will see what my doctor says.  It is time for me to limit my activity before I get to the point where I am not even allowed to get out of bed to pee.  It is time for me to stop working before I go “just one more day” (or week, or month) and end up moving directly into the hospital where I can flush all those hours of pay right down the toilet.  It is time for me to put Matt’s mind at ease and just go a little easy.  I am finally okay with the idea that my new job- my only job right now- is to get my son here safely.  Forget your stupid career, Kara (which you are no longer in love with anyway); your new job is to be a Mom.  Finally.  In the meantime, I will be trying to do everyone else’s paperwork in exchange for being on my feet.  Wish me luck…

From mourning to... laughing. Again.

It’s World Breastfeeding week and I’m pregnant and emotional.  Here we are seeing things from a different perspective- again.

Two years ago PSL invited me to speak at their nurses’ nursing conference.  They support breastfeeding and wanted to know how the patient experience translated.  After learning about donated milk when Tobias got it without my asking (miracle of miracles) and weeks of pumping and daily visits to the NICU to deliver my supply, I wondered when they were going to teach us how to eat-  together.  It was a wonderful opportunity to speak.  I shared my intense gratitude, and made suggestions with my intense pragmatism.

Last year I missed the whole event because I was working 80 hours a week.

This year, I am not nursing.

Tobias was down to the occasional toddler drive-by (which often brought cartoonish Bungee-jumping from the Nipple images to mind)- his way of reconnecting when I was actually around despite my brutal schedule.  And night times.  He would nurse just a few minutes, I’d become antsy and tell him gently, “I need you to be done now please” and he would roll over and go to sleep. 

Sometimes it was awful at the end.  Nursing while pregnant with my second was too painful for me.  I cried more than once, begging him to let me go, sometimes in front of others, like my sister- who kindly offered no advice.  He would fall asleep and get really toothy, but refuse to let go.  Saving myself resulted in his exhausted, I-need-help-sleeping  screaming that did nothing to reduce the stress.

About a month before his second birthday, he went five days without asking for milk.  Then when he asked for it, I told him it was all gone.  “Do you want some milk in a cup?”  Yes, he said.  And I thought that was it.

About two weeks later, tired and clingy, Tobias realized the full extent of his weaning, and mourned the end of our nursing by weeping in my arms for two hours.  I focused so hard on my empathy for him simply to drown out my own feelings.  The quiet “I know”s and “I’m so sorry”s whispered to my rocking child weren’t enough to take the edge off my memory of that day.

How were we going to get through this in time for me to nurse another baby in front of him?  How could I force this transition on my child, whose life-saving skin-to-skin time made nursing the foundation of our relationship?  It was crappy and inconvenient and I starved to death while we tried to figure out his Exorcist reflux, wearing a hole in the couch and trying to remember who else I was other than the Milk Truck, as Matt lovingly called me.  I was so relieved to be done.  But I needed Tobias to be ready too.  How could I prepare him and not betray him?

…Three months later, we are getting ready to welcome Tobias’s sister into the world.  He periodically checks in and reminds me that “there’s no more milk in there”.  Eventually, I began affirming that statement with my own: “Next time there is milk in there, it will be for the baby”.  “Milk for the baby?”  Yes, my love- yes…

God love toddlers, I am now looking forward to what comes next.  His remaining comfort measure is to shove his hands into my armpits.  Or anyone’s armpits, for that matter.  Whether he is frightened, or hurt, or ready to sleep…  “Armpit”, he sighs once he has a good grip with such happiness and satisfaction that nobody can deny him.

Not only did I have no idea that one little person could make me laugh so hard, but I really never expected that Tobias’s hilarious antics would be what could heal me through everything- even guilt.

Just the other day one of the less securely clad Barbies in our house revealed her plastic breasts.  Tobias happily stopped by every person he could find, showing us each that he had “Found it the milk!” with great self-satisfaction.   I sincerely hope that after his sister arrives, he will nurse his other toys.  In front of everyone.  I will laugh every time.

Anti-Establishment?

I have been told recently that I am "Obnoxiously and wonderfully non-traditional".  This was said with great affection- because being weird is charming and cute.  This was also said in reference to two things: that I have not taken my husband's last name, and that I'm Doing Cloth Diapers.
Unlikely bed mates, I thought...
But let me just say that I don't put much energy into being so Anti-establishment.  Most of this obnoxious behavior is just my way of avoiding what I find (for me) to be counter-intuitive.  Counter-culture to avoid counter-intuitive.  (I'm making this up as I go.)

I am not using cloth diapers because it is "normal" to use disposables. I also don't think that disposables are evil (although I often remind Matt when recyclable items end up in the trash can that I just don't want to live on a landfill when we're old).  I use them because they are so stinkin' cheap.  That's right- I am the cheapest gal this side of the Mississippi.  The cost of cloth can be as little as 10% of the cost of disposables for one baby from birth through potty training- and that is if you are purchasing new.  Let's face it- disposables just aren't in the budget!  I am also fortunate that my mom used cloth, I changed my brother's diapers, and I therefore am luckily Not Afraid.
I am interested, when I'm in the mood, in what looks is so non-traditional from the outside.  I mean- is anyone really surprised?

Balance

For the past few months, I have been simply overwhelmed by the number and caliber of joys in my life.  I have approached others, just overflowing with wonder, and asked them, "You know how when it rains it pours?  When so many people's lives are an absolute shit-storm all at the same time?  Did you know that can happen with the good stuff too?"

So many things have led up to this time in my life.  I have been blessed with a richness beyond compare.  But most of the richness has been tempered by trial.  I am reminded this last week why that is so important.

As the incredible, overwhelming wonders of this pregnancy are met with "possible complications" these last few days, I have struggled to keep my head up a couple of times.  And this will continue to happen as we make just a few more doctor's appointments than originally expected, and as we find out more.  But the thought I can't shake all day and all night is about where joy comes from.

Without strife, there is no such thing as joy.  If life were easy, there would simply be no context for happiness.  The good would be whitewashed by all the other, constant good.  If we didn't experience the occasional shit-storm- these long weeks of so very many things challenging us and our strength all at the same time- we would be found taking the rest of it for granted.

At the end of today, I find myself being grateful for these days of overwhelming stress.  Thank you, Life, for giving me some perspective.  For keeping my life so rich that I don't risk taking ANY of it for granted.  That long, long before my "wise" years I am fortunate enough to see my blessings in front of my face and to recognize the significance of so many wonderful details.  And for reminding me that no matter how scary it may be to get there (especially up against some of my expectations and hopes), whatever else we may learn, I am still about to be a Mom, which is all I've ever wanted.  And I was smart (okay- and lucky) enough to wait until my kid could have a great mom and the very best dad. Ever.

I am full of gratitude and love right now, and I hope you can feel it too...

Being "Szymanski"

Before Matt and I got married, I asked him, "So... would you like for me to take your name?  Because if you do, you'll have to tell me."  I had just never envisioned myself taking anyone else's last name.  Of course now, being in love with someone I am about to marry, I will happily consider changing my mind- he just doesn't ever ask me for very much... And he continued with that trend.  He wanted to make sure I had thought of it all, so I wouldn't discover later that I did need to have the same last name as my kids (and we laughed at the idea that both of us could hyphenate...).  Beyond my need to be "non-traditional" (this is hardly the only aspect of our wedding that wasn't traditional- but more on that later) and my frustration that not only was I not leaving my family behind, but the Biermans weren't paying the Szymanskis a dowry for my hand either, I figured out WHY I had just always thought I'd be a Szymanski.
For 32 years, a huge part of my identity has been wrapped up in my last name.  It all began with my need as an adolescent to be validated- and my siblings are cut from the same cloth as I am.  Then, our "Us against the World" stance through the many trials of early (way too early) adulthood gave me the fiercest sense of pride.  And while it may be difficult to stomach good-intentioned lumping us all together tendencies (because we are, in fact, all vastly different people), there is a point.  There seems to be something very distinct about being a Szymanski.  Perhaps it is this way with all families, who knows?
And getting married was not going to change my identity.  I was not about to make a massive transition from being single to becoming Somebody's Wife.  Matt and I were simply making official what had been unofficial.
I have continued to brood over things like this.  I am ridiculously introspective by nature, and there are so many massive things going on in my life.  I have used this time to let people know that it is possible to get everything you've ever wanted, and all at the same time.  But with a baby coming, a marriage, a new home, settling down, and so much more- is it possible to hold on to those same things that have always made me a Szymanski?  Is it even possible for my identity not to change?  Who knows?  But through sharing, I intend to find out.