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…
