:: Black Skulls, Pink Ruffles--Goth vs Martha Stewart ::

:: Thursday, October 31, 2002 ::

To The Hospital We Go...Again



Okay, so yesterday, not too long after my last post, I ended up in my favorite place: the hospital. Again. Labor and delivery was once again fun, and I got everyone's favorite Resident as my doctor again, and this time she decided to push it even further. That was, perhaps, not a great idea on her part. After being pulled into a "one-on-one" conversation where I was promptly told (not in so many words) that I was not only not being taken seriously, but that if I didn't stop coming in so often that the "boy who cried wolf" story would begin to apply, and I would risk hurting my baby. Not only that, but I was also asked if I was taking my medication, and was I sure--"oh, no, doctor. Now that you mention it, I'm not certain..." Right.--and I should learn to cope with situations better, and could I be faking the contractions? I did not, in fact, tell her to F-off, which I thought was very nice of me. But I couldn't really let that kind of thing just pass by, either. I needed a nice, simple solution that also involved showing my displeasure at her attitude. What would be the childish thing to do in this situation?


I told my Mommy. Yup. Reverting to true childhood form, I "told my mommy on her." And my mother was not happy. We then called my real doctor (Kathy Puls, a Nurse Midwife, actually, and a wonderful person) and explained the situation to her as well. She, in turn, called the attendant doctor of Labor and Delivery (the evil Resident's boss) and they conferred on my case. Meanwhile, the resident made the mistake of attempting to talk down to my mother and to me. Now, for those of you who don't know, my mother worked at Evanston Hospital for a number of years, as well as editing medical magazines and having gone through two difficult and high-risk pregnancies where she was treated a lot like I have been. My mother is, all around, not a woman to talk down to. She knows more than anyone I've ever met, and she was definitely more than the equal for this particular person. So, in the end, the Resident got yelled at by my mother, my midwife, and the attendant doctor as well. Needless to say, she suddenly became very courteous and helpful towards the end of the night, as well as taking us all a bit more seriously. In the end, I got sent home and worried over, and I might be getting a home IV soon to try and keep this beautiful little girl of mine healthy. Which brings us to my least favorite part of pregnancy:


The Thirst. It is like nothing in the world that you have ever experienced before, unless you were stuck in the Sahara with no supplies at one point in your life or another. Your whole body feels swollen and dry at the same time, and all you want to do is drink. Water, milk, juice, anything cold that could quench the feeling at the back of your throat that begs for you to listen to it. After a while, I have stopped wanting food, though I still eat for the sake of the baby. It seems that food is only something that is there to take up space that could better be filled by liquid. I have actually been to the point where I drank so much my stomach was in pain and the fluids would barely stay down, and I was still thirsty. I never really knew what it was like to be thirsty until now, and I see why the human body can die without it so much faster than without food. If I don't have something to drink nearby all the time, I feel like I could die of thirst. It isn't true, of course; I know how much I am really drinking, but it never seems to make a dent in it. So all those of you who think pregnancy should be easy, especially on bedrest, you should take heed. This is not fun. Speaking of fun, I need to go get more water...
:: Eleanor 6:15 PM [+] ::
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Third Trimester and the Baby Shower


So, the baby shower rolls around, part one of two (long story.) October 20th, my boyfriend's parents' house. Most of my friends made it there, hauling themselves long distances (in one case about eight hours) to get to me, only to have to turn back around two hours later. I feel extremely loved. And, okay, there was a lot of pink. And lots of ruffles. And oodles of "winnie the pooh" stuff, including a little pink hat with two little ears on it...and I worry, because I feel myself slipping into mommyhood. I actually looked at the little hat and got all squooshie. I don't think that's a good sign. On the other hand, I also got an absolutely beautiful handmade quilt (Thank you, Irene) and a really cute black and red baby blanket with matching black baby snugglies. Those were also mondo cute, and I cooed over them, despite the prospective paternal grandmother's cry of "My Sophie can't wear that!" After assuring her that black kohl eyeliner won't start showing until the baby is at least three, the party had cake (and it was a hell of a cake. The sugar in the icing alone could have powered the car battery for a week. It was not a cake, it was confectionary art.) We then returned to our respective dimensions of origin (or the nearest convenient dimension of our choice) and continued on with our lives. For about four days.


Contractions, anyone? More contractions, more bleeding, more panic, more breathine. I am on it three times a day now, and on heavy bedrest, not to mention the weekly non-stress tests and timing kicks, contractions, and every other little thing my baby does. So far, so good; we are mostly trying to get to early December before delivering her, though they really don't think I am going to make it that long, and my first non-stress is on Friday of this week. Then, speaking of stress, Saturday is the second baby shower! It is also the day we get to pick up the crib that my boyfriend's wonderful parents got us, so I get to have a cute little bed all ready for my baby girl, as well as serving as a wonderful sleeping receptacle for my cats, who get into everything possible, and some things which seem impossible (how does a cat get on top of a curtain rod? Answer: she follows the iguana...) Before any of you wonder about the maternal grandparents' role in this, by the way, my boyfriend and I live with them and my soon-to-be auntie of a sister. They have been totally wonderful and accepting, and my mother hauls my butt to L&D everytime my body decides to be random and try to deliver the baby, not to mention sitting and keeping me entertained and comforted by drawing her comic book, Hero in the 21st Century, while sitting listening to me bitch. Now that we are all caught up, tomorrow I can start on the new stuff. The first update will probably be after my non-stress test Friday unless anything goes oogie sooner than that. See y'all then!
:: Eleanor 10:50 AM [+] ::
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The Second Trimester


Second ultrasounds happen, and I am proved right once again (oh, the modesty): it's a girl. Most likely a girl, they're pretty sure. As the ultrasound tech aptly puts it, "88% sure, cuz ain't nothin' hangin' I can see." And she/he/the baby is beautiful, and so much bigger, and it moves so much, and ohmigawd it's a girl and that means she'll want to dress like me, where the hell will I find baby RenFaire outfits and does anyone know how to get baby spitup out of black velvet? And her name will be Sophia, and we can tell my boyfriend's parents...and it is with those last words, "my boyfriend's parents," that I see my little gothling suddenly sporting pink bows and Barbie...anything else would be "unfeminine." Yeesh. Oh well, labor is still a long way away, right?


Wrong. Here it is, late evening, my boyfriend's at work and I've just come home from my job as a cashier and waitress, and there are these...cramps. Bad, icky, awful ones, and my baby hasn't moved. I didn't know she was capable of sitting still. So, it's field trip time to Labor and Delivery again (yes, I got the same doctor. Joy.) Once there I am examined, told that I am fine (contractions are all in my head, of course) and left for a few hours after being poked, prodded, and generally terrified. But at least the worst is over, it was a false alarm, and the baby attacked the heart monitor the minute it was attached, because she hates heart monitors and being picked at almost as much as I do at this point. So home we go. All done! Right?


L&D, Part III: Return to Hell. Hmm. Starting to feel like a bad series of horror movies here (Freddy, anyone?) School. Work. Contractions. 1 am in Labor and Delivery. Same doctor. (My God, why hast thou forsaken me?) Boyfriend and mother falling asleep by my side, I am once again monitored due to bleeding, decreased movement, contractions. And then, the best thing happens: I get put on bedrest! Bedrest sounds nice, right? Relaxing, no? It's a lie. Try it for three months, and you will understand: video games and lounging around in your boyfriend's old t-shirts are only fun when you should be doing something else. Without the guilt factor and on a daily basis, they lose their appeal. Rapidly. But I'm stuck, and it's for the baby, and this should help, right? Are we noticing a trend here? Well, in case you hadn't guessed, it didn't. L&D, another week later, I am put on Breathine to stop my contractions, and bedrest is extended until the first of December or the baby wanting to be born, whichever comes first. It is, at this time, the beginning of October. I want to hurt something. Badly. Unfortunately, it would be too strenuous, so taking out my neighbor's Lexus with a baseball bat is out, unless I can do it while lying on my left side on a bed. Damn.

:: Eleanor 10:12 AM [+] ::
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Introducing....Gothmommy


So, this site was supposed to go up a lot earlier. I wanted to document so much about this pregnancy and all the changes it has caused in my life...except then I got caught up in this pregnancy and all the changes it's caused in my life! Go figure. So, the low down is this: I was/am (might still be if the clothes ever fit again) a pretty devoted goth. All black, gothmusic, loved RenFaire, the works. Not to the extent of reciting badly-written melodramatic poetry, mind you (I have been out of High School for two years) but gothy nonetheless. And then, around about June or July, I got a funny feeling. Any girl who has ever gone through this understands this feeling; it's kind of like the look on the guy's face in "Alien" when that thing starts moving around in his chest, only less muppet-like. So I went to the doctor, and lo and behold, I'm preggers. Three months preggers, in fact.
Wow.

First ultrasounds come around, and so do I: I fall in love with this little tiny thing that is living inside me. It has ten fingers, and ten toes, and a little nose, and at this stage of the game it looks...well, a little creepy. And not too baby-like. But I know how it will look later on, and I fall in love with it. Thoughts of adoption went out the window at this point, I started trying to plan for my "preggers wardrobe;" it was almost as if I was holding my breath to see what would happen next...

What happens next...is a quick emergency trip to the ER for contractions and heart palpitations. I am about four months along here, and terrified, because as many people know there is very little they could do for my baby; survival is probably not even an option. So I'm scared. Of course the trip begins with them leaving me waiting for twenty minutes after rushing me in to the hospital, two people try to get in ahead of me (a nice security guard stops them, and I stopped calling security guards "Turkey bacon rent-a-cops;" fair is fair, I guess) and then it is argued as to whether I should be in Labor and Delivery or the ER...is it a Baby or a medical problem? To a terrified first-time mom, it feels like they're arguing about life and death, and ER is the losing end. Somehow they finally decide (possibly the two head nurses Roshambo'd for it) and I'm on my way to Labor and Delivery. "Thank God," I think. I know better now. L&D is Hell with IV tubes attached, or at the very least a circle thereof, and the doctor I end up with is the archdemon of bad bedside mannerisms. Fortunately, after about 45 minutes of monitoring, they tell me that I--and the baby--are both good to go. I sign my release and jet outta there, hoping not to see it again till January 1st, which was listed as my (properly gothy and dramatic) due date. Not as if I could be doing anything else on New Year's, right?


:: Eleanor 9:35 AM [+] ::
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