Wahoo! I got a clean bill of health from my OB today. After a few creeping-up blood pressures, a lot of fluid retention, and trace amounts of protein in my urine, I had to do a 24-hour pee test and report for extra monitoring to see if I was going all pre-e on everyone.
The answer today: I’m all clear. Nothing to see here, move along! Of course, the silver lining to possible preeclampsia was -- I secretly hoped they’d induce me and I’d be free of this unbelievable belly that threatens to suffocate me on a nightly basis. So okay, I’m back to the natural waiting and outstanding levels of physical discomfort -- but healthily!
Was it the mega doses of protein, magnesium supplements, and pumpkin seeds recommended by my high-school pal who’s now a midwife? The wrong size blood-pressure cuff, as the nurse thought? Just a weird week-long blip? Who cares. I’m glad to be good. Though the nurse was quite impressed with my cankles. My feet look like Macy’s Thanksgiving-Day Parade balloons.
Meanwhile, I keep having amazing false alarms … these days I wake up every morning to a series of crazy contractions that stop just short of becoming regular. (They go away after I birth a poop.) The baby drops a little more, every few days. (Owie.) The stepkids were here last weekend and every time I had a twinge, they jumped up and grabbed my go-bag; they really want to be here for the birth. (They have. No. Idea.)
On Saturday, I had a really great visit with a friend of mine, Amy-Lynn, who’s about 22 weeks along with twins. Her sister Karen was in town, whom I also know from years ago and have many funny connections with, and we had the nicest barbecue out in the backyard. Karen’s a massage therapist and instantly put her amazing healing hands on me, palpating exactly where the baby’s various bits were. “Wow, her head’s so low!” she cooed, as her hand slipped dangerously close to husband territory. “Wow, your hand’s so low!” I scolded. But I’m so glad she showed me exactly where that little head is! I keep patting her wee cranium, though my doctor did the same feel (I should get dinner first, no?) and said, “Well, her head’s got a ways to go, really.”
So: walking, squatting, and rolling around on my yoga ball are my new hobbies. Down you go, little nipper.
Getting home was stressful: I couldn’t get a cab, even when I ran out into the street and hollered at one (toddler-toting FAIL), but then a helpful bus magically pulled up and I realized it was the same line that goes in front of my house. “When are you due?!” the driver said. “I still have a couple weeks,” I told him. “Siddown! Put your money away!” he told me. “Goodness, is she even 2?!” the only other passenger, a kindly old woman, wanted to know. “Nope.” “Oh, bless your heart!”
I got “bless your heart”-ed! I’ve never been “bless your heart”-ed before! Oh, and SF Muni? Pay your drivers double. I heart them.
The real bonus was Sunday, when my old work-pal Cindy came by to indulge her amazingly successful hobby, photography. She shot my wedding, and is expanding to family photography, so I got a deal … did I ever! The demure shot above is, of course, just lovely (and typical of most of her work) -- but as the morning wore on we got gigglier and naughtier and I will just say there may be some somewhat inappropriate pin-up cheesecake bump shots a-coming. My husband popped his head in and I thought his water was going to break. So stay tuned.
I am so stoked that, this time around, I actually got the belly shots I wanted. I almost didn’t let it happen because I was worried about my hair being the wrong color. Idiotic. Much as I hate the discomfort, I already miss being pregnant. And though I’m glad I waiting for my emotional well-being’s sake, there’s a part of me that feels like jeesh, maybe I’m good at carrying babies, and if I’d started earlier, I’d have a third or a fourth.
Or not. Because really? Ow. And yuck. When my LA sister called today, I whined about the horrible discomfort of these final weeks, and how the doctor told me, “I have no idea why they designed pregnancy this way.” “Oh, I know why,“ my sister said. “It’s so you don’t mind what happens next.”
Oh. Good point.
Anyway, yoga ball, bounce bounce bounce.
Image via hopparazzi.com