Tag Archives: anxiety

The Perfect Storm of Urgh

13 Mar

So. Bunny started day care.

The first day I dropped her off, I literally sat in the car, outside the day care center for AN HOUR AND A HALF crying like a baby. It brought every single anxiety I’ve been feeling to the surface.

I called my brother and he reminded me that my mother not letting us find our independence is a huge reason we’re both a bit messed up.

That thought and a mixture of emotional detachment and xan.ax got me through week one. It was clear that I was the one who needed adjusting. Bunny seemed to like it there. Shmerson (who did the majority of the dropping-off) commented on how he could hear her do her happy squeal as he was leaving.

Yes, she got home exhausted and I felt like I was completely missing out on her. But I knew it would get better.

They also started giving her solids. I’d done a small introduction to them, and I was totally on board with them taking the reigns.

Then – the tummy trouble started. I won’t go into detail – but it wasn’t pretty.

Then – Bunny literally started screaming just at the sight of a bottle and has been refusing food since Monday.

It was a perfect storm – starting solids, she had just finished cutting her first two teeth, some sort of virus which made her throat hurt, and her reflux is definitely worse.

I took her to the doctor on Tuesday. He said I just had to ride it out. He suggested I talk to the gastro specialist about the new eating issues.

I’ve been home with her ever since. Every bottle is a fight. She’s miserable. I’m miserable.

The gastro specialist got back to me today and I missed his call. Once I managed to call him back he didn’t have time to talk and just said we should switch meds. Though I didn’t get a chance to tell him she’s been crying just at the SIGHT of a bottle. But we’ll make the switch and hope for the best.

But in the meantime, she’s losing weight.


My mistrust of doctors. I’ve been told before that everything would be fine by a doctor then it wasn’t. I no longer believe everything will be fine.

My guilt at putting Bunny in day care.

My incredible anxiety that something bad will happen to her.

And on and on.

Oh – I’m also blaming the day care for making my baby sick.  Even though I know it’s normal and it happens. I just want to pull  her out of there. It’s a perfectly nice place. I just want her home with me.

It’s a perfectly nice place that I no longer trust because my daughter refuses to eat.

It’s a perfectly nice place that gets to enjoy my daughter for the majority of her awake and energetic day. While I do what – effing internet content? Some days it just doesn’t seem to be worth it.

Logically I know she needs to stay. I just don’t know how the hell I’m going to be able to drop her off on Monday without freaking out and/or calling every 3 minutes.

It’s been a miserable couple of days. I’m seriously afraid that the eating issue and other tummy issues are not just a virus and reflux but something worse. I’ve been avoiding Dr. Google like the plague. I’ve been crying. I’ve been worried. I’ve been anxious.

I hate this. Everything is flooding me. I’m completely overwhelmed with anxiety. And I know this is TERRIBLE  for her. I need to fucking let go and relax.

But she’s not eating. And she’s in pain. And she’s paler than usual and I can tell she’s lost weight. And I feel helpless.

I hate this.

A Few Guidelines

20 Aug

Ok guys I will start by saying that I love you all, and your comments are a huge source of strength for me, truly.

But I’ve had a few comments lately that make me feel the need to address you all as a whole, because going one by one here does not seem to cut it.

So please take a moment to put up with my bitter.

I am an RPLer with severe PTSD. I am currently in what is probably the most anxiety-ridden part of this very anxiety-filled pregnancy. I have written here more than once about how hard it is for me to deal. The smallest thing right now sends me into a tailspin that involves crying and sometimes hours of obsessing and worry.

I know you are all trying to be supportive, and that’s awesome, but some of you have been writing out words and scenarios in the comments that are triggering to me. So now, rather than going into a blog comment looking forward to getting a bit of bloggy love, I’m starting to dread what I will read.

This is my space, and I need it for my sanity right now. Please help me keep it safe. Here’s how:

No matter the context please refrain from using the “s” word – I’m not going to type it out here, because typing it out will give me a panic attack. It ends in “th”. It’s what happened to Nadav. I can’t read it, no matter the context. So don’t use it. Also any combination of words that mean the same as that word. It’s just bad all around.

Please do not go into detail about your fears of what “could have happened” to your baby or any other baby. I know what can go wrong. Long diatribes and descriptions about what can go wrong is the last thing I need to read right now. I have enough of that running through my head as it is.

Please don’t tell me that I’m doing something wrong unless you truly think I am endangering B5. The mere hint that my doctors are stearing me the wrong way is enough to send me into a tailspin right now. I have to trust them, otherwise I have nothing.

Please do keep sharing your stories and experiences. Just please think twice before writing out detailed worst-case scenarios. I can’t read those right now. I just can’t.

Don’t think I’m ungrateful. I truly love all of you. But I’ve had 3 panic attacks today because of comments on my own blog. I really need to protect myself right now. I’m sorry.

Even though I initially approved some of them, I’ve now deleted all the comments that were a trigger. Sorry to those of you I deleted, I just have to protect myself here. I know you all meant well, and I’m not mad or anything. Please don’t stop reading or showing your support, it truly does mean the world to me. I just need a little eggshell walking right now, ok? Ok.

Bullets and Bunnies – Sick and Tired Edition

19 Aug
  • 38 weeks tomorrow.  I was seriously hoping she’d be out by now. I know that doesn’t usually happen but I figured with the de-stitching and all, we’d have a good jump start on getting things moving.
  • The fit-ball has been taken out, long walks have been initiated. Other than both of those things making me want to pee ALL THE TIME, no huge difference yet.  Though I do think I MAY have lost my mucus plug yesterday. But that can happen waaay before labor kicks in. Le sigh.
  • My mom is CONVINCED I’m going to give birth on her birthday. That’s this Wednesday. I highly doubt she’s right. Trying not to get my hopes up. It’s not like the woman has psychic powers. For the record, I’ll take Thursday or Friday just as happily. Tuesday would be even better. Just sayin’.
  • My anxiety has been through the roof. I’m no longer counting kicks 3 times a day, I’m counting them ALL DAY. With the exception of the occasional rare distraction, it seems like all I’ve been doing lately is focusing on whether she’s moving enough. This is not a fun place to be.
  • The anxiety isn’t just around counting kicks. It’s around everything. Giving birth, what happens if anything goes wrong, what happens if everything goes right (just as scary to me for some reason). How I’ll react to certain triggers, whether I’ll be able to keep my cool. It’s just everything. I’m a hormonal mess. By the time Shmerson comes home each night he usually finds me sitting on the couch crying. Good times all around.
  • When Shmerson goes to bed, he usually kisses my stomach and says “good night”. The last couple of days he’s been kissing it and saying “get out”. Hear hear!
  • I think the best way to describe my overall mood at this point is just sick and tired. Sick and tired of the same daily routine. Sick and tired of eating the same effing thing every day. Sick and tired of work. Sick and tired of running over every possible scenario in my head over and over again. Sick and tired of the anxiety. Sick and tired of “what if”.
  • I happened to see the Russian while waiting for my high-risk OB appointment last week.  I told him that he did too good a job with my cerclage. He laughed and said “at this rate, you’ll go to 42 weeks”. Not funny Russian. NOT FUNNY.
  • I can haz labor now?
  • No, seriously. Poopik is not amused.
  • At least you can haz a bunny:


The Not-Quite Emergency

30 Jul

Let me start by saying everything is fine.  Now on to the story:

B5 has had a relatively consistent movement pattern. Today she decided that patterns are for losers.

I’m used to a nice barrage of kicks in the morning. Today, she barely poked me once when I woke up. Her movement is relatively consistent throughout the day. Today she was quiet.

At first I wasn’t too concerned. I still felt an occasional jab though they were few and far between. But by the afternoon I was anxious to the point of distraction. I wasn’t getting any work done. I was staring at the computer screen, not able to concentrate on anything, while at the same time just trying to will B5 to give me a nice big movement like she usually does.

But nothing. It’s not that she wasn’t moving at all – but what I felt was TINY. Comparable to week 16. Not 35 weeks by a long shot. It was like she was barely there.

I did some kick counts and again, she squeaked by. I knew logically that it was enough but it was simply NOT LIKE HER.  By 4pm I whipped out the doppler – something I hadn’t felt the need to do in weeks and weeks. It took me 15 minutes to find her heartbeat, and even then it was only for a few seconds.

By that point I was hysterical.

On one hand, I knew that logically everything is supposedly fine. But having been through worst-case-scenarios before all I could think about was the what-ifs.

Whether something was wrong or not, my PTSD was in full force and I was terrified. I called my health service’s nurse hotline and was very honest about feeling movement, but just LESS.

Because I was high risk, she told me to go to L&D, just in case.

My mom came over to pick me up and Shmerson left work early to meet us there.

Of course the moment I was put on the monitor B5 decided it was time to practice some dance moves. Something I had been longing for all day. I calmed down a bit but was still not convinced that everything was fine.

BTW – it took the nurse a moment or two to get a good hold of B5’s heartbeat as well. Seems like she’s just in an awkward position.

U/S showed a “perfect” rear placenta, fluid levels normal, and a perfectly healthy B5.

The doctor was very sweet and reassuring. I guess with my history, no one really judges me if I freak out once in a while.

Honestly I don’t regret going to get checked out. Even with the SLIGHTEST chance that something is off,  I know too much about what can go wrong. I’m not taking any chances.

But I think in this home stretch things are really starting to take a toll on my psyche. Between switching meds, being stuck at home all day in the sweltering heat, and my building anxiety over what’s to come I guess I was destined for a meltdown.

T-minus two weeks until the cerclage comes out (as of now we’re back to removal at 37 weeks). Let’s hope I manage to keep my sanity – at least as much of it as I have left.

PS- THANK YOU ALL for your sweet comments on my last post. They made me feel a helluva lot better, and a lot less alone. You guys are the best.

Fertile World Problems

17 Jul

So today I saw my psychiatrist for the first time since going on bed rest. I made the appointment now in order to get things squared away in case I have to deal with postpartum depression (PPD), which I’m at VERY high risk for. I wanted to make sure that in case of a med switch, we had plenty of time to pull it off.

I left the appointment practically in tears.

So here’s the deal:

I’ve been on a drug called zy.prexa for the last 4 months. It was a good interim solution because it can handle high-anxiety situations as well as curb depression. Though it’s not usually prescribed for depression and anxiety, it’s known to work for people who are SSRI-resistant (or in other words people who the usual happy pills don’t work on – like me).

So I walk into the shrink’s office and pretty much the first thing I tell him is that I have GD. Immediately he says that it could very well have been caused by the zy.prexa. I knew that weight gain was a side effect (knew that all too well, thank-you-very-much), but I had no idea it could affect my blood sugar. He told me that he wanted me to stop the pill immediately, and manage through the rest of the pregnancy with the occasional xan.ax (ok during the third trimester as long as I don’t take any after week 38), and that’s it. The zy.prexa has too much potential to do harm.

He also said that he would recommend I never take the pill again because he’s afraid of the long-term risks for my health, and that it may cause diabetes for me in the long run if I continue to take it.

I have to say I was a bit relieved. I don’t regret taking the pill – it helped me keep my shit together, and if GD is a side effect of that, so be it, but I’m glad to know that there’s a chance my blood sugar will even out more now that I’m going off the pill. And there’s no way of knowing if the pill caused the GD or is just not helping a set situation. Either way I can see an upside to both having been on it, and now going off of it.

Then came the bombshell:

Shrink: “So after you give birth, I want you to breastfeed for a week, then we’ll put you back on a low dose of cym.balta”.

Me: “Ok… Wait… What do you mean breastfeed for a week?”

Shrink: “There’s not enough research out there about cym.balta. You shouldn’t breastfeed while you’re on it.”

Me: “WHAT?”

There was a continual back-and-forth about this but basically the conclusion is this:

I can wait it out to see if PPD hits before I start taking the pill (about three weeks after giving birth), but if I do get PPD, I have no choice but to stop breastfeeding immediately because I would never risk it with cym.balta in my system. I can’t get another pill because me and SSRI’s (zo.loft, pa.xil and the like) are NOT friends at all, and zy.prexa is too big of a risk, so I’m stuck with this one form of happy pill, and I can’t do anything about it.

The fact is that there’s a pretty decent chance I’ll get PPD. I have practically every risk factor in the book between my losses and my history of depression. And if I get PPD, of course it needs to be treated, which means I won’t be able to breastfeed. So now here’s yet another thing taken away from me, and I fucking hate it.

Look – I joked that if breastfeeding doesn’t come easily to me I’ll happily use cym.balta as an excuse to stop. But I have a feeling that may not be the case. What if I love it? How can I give it up if it comes naturally to me and B5?

When I called Shmerson and told him the verdict he pointed out that these are first world problems. That six months ago I would have killed to be in a discussion about the risks of breastfeeding while on SNRI’s.

And he’s right, but right now it doesn’t make this hurt any less.

All I can do now is hope that by some miracle I don’t get PPD. But realistically I know that chances of that are close to nil.

So yes, this is a “fertile world problem”. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to cry my eyes out over it. So excuse me while I go do that.

It Never Goes Away

3 Jul

So I’ve been silent for a while because I was stuck in a brand-spanking new anxiety bubble.

Looking back at it, it was a totally illogical hormonal meltdown. But when you’re in the middle of it, it just seems incredibly real.

Here’s how it started: Last Thursday during the day I felt B5 move a little less than usual. I was a bit worried, but the kick counts I did were fine. On Friday, we had our second childbirth class with our doula, and I mentioned it to her. She was very sweet, and told me what to do if I get really concerned about less movement. Basically: That if I need to, I shouldn’t be afraid to go to the ER to get checked out. Nobody would judge me for it.

At the same time, my blood sugar readings have been a bit high. Nothing too big – 5 points over what they should be on average. But that was there.

Something about those two incidents started getting me to panic (I honestly can’t put my finger on what it was). On Saturday B5 opened a circus in my ute, so I calmed down a bit. But then again on Sunday – quiet. Again – the kick counts were fine. Things were just – softer than usual. The same thing happened on Monday. I knew logically that there was no reason for me to worry. I spoke to the high-risk nurse on Monday as well because of my slightly high sugar readings, and she confirmed, everything is fine.

But then something kind of snapped. On Tuesday I freaked. The eff. Out. I did 3 kick counts in as many hours. I called everyone from my mom to the high-risk nurse crying hysterically. They all told me to just go to the ER, but I knew deep down that this was all in my head and there’s really no reason to spend 5 hours in an ER over this.

I just kept on running through terrible scenarios over and over. It wasn’t really the quieter movement, or the slightly high sugar readings. It was the PTSD and the hormones wreaking havoc on my psyche.

We had our first tour of an L&D ward last night, and on the way there, B5 decided to re-open the circus. Finally I breathed deeply again.

Do I regret not going to the ER? No. I know that nothing is actually wrong right now. My high-risk OB looked at my blood sugar numbers yesterday and didn’t think it was necessary to medicate. B5 has been showing off in my ute all day today.

I think that two things are happening: The first, is that this is all becoming very REAL. I’m less than 6 weeks away from getting my cerclage removed. That’s next month. That’s nuts. It just seems surreal to have come this far. The second is of course the residual PTSD from everything we’ve been through. I can’t think about labor without remembering the last time I went through it. And it’s time I start thinking about labor. I need to find a way to do it without bursting into tears.

So I’ve upped my therapist back to once a week, and I’m trying to work through all of this. Slowly but surely I’m regaining hold of sanity. Let’s just hope that it sticks around.

And Just Like That…

13 Jun

So something went wrong with dinner tonight and I had an unusually high blood sugar reading afterward.

Then I decided to google it to see if it was a big deal.

I found a site that seemed very informative with some nice comprehensive stuff about the condition. I made the mistake of reading it and it scared the eff out of me by getting into worst case scenarios which I didn’t really want to read (and I really don’t want to repeat here), and I’ve been avoiding like the plague. Yay me for being a genius and not stopping reading when I should have. Stupid Dr. Google.

And just like that, a switch went off in my head and all optimism got tossed out the window. I’m pretty much back to terrified and emotionally detached now.

Somebody talk me down, because this is no fun.

A Shift

10 May

Today I’m 23 weeks, 3 days.

That’s 4 days away from viability.

There’s a little chalk board hanging outside my kitchen, and about a month ago I drew a calendar on it, which ends on May 14th, with the 14th circled in yellow chalk. I’ve been blocking out the days left. Somewhere after my last post, I stopped blocking them out.

After all “viability” is really just an arbitrary date, kind of like the due date. Viability doesn’t happen ON the day, it kind of happens around it. During my blogging black out, I was emailing back and forth with a few women who had stories similar to mine. One thing they kept on saying was that there were three major places where things distinctly started to feel better: the day after the day everything went wrong last time, viability, and 28 weeks.

For me, everything went wrong just a week and two days short of viability, so I’m starting to find that for all intents and purposes, those two dates kind of blended into each other.

I go to a high-risk OB once every two weeks. He’s really ok with seeing me once a month because that’s the frequency he usually sees women with preventive cerclages, but I asked for every two weeks to ease my mind and he obliged. He’s cool like that.

So yesterday I had another appointment with him. Usually I get nervous before these appointments. Yesterday things were different. I felt anticipation, not nerves.

I at first chalked it up to the fact that Shmerson and I had decided to take my short parole and use it as an excuse to go see “Iron Man 3” and grab some dinner after the appointment since the mall is so close to the high-risk OB. Now I’m not so sure that it was simply looking forward to a few hours of freedom.

I go into the nurse’s office to get weighed in and see that I’ve gained another whopping 4 pounds. My blood pressure is taken and I see that the nurse uses the “fat cuff”. However, I manage to forgive myself and am happy to note that this is the lowest BP reading I’ve had since I started going to the high-risk clinic (my BP is always a bit on the high side).

Then we go into the high-risk OB’s office and I have a date with la wanda to check out my cervix. He pronounces that it’s nice an long and that everything looks “perfectly gorgeous”. He takes a look at B5 too and pronounces her “568 grams and just fine”. She has her back to us in the U/S so we don’t get to see much, but that’s ok.

Then, on his way back to the desk he says the following words: “Yep, I think you are going to be just fine this time around. ”

As in – everything is looking good. I think this is your take-home baby.

At every single doctor’s appointment until now – with him, with a second opinion guy I saw about a month and a half ago, with the Russian – they’ve all kept the same line: “I think you’re fine, but I can’t see the future, and I can’t make any promises.”

And here we are – “I think you’re fine.” With no caveat. With no “but”.

I’m not taking this doc’s word as gospel, but he is a high-risk OB. He’s been around the block so-to-speak. As he said what he said I thought: “Hmm. So this is what viability feels like.”

When Shmerson and I walked out of the clinic, I couldn’t help but high-five him. Something about all of this made it feel like an accomplishment.

When we got to the mall, Shmerson started acting a bit weird. I asked him what was going on with him as I was waiting for my bubble tea to be made and he said that it was as if all of the tension of the last six months was washing over him at once. Like something had come loose.

Then we went into the theater. I kind of let my mind wander for the fist 20 minutes or so of the movie. Then something weird happened. I started having butterflies in my stomach. I felt like someone was giving me electric shock. The thought literally hit me like a ton of bricks: “We might actually have a baby at the end of this. A real, live baby.”

Of course panic set in right after. Then I let it all wash over me and sunk into the movie.

After the movie, over burgers, I described the moment to Shmerson. He was shocked. “You mean that never occurred to you before this? You never thought this would end in a baby?”

“Not really. Not in such a real sense. I guess I was just really emotionally detached from it all. ”

He was in shock. I guess he didn’t know how serious my isolation and depression have been. I don’t blame him. I truly think the depth of it is a bit hard to fathom.

Then I said: “If B5 actually comes out of this healthy, I think my head might explode.”

Pretty much sums it up.

Of course today I’m more or less back to where I was a few days ago, but yes – I think there has been a shift. Yesterday, for the first time, I let hope sneak in. Just a little bit. It’s a scary feeling. But it’s there.

Next thing you know I’ll find myself ordering an “I’m with stupid” maternity shirt.

Ok probably not. Let’s not go overboard. I’m getting a panic attack just sharing yesterday’s events, so probably not any time soon.

One step at a time, I guess.

On Being a Bad Fortune Cookie Joke

29 Apr

First a couple of notes: My domain default is now set back to mommyodyssey.wordpress.com, so anybody who was having problems getting to my last post through their email and/or commenting –  hopefully that will no longer be a problem. Hopefully I’ll have my old domain back soon enough… In the meantime, if you’re still having problems, please contact me so I can work out the kinks. Thanks!

Second: Thank you! The positive outpouring from my last post has been overwhelming. You guys rock.

Now back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

I guess it’s time for a “head space” update, since I’ve been away for so long.

So most of you know how it goes. You open up a fortune cookie, read the fortune, and tack the words “in bed” at the end of it, because – you know – that’s funny and stuff. (That’s what she said.)

So to demonstrate: You will have a great windfall… In bed. Bend the rod while it is still hot… In bed. And so forth. So that’s been my life for the last 9-ish weeks (is that all really? It feels like so much longer).

Ok that’s not exactly true. I’m on modified bed rest. Which basically means I can do some stuff. And I don’t really have to stay in bed. It’s more like couch rest, really (but that’s not nearly as catchy). However, that doesn’t make me any less stir crazy. I can’t cook, clean, or do laundry. I leave the house on average once every two weeks for a doctor’s appointment. I think the couch is already taking on a nice little indentation of my butt. So that’s awesome.

I lucked out because I spent the first third of my pregnancy securing long-term content clients, so I have plenty of work to keep me busy. The problem is it doesn’t keep me distracted from the SHEER TERROR. Because seriously guys, I’m terrified. Constantly. And I love this little girl already so much that it hurts. And the thought that I can still lose her paralyzes me.

I’ve also been really detached from friends and family. I don’t call people much or text or do much of anything, because I just feel like on one hand, I don’t want to talk about what I’m going through, and on the other hand that’s all I can think about so I can’t really talk about anything else.

And watching TV or movies isn’t working well to distract either. We even bought a new Xbox and that’s not making a dent in distracting me from the sheer terror. So that’s fun.

So everything I’ve done in the last 9 weeks has only really been done with about 25% of my brain power, because I can’t stop thinking about how scary all of this is, and about how everything can go wrong in a matter of seconds. That’s where 75% of my brain power is right now. If not more.

Just don’t tell my clients. That would be baaaaad.


7 Jun

First of all, thank you everyone for your amazing comments on yesterday’s post. Sharing your vices, giving support, and reminding me that I’m worthy of having some hope. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.

So here’s what happened after I hit “publish”:

I had a complete meltdown.

As in – I hadn’t had one this bad since about a week after we lost Nadav.

As in – panic attack, destructive thoughts, hysterical crying – the whole pile of crapnuggets.

I tried calling Shmerson and he wasn’t answering his phone. I knew I shouldn’t be alone. So I called my mom and she came over and we had a talk.

Amazingly enough – she really helped me get my head straight again. She’s not usually this good with crises but somehow she pulled it off. Yay mom!

After reading all of your comments, a lot of talking, and yes, a bit of smoking, here is all of the good that came out of yesterday (in list form, of course):

1. Douchenozzle is now officially my favorite word ever. Seriously. I just thought I’d put that out there.

2. I’m changing therapists. I love my shrink, and I’ve been with her for four years. But the fact that I still go to these destructive places, and the fact that I constantly have to “explain” pregnancy loss and infertility to her means she’s just not what I need right now.

I’ve seen what wonders a therapist specializing in IF has done for Cristy, and I really think I need someone now who understands what this feels like. So this Monday will probably be my last session. After four years, it’s time to move on.

3. I’m signing up for the accelerated Art Therapy program. One thing I didn’t share with you guys be cause I was very much in ZOMG THE DRAMA – land yesterday, is that when I met with the head of the program, she also said: Apply first, make decisions later.

So I bit the bullet and did my online application last night. Then I emailed her to tell her about it and she was THRILLED. She knows that things are still up in the air, and that’s ok with her and with me. What’s the worst that can happen? I get accepted to the program and can’t do it, and I start the next year with the regular program. That’s really not the end of the world.

This also means I’m going back to school in July! There are a bunch of pre-requisites that I have to take before the program can officially accept me, and I’m going to do them all in the summer (or as many as I can fit in anyway).

Here’s the crazy thing: Just this little act of filling out an online application has done WONDERS! Usually, when I try falling asleep, or just shutting my eyes for a few minutes of rest, my mind wanders to fantasies that usually include a baby in my arms. Today, my mind went to ideas for a thesis. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.

3. I am officially stopping the delusion that I can pull off quitting smoking cold turkey. Instead, I’m going to start by gradually cutting down. A bunch of you said in the comments – and you’re right – that one step at a time is the right thing. So yeah – I’m taking the long road for once on this.

4. I bought a new dress today. And I dyed my hair purple. And I ate some sushi.

5. The major takeaway from all of this is that in my hurry I kind of let go of some of the things that I learned from losing Nadav. I put on horse blinders and that was wrong.

I forgot that putting my life on hold – for any reason – does only harm.

I forgot that when it comes to infertility, no amount of speculation and planning will help the outcome, and sometimes, that planning can come back and bite you in the ass in the form of disappointment.

So when it comes to my life – I’m better off moving forward without letting the “what if”s get in the way of my “right now”s.

6. Hee hee. Douchenozzle. I seriously don’t know where I got it, but I love it. Oh! Turns out it actually has a definition! And now of course I must create a douchenozzle cat. I mean, really, how can I not? I owe it to the world.

Here you go, world:

You’re welcome.

Wherein I Feel Like a Broken Record

21 Apr

So have you guys ever had this happen to you?

I want to stop thinking about being pregnant. I want to stop wanting to be pregnant. But I just can’t turn it off.

I’ve been keeping busy, working hard, doing things that are supposed to be fun. But it keeps creeping in. I can’t control it.

Today marks two months since we lost Nadav. Time has both flown by and dragged on. It’s the strangest feeling. I miss him, I mourn him. But a part of me feels like there are things about losing him that I have yet to process. Just the decision to try again has brought up a bunch of new feelings. I’m pretty sure that getting pregnant again will bring more to the surface.

This week I made an appointment for a second opinion. Ever since then I’ve been terrified of finding out that the Russian made a mistake. I know that’s probably not going to happen, but it’s been haunting me.

I HAVE to trust him. If I don’t, I’ll spend the next pregnancy even more terrified. I can’t do that. I have to feel like I’m in good hands. He brought us further than any other doctor has. I don’t want to switch doctors. He has a stake in this. He knows me. I have to continue to trust him.

Even though the Russian didn’t give me a magic solution, I’m kind of hoping that Dr. Second Opinion will give me the same information. It would just make things so much easier.

In the meantime, I’m in a constant battle to keep myself distracted, but the insatiable need to get all of this behind me keeps me from moving forward completely. I know I have (hopefully, please) 6 months of being in bed ahead of me. 9 months (please please please) of worry and anxiety.

Like I wrote to Court in an email a few minutes ago, I know I have this incredibly long and hard road ahead of me, and I just want to get on with it already.

Don’t know if that’s healthy, but that’s just where I am.

In other news, I dyed my hair pink.

And yes, I love it.

Drawing a Line

16 Feb

Well, apparently I’m back to posting again, because I keep on feeling compelled to, so there ya go.

Please forgive me in advance if my commenting is still lacking for the next short while.

So here’s what you’ve missed:

Two weeks ago we went in for a check up to see how my cervix was doing and we got a peek at Shmaby. My cervix was still going strong at 3cm, and Shmaby was measuring right on target, but seeing as this is me, things can’t just be fine and dandy.

The Russian noticed that I had excess amniotic fluid. This basically means one of three things:

  1. Nothing.
  2. Gestational Diabetes
  3. Something’s wrong with Shmaby

The Russian decided to take a “wait and see” approach. In Israel, you basically have two “level II” scans. One at around 16 weeks, and the second sometime between 22 and 23 weeks. So he just said we’ll see what the scan brings. My glucose test thingy will be happening when I’m 24 weeks.

So basically, for the last two weeks I’ve been terrified that something is wrong with the little one (of course). GD is not something I’m too worried about. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have it (after all, so far I’ve had practically every other complication under the sun), and I know it’s pretty manageable. Sure, it would be no fun. But nothing much about this pregnancy has been fun so far. I’ll manage.

But there’s still a bit of a chance that something was missed or was too small to show up at our 16 week scan. Yes, it’s only a small chance. But it’s there. And I’m terrified.

That’s why I’ve been waiting with bated breath until next Wed. That’s when I’ll know with at least some assurance whether Shmaby is Ok. And until then, well, catatonic zombie mode pretty much continues.

Going into our first major scan, I admit, I was starting to feel optimistic. I came into the Russian’s office with a long list of questions, but mostly mundane “what can I do about my horrible heartburn” type-stuff. Nothing serious. I was looking forward to seeing Shmaby, finding out the sex, etc. etc.

Of course, all of those questions went right out the window with the IC diagnosis, the cerclage, and the bed rest.

Going into next Wed. I once again have a laundry list of questions. About choosing our hospital, whether I can consider taking pre-natal yoga with the cerclage, that kind of thing.

And of course, I know that at the end of this scan, either I will finally get to ask my questions, or Shmerson and I will once again be thrown into a brand new spiral of worry.

I’m 22 weeks tomorrow, and we’ve done nothing to prepare for the fact that a baby is most likely entering our home in a few months. Not even a single onesie has been bought. I haven’t started looking into birthing classes. I haven’t toured any of our area hospitals. I haven’t even set foot in a baby store. Or even a maternity store  (and I need one pretty badly, I’m stretching my bras down to the thread).

I can’t do it any of it yet. I just can’t. Not until we get some concrete answers about Shmaby.

Eventually I know I have to draw a line and get going on these things. I’ve spent two years preoccupied with getting and staying pregnant. I haven’t spent even a single minute figuring out how to change a diaper or breast feed. These are things I need to learn how to do, and if all goes well, I don’t have much time to study up.

I thought the line would be 24 weeks – viability. But after our last appointment I now know the true line is 22 and half weeks. Because that’s when we’ll know if he’s ok.

That’s when I’ll either finally pull out my list of questions or have a whole new set of them pop up within minutes of the scan (along with a whole lot of heartache).

And then –  if all goes well –  maybe I’ll buy some maternity bras and a couple of new pairs of undies. Spaghetti Monster knows I need them. Maybe I’ll even consider buying the little guy his first onesie and ordering some stuff for the nursery.

But first I need to know he’s Ok.


15 Feb

Yesterday at the end of my post I wrote:

“The father of our lost children, and of the little boy that will come into our lives in a few months.”

I spent half an hour on that sentence, because of one word I kept writing and deleting: Hopefully.

The little boy that will hopefully come into our lives in a few months.

I wrote it. I deleted it. I looked at the sentence, and wrote the word again. Over and over at least 10 times before I ultimately deleted the word.

Then it took me another 5 minutes to hit publish. It was nuts. I couldn’t bring myself to write about him as if he was a sure thing, yet I could write about him as if he wasn’t.

What finally decided it was one fact that I know for sure: No matter what happens, he is already a part of our lives.

7 days until the anatomy scan. Holding my breath.

The Double-Edged Sword

2 Feb

Before I got pregnant, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t become one of those ALI bloggers that disappears from the blogosphere once she is knocked up.

I swore I would update often, and keep the spirit of this blog alive. I swore I would continue to comment on everyone else’s blogs. That I would be present.

Little did I know.

I get it now. I understand why they disappear. For the same reason I haven’t really been present here for a while. It’s time I just come to terms with it.

The ALI community is a double-edged sword. We band together for support, and in the worst of times, we are there for each other.

But that’s the problem as well. We are here in the worst of times.

Before I came here I was alone. More alone than I had ever felt in my life.

I found friends here. Women who understood me better than I understood myself.

The problem is that in this space I became part of a screaming minority. We are the women on the bad end of the statistics. We are the worst-case scenarios. We are the 30% of miscarriages. The 5% of post-D&C infections that mess up our systems. The ectopics. The stillbirths. The preemies. The genetic anomalies. The placental abruptions. The incompetent cervixes. We are the embodiment of every horror story. Our collective pain and loss are endless.

I’ve gotten a couple of emails in the last few weeks asking me why I barely blog any more. The truth is that it’s because I just don’t know what to say. I’m between a rock and a hard place.

On one hand, I am unendingly lucky. Tomorrow, I will officially be at the halfway point of this pregnancy. Shmaby is moving around, making himself more known to me every day. I am eternally grateful for that. I even feel guilty for having it. I know there are thousands of women out there who would kill to be in my shoes.

On the other hand, I am a part of this community. I am a woman who’s body has failed her too many times to count. I don’t trust my body any more. I don’t trust it to keep my baby safe until he is ready to come into this world. That won’t change until I get proven wrong.

I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been following along with everyone. I’ve been feeling too guilty to comment on the blogs of women still going through the torture of IF and RPL. And I’ve been fueling my anxiety by reading continuously about the pain and loss that keeps on happening in our little universe.

Today I finally broke down and confessed to Shmerson that I am not doing as well as I have been pretending to do. I am, more or less, where I was before my first breakdown a year ago. I spend my days emotionally detached. Willing myself to just make it through one more day. Sleeping as much as I can so the time passes by faster. Keeping away from the people and the things I love.

Because if I stop and look around, the fear gets to be too much. I imagine the worst case scenarios, because I know them so well. I imagine them and know I wouldn’t have the strength to deal with another setback. That if something goes wrong I would march into a hospital and demand to be put in a coma. I am tired. I am worn out. I am scared. I hate myself for it.

Every day I feel Him move I love him more. I worry for him more. And living inside the worst-case scenarios that are part of this community is fueling the fire.

I go into BL blogs and read the stories. I find myself obsessively checking for symptoms of early labor, holding my breath in the hopes that nothing goes wrong. That my body decides not to fail me for a change.

I hate myself for doing it. I hate myself for not being able to just be there for those who are suffering loss, and at the same time rejoice in  the fact that my baby is here. Healthy, and growing, and kicking up a storm.

I spend my days fueling the anxiety fire more and more.

Today Shmerson kindly requested that I stop doing that.

I think I need a break.

I feel terrible. How dare I take a break from this community when you guys have been there for me at the worst of times? It’s my responsibility to stick it out for you.

But I also need to take care of myself. I need to stop living in this constant fear loop.

It’s not like I’m being particularly insightful or engaging anyway as of late, so I figure I won’t be missed much if I disappear for a few weeks.

And I think I need it for my sanity.

So – I’m sorry. I love you guys, but I’m giving myself a breather. I’ll be back here at our 24 week anatomy scan. Hopefully viability will calm my nerves enough for me to be present again.

Hopefully there is no reason for me to be back here sooner.

I love you all. I’m still here if you need me via email. I just need to reboot my sanity. I hope you forgive me and come back when I return.

And I hope to see a crapload of healthy pregnancies when I get back.

See you then.

On Hold

27 Jan

Before we dive into this post, please head over to Wannabemom’s blog. She lost her little one at 16 weeks, and could use everyone’s love and support right now. My heart is broken for her.

Honestly, after reading her news, I feel kind of selfish for even writing about what’s been going on in my head. Though on the other hand, it’s precisely these moments that keep me sober, and scared.

I’m 19 weeks today. Almost half way. A few days ago I started feeling him move in a much more defined way than ever before. I sang to him, and he responded by giving me a swift kick in the bladder. It was miraculous. I cried for ages afterward, just in awe of him.

A few days ago I was talking to Shmerson, when he admitted he was scared to go to that wedding last week. He was scared because he knew we’d have fun, and every single time in the past that we’ve had fun while I was pregnant, something has gone horribly wrong.

This is what we’ve come to. We can’t go out and have fun, because something will obviously go wrong. Ahh, the joys of PTSD.

I feel like I’m holding my breath until we reach viability. Or, if I’m really being honest, I’m holding my breath until our Shmaby comes out safe, sound, and healthy.

I have not bought one piece of baby clothing. I have not bought one maternity related item (even though I’m really starting to need a few things). I have not posted funny little anecdotes about my insane cravings. I have done nothing to prepare for if when (who knows) our baby comes into this world. Because I’m holding my breath. I’m not doing a thing every day except keeping myself busy in between “What if”s.

I think that so much has gone wrong for us so often that it’s become impossible for me to imagine that things can go right. It’s much easier for me to visualize a worst-case scenario, because we’ve been there so many times before. In my world, my body fails me more often than not. That is a fact that has just been compounded by this incompetent cervix diagnosis. Things will go wrong, because they have gone wrong in the past. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

I don’t know when I’ll get the courage, if ever, to step into a store and look at stuff for this baby. I don’t know if I’ll ever let myself truly enjoy every minute of this.

The fact is that I am not normal. My body is not normal. I am, as I’ve said before, broken until proven otherwise.

Each day that passes I love Him more and more. And with each day the terror increases exponentially. The thought of possibly losing Him is terrifying.

So I’m on hold until further notice. Probably 21-ish more weeks. I wish I had a fast forward button.

Please Don’t Hate Me

16 Jan

Ok, first thing’s first: Thank you everyone for your feedback on my last post. I posted a status that night (which basically ended up being a hybrid of all three suggestions) and it was amazing to get an such an outpouring of joy and congratulatory gushing. It made me feel normal for a few minutes, which was nice.

Now back to the post at hand.

*Warning: Pregnancy complaints ahead, please feel free to skip if you’re not in a good place right now.

Going on week three of bed rest, and today was just lovely – cramping, spotting, and to top it all off a killer sinus headache. I have become a zombie holed up in a blanket fort. I’m not liking this one bit.

I spend almost all day every day worrying. Most couples would be shopping for strollers, or at least feeling confident enough to go to a maternity store by now. Something.

Not me. I’m stuck in bed in an anti social haze.

And I’ve realized something. There have been a few BFPs in the blogosphere this week, and when usually these announcements either had me slightly jealous or absolutely ecstatic, I now find myself feeling SORRY for them. I just think, “oh crap, they’ve got a hard nine months ahead, poor things.”

Guys, I’m sorry – but I hate being pregnant. I despise it. Every day I’m either on bed rest, feeling sick, or just worried that something will go terribly wrong.

Pregnancy is not unicorns and rainbows, it’s a means to an end. And right now the only thing keeping me relatively sane is trying to visualize our little baby boy.

But that also makes me attached, and worried. And therefore even more miserable.

That’s why I’ve barely been blogging. All I can wrap my head around is just how freaking miserable this whole situation is.

Go ahead, curse me and hate me for saying it. It’s ok, I already pretty much hate myself for feeling it.

Urgh. (Hopefully) 22 weeks to go. (Please please please stay in there shmaby boy).

Preggo Don’t Preach

20 Dec

Ok – I’m going to start this post off by telling you guys a few things (some of them you may not like):

  1. I didn’t stop my anti-depressants when I found out I was pregnant. In fact, last week I started a transition from one med to another and to help ease me in I’ve been taking Xan.ax once a day. Yep – Xan.ax. While pregnant.
  2. I have on average one caffeinated beverage per day. Some days I have two.
  3. Currently I am neither on a stringent diet nor on an exercise program.
  4. Though I think I may attempt to go for a natural delivery, I am 100% aware of the fact that there’s a good chance that I’ll break down 10 minutes in and beg for an epidural. I’m Ok with that.
  5. I have – gasp!- smoked more than one cigarette since finding out I was pregnant.

Here’s the thing: When I found out about my first pregnancy, I quit smoking cold turkey, quit caffeine cold turkey, and couldn’t stomach anything but saltines, and I felt crappy for not eating more veggies. After that loss, I immediately went back to smoking, drinking caffeine, and gained about as much weight post-pregnancy as I did during it. And I hated myself for it. The second pregnancy was pretty much the same story.  In the months leading up to my third pregnancy, I was on this crazy self-improvement regimen. I quit smoking, I did yoga, I barely drank caffeine. I was CONVINCED that if I just did everything right this time, a pregnancy would stick.

You all know how that turned out. And of course, the few months after that loss, I hated myself more than ever. I backslid once again.

But I also learned a very important lesson from that experience. NOTHING can be done. At the end of the day, 99.999% of miscarriages are either chromosomal or physiological. Not smoking during my first pregnancy didn’t prevent that blighted ovum. No caffeine during my third didn’t keep it from being ectopic. I had no control over this from day one. I still don’t. The outcome of this pregnancy was pretty much decided as soon as sperm met egg and they started to dig in. There’s a reason the world population has risen steadily in the last centuries. And I’m pretty sure it’s not because all pregnant women cut out caffeine on King George’s orders or whatever. There’s a reason most of our moms smoked throughout our pregnancies and ate medium rare steaks and we came out fine and dandy.

Because the human body is a miraculous thing, and because one medium rare steak will not cause a miscarriage, and neither will ten (though I’m not a fan of medium rare, but you get the point).

I made the decision that self-hate and self-punishment would do more harm to my baby than the anti-depressant that would make those feelings go away. I decided that I had enough anxiety to be going on with, and I didn’t need to also deal with the nightmare that is caffeine withdrawal. I decided that I need to give myself just a bit more flexibility, and to demonstrate to myself that my control here is minimal.

And so I did. And I’m almost 14 weeks in with the Shmaby going strong, and I don’t hate myself. Which is a nice change of pace.

So why do I tell you all of this?

(I think you can tell from the video embedded above where I’m going with this…)

When we first started this journey Shmerson and I were basically the only ones in our extended circle of friends trying for a baby. In the year and a half since, that number has grown. Several friends and acquaintances have already given birth, others are close to it.

Now most of these people know my history. With all due respect I have spent 9 out of the last 19 months pregnant. I have been part of the ALI community for over a year. I follow more than 200 blogs. I’ve never once gone through IVF yet a close friend of mine who is now making a baby with his life partner through DE and a surrogate came to me when he needed information because I know it (yes, I congratulated a gay man yesterday about being PUPO, and because of me, he knew what I meant. Hi Ababaderech! Good luck on your TWW!). I can list 1000 complications that can happen in a pregnancy. A 1000 more that happen before the sperm meets the egg. I know what can go wrong. More than most people, because I’ve seen (or read) it all in the last year. Heck, I experienced quite a bit of it myself, thankyouverymuch.

So, dear fertile preggo friends – don’t preach to me about my over indulgence on carbs. My food aversions are too extreme for me to stomach something else right now.

Please don’t spend 15 minutes lecturing me about Xan.ax. I’ve read the research, and in my particular case (and with my doctor’s blessing), the benefits outweigh the risks.

Please don’t look at me weird if I have a sip of coke zero. Trust me, the chances of that doing damage are slim to none.

Please don’t lecture me on the benefits of natural childbirth. I know them all. I also know that 95% of women eventually opt for an epidural, and I’m a realist (Oh, and I bet you anything that my pain tolerance is about 1000 times greater than yours – let’s just see who lasts longer, shall we? You haven’t experienced the awesomeness that is an HSG with blocked tubes, or your uterus contracting after a D&C. If it’s down to you and me, fertile preggo friends, I think I’d win that contest).

Don’t spend an hour touting your brave abandonment of prozac the MOMENT you got knocked up. You may be able to do that. I on the other hand would most likely lose it completely without my anti-anxiety meds, because, you know, I’ve had three miscarriages and that kind of messes with a girl’s head.

Don’t look at me weird if I sneak a cigarette on a bad day. You’ve never smoked, you don’t know what a slave you can become to that horrible weed.

I have a couple of pregnancy tracker apps on my iPhone. My favorite one, from baby center gave me these words of wisdom the other day (I’m paraphrasing):

“If you’re not perfect in avoiding things during your pregnancy, there’s no need to get stressed out about it. Our mothers had no idea about these things and we came out fine.”

Hear hear pregnancy tracker elves! My mom smoked a pack a day and drank copious amounts of coffee while she carried me. I came out perfectly fine. No horns or anything.

I’m not saying all pregnant women need to take up smoking, drinking and meth use during their pregnancy for the fun of it.

What I’m saying is, we all have our ways of dealing. I chose to give up control, and to go easy on myself. So far, it’s working out pretty well for me.

And no offense my fertile pregnant friends – but I think I know just a BIT more about this than you guys do.

Please, let’s discuss the risks of pre-eclampsia and why our blood pressure is critical to the health of our unborn babies.

Please – let’s talk about infections and fevers and how they can affect the health of our children.

Let’s talk about the risks of low amniotic fluid. Let’s discuss the importance of staying well hydrated during our pregnancies.

Let’s talk about placenta previa. Let’s talk about uterine fibroids. Gestational diabetes. Toxoplasmosis. Placental abruption. RH factor. Incompetent cervix.

And let’s talk about it over a nice tall glass of coke. Because trust me, drinking that won’t make any of the things I mentioned above more or less likely.

And it may just help me hold on to a bit of my sanity as I go through this roller coaster.

You may not agree with me, but you can’t argue with this: I’ve been around the block enough to know my limits. To know what’s best for me, and how it will affect my baby. I think I know that just a bit better than you. So stop preaching. You may as well just look at me sideways and tell me to relax. Either one of those will give this hormonal preggo lady ample reason to punch you.

And I loathe violence.


On Dropping Shoes

21 Nov

Ok – I’ll start by cutting to the chase: The Shmemby is alive and kicking (though I can’t feel that yet of course), and measuring one day ahead. You can see a blurry blobby pic on the Shmembryo page.

It’s been an eventful few days here in Shmerson-land. On Friday I went in to interview for a teaching job at the top private high school in my city. The interview went well, and a couple of hours later they called and asked me to come in to teach a class on Sunday to see how I do.

I spent the weekend prepping the class and feeling incredibly nervous, because I really wanted the job.

Though the class on Sunday was imperfect, it looks like I got the job. Sunday was spent in a haze of running around, and I found myself getting a huge sinus headache. By the time I got home around 9pm I was collapsing. I apparently hadn’t eaten enough, and I brought home dinner and wolfed it down.

5 minutes later, I puked my guts out.

I have been proudly vomit-free since 2003. This broke the streak, and I couldn’t have been happier.

As Shmerson was holding my hair and I crouched over the toilet, we were both doing a bit of a happy dance. This was no longer an abstract sort of pukey feeling. This was true puke. I was elated. I don’t think I’d ever been so happy to see a 15 dollar dinner go to waste in my life.

Though I knew I would be sick today (I already found a substitute for my class), I went to bed happy. Feeling actually pregnant. Thinking everything is finally falling into place.

I spent most of today relaxing, but I  had some brown spotting in the morning. I wasn’t too worried, because I knew we would be seeing the Russian in a few hours.

Then I got a call with yet ANOTHER job offer, which if I get, along with the new teaching job, would put Shmerson and I in the financial stability column for the next few months at least. I was happy.

I’d been emailing back and forth with Chon today. She wished me luck on the scan and I told her that I “don’t want to jinx it but I have a good feeling.”

I took a nap feeling pretty good about things.

15 minutes before we headed out for the Russian’s, I went to the bathroom and saw not brown, but bright orange. Not a lot – but this was not “old blood”. I proceeded to freak out.

I spent the car ride over to the Russian’s office in a haze. I beat myself up over actually daring to feel good for a measly 24 hours. Of course things were going wrong. Of course I can’t have anything go my way. It hasn’t for the last year and a half.

We walked into the Russian’s office and got called in right away. He gave me the sort of eye-roll look all of us paranoids get. But he humored me and told me to jump on the table for my date with the dildo-cam.

I closed my eyes, afraid to look. After a few moments, both Shmerson and the Russian told me to open my eyes.

The Russian said “Everything is ok. You can go home.” He’s ghad a kind smile on his face but I’m pretty sure he’s sick of my antics. Ahh well.

Shmerson had a few tears in his eyes and I asked the Russian for a printout of Shmemby’s latest portrait. It is after all like prozac, despite the blurry blobby-ness.  He humored me and I got one.

I am relieved, of course. I’m sick, I’m exhausted, but I’m feeling pregnant. I have two new jobs hopefully on the horizon. Things are looking up for the first time in over a year. And yet I’m still “afraid to jinx it”.

Why is it that we always wait for the other shoe to drop? Our NT scan is on December 7th, and I’m sure I’ll find plenty more reasons to freak out until then. Because things can’t just go well, right? Is it even possible after 18 months of pure hell for things to actually be looking up?

Here’s to new beginnings, and the hope that this time, the other shoe decides not to drop, because really, isn’t it tired of dropping already? That can wreak havoc on the soles. Just sayin’.

The Fun Never Ends Here in Mo’s Head

16 Nov

Somebody explain to me how I manage to equate a couple of stomach cramps, a lack of nausea, and two freaking brown spots to a miscarriage.

The lack of nausea? Probably due to the fact that I actually ate healthy today. I’m off carbs and on fruit and celery, so it would make sense that things seem lighter.

The spotting? Just a couple of measly brown spots! Nothing to worry about, right? Dr. Google says it’s totally normal.

And the cramping – well, considering that I’m growing a freaking human being in my uterus, some cramping would make sense.

But no, of course I’m freaking out. Of course I’m mad at myself that I made the appointment with the Russian for Monday and not like, NOW.

I had another session with my shrink today where I reflected on how the last year and half has basically robbed me of my identity. I’m tired of being on hold. I’m tired of waiting.

And right now I feel like I’m in the hardest wait so far.

Why does this seem so incredibly unreal to me? Why am I insisting on waiting for the other shoe to drop?

I’m sick of being on hold. I wish I had a crystal ball to tell me that everything will be fine.

Or even some more nausea would be a start. Maybe I’ll eat a donut and see if I can’t get my pukiness on.

I Guess it’s a Process

14 Nov

So – I lasted, like, a week, right? Not bad for someone with mega PTSD.

But now I’m back in freak-out land. It’s not as ba as before the first scan, mind you. I’m not having Amy Winehouse related nightmares and I’m not having any crying fits or panic attacks, but I’m nervous again. I keep on trying to look for loopholes. I’m so used to things going wrong that I can’t fathom them completely going right.

To make matters worse, I’ve been feeling guilty about not continuing to be over the moon with everything. Reading posts like Elphie’s from the other day makes me long to feel pure unadulterated happiness and let go of the anxiety. I feel terrible that I can’t. I feel awful that I panic at the slight alleviation of symptoms, or freak out when I feel a cramp that seems a bit out of place.

I talked to my shrink about this yesterday. I told her about the nerves, and about the guilt. About how I’m trying to find things that could possibly be wrong. About how I have no idea how I can keep my cool until the NT scan on Dec. 5th. And how I hate myself for that.

She pointed out that with my history, there can’t be a black and white here. I can’t go from utter panic to pure joy, it’s just not possible. She told me that it’s ok to feel anxiety about this still, but I should start slowly replacing the anxiety with happiness, bit by bit, until the happiness overcomes. it probably won’t erase the anxiety completely, but it can eventually overshadow it.

And until it does, if I need to indulge my anxiety a little bit, that’s ok.

So I took her advice.

I made an appointment with the Russian for next Monday, just to get an interim peak at the Shmembryo before our scan. Because who says I can’t? I want to see the little guy in there before December 5th, thankyouverymuch.

And I went online and bought a home doppler monitor. Because really – was there ever even a question of me NOT buying one? Exactly. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t spend 130 bucks on a doppler. Me without a doppler would not be the charming, control-freaky me that is… Me. Or something.

In the meantime, I’ll work on replacing the anxiety bit by bit with shards of happiness. Starting with the fact that I am currently feeling exhausted and pukey, which means the Shmembryo is still alive and kicking.

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