Here, boy!

Dear Broodling,
It’s been a while since I’ve written, hasn’t it? Sorry about that. Your father and I are trying to find a better place for you to grow up in between the twice weekly doctor’s appointments, so we’ve been running around like chickens with their heads lopped off. But I’m al-l-l-l-l-lmost settled in completely, al-l-l-l-l-lmost ready to begin living in Washington rather than Arizona. Thank goodness. I took longer than I thought I would to get over the shock of moving from my home state.

Back when we first moved here, I was lonely, so desperately lonely at home that I was ready to swallow my disdain for all things four-legged and furry and take the plunge in adopting a puppy. Thankfully, Aaron talked me out of it (repeatedly! it took him weeks!), especially since you arrived on the scene soon afterwards. Compared to a puppy, what a bargain!

For example:
-baby spit-up is easier to clean than dog puke
-you won’t be peeing on the carpet for at least two years
-no neutering fees
-the grandparents will enjoy having you in the house
-no shedding (related: no allergies)
-after 18 years, I can legally kick you out and feel no guilt whatsoever
-you’ll smell better, even when wet
-and, most importantly, there will be no licking of faces with tongues that have been places they just shouldn’t be.

Love,
Your I’m-celebrating-Mother’s-day-a-year-early Momma

Updates

Okay, so, I’m a bit behind on releasing news here because I’ve had my eyes glued to reports about how the dire global economy has started causing serious food shortages.  Seriously guys, Haiti’s government has completely collapsed due to mass food riots, Japan has completely run out of butter, and warehouse stores like Costco are rationing flour, rice, and cooking oil–in the U.S., of all places. Methinks it’s a good idea to start a family farm and hole up for a while.

But enough doom and gloom–here at Chez Stout, we’ve actually been stuffing ourselves (to the neglect of setting up a food stockpile, ayyieee!). And by “we” I mean “me and Nolan,” to the tune of at least 2 1/2 pounds of weight gain in the past two weeks for him! He is now 3 lbs. 14 oz., which places him in the 18% percentile of growth… as opposed to the 8%, which is why we were fearing a premature induction in May (see this article on intrauterine growth restriction for more details). He’s still going to be closely watched, and I’m still supposed to be on modified bedrest, but we’re all breathing a huge sigh of relief over here (well, as much as we can breathe, considering his feet are all now firmly pressing against my lungs. Baby growth does have its tradeoffs, unfortunately). Pray that he continues putting on weight and stays cooking until mid-June. I am by no means ready to have a baby sooner than that.

And of course, the good news (and consumption) doesn’t stop there: the Church Ladies threw us a jungle-themed, potluck baby shower this past Sunday and we had an absolute blast–though it did feel awkward opening presents in front of everyone. Nolan now has more stuff than Aaron and I had coming up here, haha! To our pleasure, a great deal of the gifts were purchased off of our registry at Target, but a fairly substantial amount were homemade. The people at Lake Hills are, as always, far, far too generous–we now have nearly everything we need to care for our baby, and they also continue to make sure we’re provided for concerning meals, which is a wonderful blessing. I will soon be taking pictures of the massive amounts of good quality stuff we recieved for a new blog feature I’m calling Fun with Flickr Fridays.

Also, through the use of mad internet skills, I was able to track down the person who stole my phone, including not only his name and address, but pictures of him, too. I called him immediately in order to possibly discuss the return of my phone and the $300 worth of downloads he had on it, but he claimed that he “just happened to buy the same model phone … uh… with your number on it” from a legitimate T-Mobile store, five days after I lost the phone. O RLY?? When I asked him how the numbers of all of his friends “just happened” to show up on my online contacts, two days after I lost the phone, he had no idea. Luckily, I kept track of all of my bills, in both hard copy and online. With this information, I called T-Mobile and was able to sucessfully contest the $300 charges against Aaron and I. (It still cost us $60 to replace the new phone though, sigh, but I was able to keep the same number.)

The most shocking part of this was that I recognized him from the pictures. This teenager in overpriced-shoes not only had the audacity to steal my phone, but to get off the bus immediately after I did and ask if I was okay when I collapsed in a crying heap at the bus stop. It was quite a long bus ride, and he was sitting next to me as I panicked, trying to find my phone. When I saw who it was, I was filled with a burning anger. I was fired up and ready to send the cops to beat down his door. It would have been easy to incriminate him considering how much evidence I held. Aaron then counseled me to forgive him, saying that there wasn’t any permanent damage done to us, and besides, he’s just a stupid high school kid whose family is probably struggling (blatant assumption made due to the fact that his mother spoke no English). Aaron’s right, of course, so I’m trying to forgive this person.

Heaven help me, I’m trying.

Spitting Mad

And in other news, my faith in humanity has been once again shaken.

The last time I had something stolen from me was in 6th grade. I had set my stuff down just outside the classroom door to talk to the teacher about a report on Paul Revere he was concerned about. Apparently he was concerned that I was plagarizing because my written vocabulary was much more advanced than my oral one–”you don’t speak like this, so I’m sure you didn’t write it,” he said. I took my paper and left, fuming. How dare he accuse me of lying about my work?

When I came out, my lunch, nestled in its cute little lunchbox, was missing. Already stressed, I cried and cried and went hungry, and then I passed out later in the day because my metabolism hates me. The whole situation was based on my belief that people were decent enough to respect the fact that my property belongs to me, which some people would say is a flawed assuption that’s likely to get into trouble. (And they’d be right.) It shouldn’t have been traumatic as it was; after all, it was just a lunch and there are definitely worse things that have been stolen, but it still stings.

Losing my brand new phone on the bus put me right back in the same position as that helpless little 6th grader. I cried. I called the phone several times, as did Aaron. I called the King County Metro Lost and Found. I waited for four days before calling T-Mobile to cancel the account, because I was sure that someone would bring it to the bus driver…

And then I got our phone bill.

$212 and counting, because whomever found it not only decided to use it to call everyone this side of the U.S., no, they also downloaded a billion or so crappy ringtones. Eminem, 50 Cent, DMX…even Fergie! I could have forgiven them before–after all, it’s just a phone–but Fergie?  Never!

In all seriousness, though, it does hurt to be reminded that my property isn’t sacred. I grew very attached to that phone. I liked being able to call people. Aaaand my list of contacts, which can’t be recovered because T-Mobile is stupid (they only send the online account password TO THE PHONE, and the username is the phone number itself, GAH! talk about a security risk!!), is gone. Poof. There’s a list of at least fifty people that I don’t have the numbers for and have no way to recover, which is obviously very disrupting. And, just to include a bee sting, it’s going to cost about $60 to replace.

Granted, I realize that this rant is an entirely privileged one; a phone is a small thing to lose, and I wasn’t exactly mugged for it (thank goodness). It just bothers me that people, when given the choice to do the right thing, sometimes choose not to. And I liked being naive about that.

And in other news…

Ladies and gentlemen, from the land of Weird Pregnancy Symptoms, may I present the Third Trimester:

#357: ”Innie” belly button becomes an “outie.”

#42: Asymmetrical pelvis. Due to hormonal changes and an ever expanding belly, the right side of the pelvis is rotated forward, throwing off the center of gravity and causing one leg to be shorter than the other. Opportunities for ridicule increase as tripping and bumping into things becomes the norm.

#156: Itchy back (as opposed to itchy stomach, which will kick in eventually).

Check, check, and check.

Resemblance

If anyone was wondering what being married to Aaron (or me, for that matter) is like, THIS IS IT EXACTLY. We even look like this. Creepy.

Unfortunately, I’ve misplaced where this comic came from… So if you recognize it and want me to credit the original artist, please let me know who’s stalking me!

Ob·sti·nate [ob-stuh-nit], adj.

I’ve really begun to hate eating.

“What!” People who’ve known me for any length of time say. “That’s crazy; you love food!”

Yeah. I did… But, like anything I’m told to do, I resent it now. My usual response to “you should do x” or “you must do y” to is snarl and dig my heels in. “How dare they!” I rant, regardless of who “they” are and whether or not they actually have my best interests at heart (which is generally the case). “They don’t know me!” Eventually, I’ll calm down and take a more objective look at the situation to determine whether the advice is worth following.

Is this immature? Sure. Passive-aggressive? Absolutely. Unreasonable? Most of the time, but especially now.

Now I’ve been told I need to gain 35 pounds in the next three months. I need to eat, they say, and I need to eat a lot. My intense, knee-jerk reaction is to stop eating altogether, and my crazy brain has no trouble coming up with excuses not to eat: If I eat this, I’ll throw up. (Sadly true most of the time.) This tastes nasty. This isn’t going to help me gain weight! Why bother?  I’d think I had an eating disorder if this reaction didn’t happen in other areas of my life as well.

So where am I going with this?

Obviously, it’s not just me that will be affected by my stupidity this time around, so I’m trying to ignore those unbidden thought patterns I’ve cultivated over the years and eat something. But it really is harder than I thought it would be: my stomach is tiny, and I’m just not used to packing away this many calories over the course of a day. But if I don’t gain weight, and soon, the effects on Nolan will be devestating.  What to do?

Luckily, my solution came on the radio: I need to bring all the boys to the yard (note: link is suprisingly work safe). In other words, I need to make use of that Cusinart blender I recieved as a wedding present to make weight-gain shakes. How simple! Why haven’t I thought of this before?

So here’s where you come in, reader–send me your best milkshake recipes! Bonus points for shakes that boast large amounts of protein (preferably without using a powder). And, just for fun, here’s an extra contest: I currently have eighteen 8oz bottles of vanilla-flavored Ensure drinks which are absolutely disgusting. If you can design a recipe to make those palatable, I will personally bake you a batch of green tea cookies.

I am Such a Spaz

According to the ultrasound we had this morning, Nolan seems to be doing okay; he’s just not as heavy as he should be due to my complete inability to gain weight. I have an over-reactive metabolism, whoo-hoo! …Only not. Usually that deserves a whoo-hoo; now it’s a health risk. 

I’ve been told to start counting fetal movements at least once a day, which of course is freaking me out because he moves about 1/4 as much as he used to. Also nerve-wracking is the diminished strength of said movements: it’s no longer the kung-fu punches he once had, but a pitiful tap-tap-tapping.  Dude, you have enough room in there to move around, so what’s the deal?

To their credit, my doctors have learned from their earlier “YOU HAVE A MOLAR PREGNANCY — TIME TO PANIC IS NOW!!1″ mistake and have taken great pains to ensure I avoid extra therapy. “No, no, there’s nothing to worry about,” they coo in gentle, placating tones, “We’re just going to have to give you a 30 minute non-stress test every week and an ultrasound every other week. But he’s fine! Really!”

So it’s official: I’ve been put on modified bed rest, which entails my sitting around and eating as much as possible. They told me to try not to do anything active, even cleaning, riiiiiiight when my “nesting” instinct has started to gnaw at the back of my brain like a rabid weasel with OCD. (Seriously. Those blinds in the guest bedroom need to be cleaned! I don’t care if you can’t see the dust–I can!!)

…Anyone have any suggestions on how not to go crazy?

Hairy Situation

I walked into a Great Clips yesterday and said “please to be giving me a trim” and apparently the stylist thought “trim” meant “so short I won’t be able to put it up into a pony-tail, but long enough to blow into my face constantly.” Now it’s shorter than I’ve ever had in my life and looks absolutely terrible to everyone except Aaron but of freakin’ course he’s going to say that, he has to live with me and likes making love once in a while. RaaaAAAAWR! *breathes into a paper bag*

Babble

While my multiple infections haven’t exactly improved, things around me have been changing at a dizzying pace, and all for the better. Thanks to a life-saving intervention of modern medicine and M$’s Insurance plan (oh, man, I soooooo want to bemoan how much the American health insurance system sucks, but I’m feeling better than I have in a week so I don’t want to spoil my grateful mood) and a plethora of people who love me, I’m happy to report that I’m not dead! Yay!

Here’s how things have gone from FAIL to WIN for me in three easy steps (please note that the total length of this entry is absurd–feel free to skip down to the summary paragraph if you’ve not the time or the incentive to read all of this):

Step I: Luck out Concerning Your Insurance Plan
Though I didn’t think it was possible, on Thursday, the Soul-Rending Heachache of Doom worsened. This was no mere migraine–it had lasted far too long and was far too painful. I was ready to drive stakes in my eyes from the agony… or at the very least, catch a bus to head to the useless ER again (Aaron was at work). As I knew the journey might involve my passing out, I browsed the M$ insurance website to see if they would cover an ER somewhat closer to us (they do… OMFG, they cover everything). Luckily, I noticed a small number at the bottom of the page: a 24-hour “Health Questions” help line, which claimed to be staffed by registered nurses. I decided it was worth a shot.

The woman on the other end was ridiculously efficient. She confirmed my addresss and phone number, took a full and detailed account of my symptoms, looked up my recent medical history (at least in WA state) electronically and read it back to me, and THEN laid down the awesome: “Okay, this sounds like a genuine emergency. I’m sending a physician from our Mobile Health Unit directly to your apartment.”

Me: “Wait, what? You’re doing what now?”
Her: “You did say you were on your way to the ER, right?”
Me: “Well, yes. But shouldn’t you be recommending that I, um, go there, or something?”
Her: “Oh, no, no no no. From what it sounds like, it would be better if I sent a doctor to your house. They should be there in about an hour. Is that okay?”
Me: “Buh buh buh…”

Shortly after that, a tall, slender woman toting a bag that had to be heavier than she was knocked on my door. Like the nurse, she double-checked my symptoms and pretty much gave me a full physical on my living room couch. Overall, she was approachable, professional, insanely educated, and extremely concerned for my health and the health of Nolan. She double-checked me for preeclampsia symptoms (which I thankfully do not have), screened my headaches, and settled on a final diagnosis of a severe, antibiotic-resistant frontal sinus infection (In your face, ER! I knew this wasn’t a migraine! Pffft, giving me Tylenol… What were they thinking?).

I’m now taking 4000mg per day of Augmentin, a fairly mild mix of penicillan and amoxicillan, and find that life has much improved. Apparently, the reason I’ve been so dizzy and stuffed up was due to the fact that my ears were completely occluded with wax build up. Ewww. When she asked why I didn’t get my symptoms treated earlier, I told her my story of bouncing back and forth between ERs for the past two weeks. 

[My mother later pointed out that it was a good thing that we identified the final infection, because there was a huge possibility that it could have entered my bloodstream and gone septic since I've had it for so long, and there wouldn't have been -anything- that anyone could have done for me then.  So the whole bit about me being happy to report that I'm not dead? ... Yeah, I kind of wasn't kidding about that.]

Anyway, the doctor referred me to a physician nearby and told me to follow up with an MRI if my symptoms don’t start improving in two days (which they have, thankfully). She also said she’d make sure my OB has a copy of all the information from the various care centers. Awesome.

After that, we just… chatted. We chatted about how the MHU actually saves M$ insurance a million dollars per year, we chatted about Aaron, we chatted about how she spent the last four years of her life in Papau, New Guinea treating some of the poorest people in the world. She gave me a plethora of information, both oral and written, about how to maintain my health in the future, including approximations for cancer screening and how to avoid getting sunburned (lol). It lasted an hour and was, quite honestly, the best doctor’s visit I’ve ever had in my life. I’ve had some fairly… “traumatizing” isn’t the right word, but they were pretty scarring experiences, you know? Leads into that whole “not getting help when I need it so things get really bad really quickly” thing I have going on.

Step II: Let Loose the Ladies
Aside from recieving touching notes and calls from friends, Aaron and were also the recipients of no less than a week and a half’s worth of cooked meals yesterday. The Church Ladies (capitalized because though there are only a few of them, they are a force to be reckoned with) collectively realized they hadn’t seen either of us for an entire week and started sniffing around. On Friday, B, the alpha female, nailed down -exactly- how sick I was (“what!? you’re not able to cook right now? what have you been eating!?”) and whipped the rest into action. We’ve since been innudated with calls, brief visits, and food… Oh, heavens, the food!

Huge servings of tortelini, Mexican casserole, chili-soup, chicken and rice (x2!)… And those are just the main courses. We don’t even have enough room in our cabinets for all of the cornbread, muffins, banana bread, cookies and other side dishes (some of which involve vegetables) that we’ve been getting over the past two days. It’s insane.

I was once told by my father (a man who spent three years of his life traveling the Bible Belt and residing at a different Church Lady’s home each week) never to resist Church Ladies when they set out to do something, especially when it’s something that benefits you. “They’re a flood, Cassandra. A flood of good cooks who are generous with their abilities, their time, and their good fortune,” he said. “Besides, any excuse to throw a party is a good excuse to them!” The context of these statements involved my being uncomfortable with the Church Ladies of AZ giving Aaron and I an impromptu wedding reception. Since I had canceled the wedding, I felt guilty having them put such effort into it. It turned out to be an absolute blast–apparently they had as much fun putting it together as our guests had attending, and the results were beautiful.

To make a long story even longer, I’ve always felt uncomfortable accepting the generosity of others (which came to a head in my freshman year of college when I whittled away for three months because I was too proud to ask my friends for a meal once in a while). I’m stupid and stubborn that way.  But since I’m actually too weak to make myself a sandwich and they really are good cooks, I think I’ll try and be more gracious rather than getting my knickers in a knot. (This goes double for April 20th, when the Church Ladies are planning to throw Aaron and I a baby shower. Eep! I didn’t even expect to have one of those! Holy crap!)

Step III: Marry Someone Awesome
Not to be outdone by his elders, Aaron has also been waiting on me hand and foot, as well as keeping up with the housework when he’s been home. This weekend he scoured the kitchen from top to bottom, which included jerry-rigging the screwed up burner on my stove to a level approaching “safe for future use.” He cleaned out my ears using a delicate combination of Q-tips and hydrogen peroxide, which relieved the pressure on my head immensely. He also washed my blanket, filed our taxes, gave me a back rub, and kept me entertained and hydrated while I was awake today.

But, the second sweetest thing he did (first was cleaning out my ears–that’s gross, y’know?) has to be this: after taking out the trash this morning, he led me into the living room and said, “I have a surprise for you!” He reached to open the blinds and before I could hiss at him for letting in the accursed light, I saw this:

Hee. Since it seems I’m the only one in WA that seems to like snow, it feels like he did it just for me.

In summary, the Soul-Rending Heachache of Doom has now tapered down to a Minor Pain of Mnd-Crushing +3. The pink eye has also drastically improved, and while I’m still fairly weak, I’m now able to stay awake for a whole day! (Yay!) I have an appointment with my (first ever! whoo!) primary care physician on Monday to follow up on the sinusitis and an ultrasound scheduled this Wednesday to check on Nolan. I’ve been amazed at the depths of my friends’ love for me again and again. Aaron kicks all sorts of booty.

Despite the pain and the fever chills, life’s returning to better-than-normal.

When It Rains, It Pours

I’d recommend skipping this one, honestly. It’s whiny and long, as it has to be to properly explain everything. I couldn’t make this week up if I tried.

Wednesday
My lovely friend Fredah takes me to the OB, who tells me that she’s extremely concerned by the fact that I only weigh 149 pounds (only two pounds heavier than my pre-pregnancy weight). Apparently the reason my arms and legs are look so muscular is that a) I’m doing too much and b) Nolan has already consumed all of my fat stores, which means we are technically both starving. My OB schedules an “emergency ultrasound” (labeled such because the only reason we’d be getting one at this stage in the game is to determine whether there’s something seriously wrong) in two weeks. She tells me that if I don’t start gaining weight immediately, I’ll have to be put on bed rest due to the extremely high risk of premature labor and various other birth defects due to my being underweight.

I have a persistent cold but it’s mild, so I ignore it. By evening, I have a headache.

Thursday
I head into work only to be sent home because I cannot breathe. The headcold I’ve been fighting for close to three weeks has spread into my chest. In a panic, I have Aaron take me to an urgent care center for some antibiotics (no, I don’t have a primary care physican yet… I’ve been lazy). When we arrive, they apologize, saying the wait will be two and a half hours. I ask if there’s another urgent care center in the area, call it, and find out there’s “no wait”. We go to that one instead, only to find out that their only doctor has juuuust entered surgery on someone’s wrist, and we’re dreadfully sorry, but the wait will be close to three hours. Since we’d already given up our spot at the other (much nicer) facility, we stick it out.

The doctor prescribes a five day Z-pack (zitromax; basically amoxicillan) to fight the dual infections. I tell her I have a headache that has lasted all night and all morning. She says it’s the beginnings of a sinus infection and the Z-pack will take care of it. She also diagnoses the little rash on my arm as ringworm. Upon leaving the center we see that our rear passenger tire is completely flat. Aaron drives into a nearby gas station, sees that we’ve run over a screw and changes it. We head to Target and wait an hour for my prescription. Aaron goes to work for three hours and I take a bath because I can’t get to sleep.

Friday
Feeling somewhat better, I head to work. I tell them about the likelihood of bedrest and they say “okay.” My headache explodes by 11am, going from a mild pain in my forehead to a soul-crushing, global agony. My left eye begins burning around the same time. I sob my way through the work day and return home to eat, throw up everything, and sleep fitfully.

Saturday
I sleep throughout the day, waking up every two hours to pee, blow my nose, and generally moan about my head. My left eye is now crusty and red, and leaks a thick discharge. Aaron tries to feed me, but I can’t keep anything down. We both head to Costco in the afternoon to place an order for new tires. The lights and sounds cause me to wish death on whomever invented the warehouse store.

Sunday
See Saturday. By nightfall, I’m in a panic. I’ve never, ever had a headache last this long. Ignoring Aaron’s offers to pick up some Tylenol (by this point I’ve still taken nothing for it), I have him drive me to the urgent care center instead. It’s closed. We locate an emergency room in the nearby town which takes forty-five minutes on bumpy back roads to get to because we can’t use the highways with our spare tire. After waiting for close to two hours in the nicest emergency room I’ve ever seen, they diagnose me with pink eye and rule out everything else concerning the headache. The end diagnosis? Migraine, triggered by muscle tension. They give me 975mg of Tylenol and a prescription for an eye ointment and send us home. As soon as I reach the apartment complex, I throw the Tylenol up in the grass.

Monday
I call work and tell them I have pink eye. They say “okay.” Aaron stays home to care for me and cleans up the kitchen. Stupidly, I worry about what his coworkers think of me, considering how often he’s had to stay home on my account in the psst month. I sleep fitfully, waking only to take in food and medicine, which I again can’t keep down. I estimate I’ve slept 60 our of the past 72 hours. Aaron polishes off some leftovers that had gone bad and suffers all night from diarrhea and a headache. In my state I can’t do anything for him but offer sympathy.

Tuesday
Thankfully, Aaron wakes up feeling fine, and goes to work after making sure I am comfortable. I am not so lucky, and so I call in sick again. Feeling marginally better, I sleep deeply for the first time in days, until the phone rings. Rushing to pick it up, I poke myself in the eye with my nails. It’s work. They tell me that they’ve already found a replacement for my classroom and would I mind coming in for half an hour to train her today? No? What about tomorrow? I say “okay” and hang up. Still in pain, I limp back to the bed. I am overcome with alternating feelings of disappointment, despair, and “well, I’m free now”. I was planning on quitting anyway, but not this soon, and am angry at my body for betraying me.

I try to sleep, but come here to moan and groan instead, thinking it will make me feel a little better. It doesn’t.