eating like a teenage football player: 10 weeks

I no longer feel nauseated like all the time forever and ever, even while sleeping. Which can only mean one thing: baby has stopped growing/miscarriage is imminent/CATASTROPHE AND CAUSE FOR ALARM.

I’m trying not to be so catastrophic. So negative and diabolical. On one hand, I’m fairly certain that C has had it up to here with my negativity. He delights in checking each week to see what fruit-size our little zygote has matured into – 10 weeks is a prune[1] if you’re keeping score – and has recently initiated a renewed conversation about what middle name we might give a daughter.

Of course, not for nothing, I’m also trying to embrace this newest-flavor-of-nausea – only early in the morning and after dinner, usually with a side of WHAT IS THAT BAD TASTE IN MY MOUTH[2].

Less perma-nausea and my newfound interest in not-only-oatmeal-crackers-spaghetti is actually more accurately described as now-eating-like-a-teenage-football-player.

I’m ravenous. A 5 gajillion calorie scone just moments after consuming a full breakfast – two, please! 56 ounces of orange juice because water tastes-like-burning – you betcha! Working out has simply become “the-exceedingly-short-period-of-time-that-I-can-go-without-eating” and likely soon to become more of a complimentary activity.

But when I started to notice the-bump-that-wasn’t[3] and a couple extra pounds on the scale[4], I began to re-evaluate whether caving in to every godforsaken urge, interest and craving was really absolutely-necessary-for-the-continued-growth-and-development-of-my-prune. Which is obviously what I had been telling myself <justifiably consumes burrito the size of a football>.

Yes, I still have food aversions. Strong ones. Chocolate, garlic, onions, basil, seltzer[5] and most vegetables. I also have knock-down-drag-out-downright-crippling cravings. A couple weeks ago I tore through a disgusting vat[6] of mayonnaise laden potato salad. A few days ago I legitimately believed I might have an aneurysm without the immediate aid of pad thai (no tofu, hold the vegetables). Salivating would not be too strong a word here. Tonight I had a vision of pink Starbursts and made quick work of extracting the measly 4 in a single pack after gunning it to the closest CVS. But mostly, more than anything, I just feel hungry. A deep, insatiable, almost painful hunger.

But because pink Starbursts and pad thai are not exactly feasible as my daily diet – OR ARE THEY[7]? – I’ve tried to, ahem, reestablish my eating habits. I haven’t cooked anything in over a month and scurvy remains a threatening menace – not to mention that eating like an uninspired frat boy leaves me rather lethargic. So, I’ve made an active effort to gear myself up for healthier options – imagine an insipid cheerleader in the recesses of my brain chanting something along the lines of you-don’t-want-pizza -you-want-quinoa!

Instead of scones, I’m decisively plowing my way through bushels of fruit – I could have eaten six peaches this morning if given the chance. I even partially enjoyed – and partially force-fed myself – a kale smoothie yesterday, something I used to drink on the regular pre-this <motions to expanding gut>.

The point – which has clearly eluded me for several paragraphs now – is that either I am actually still pregnant – a possibility which is absolutely stupefying to contemplate – or I am so petrified by the prospect of miscarriage[8], that my emotional eating has reached heights heretofore unknown. I’m certainly hoping for the former, though unconvinced that it’s not the latter. In the meantime, I will continue doing what I do best: eating for six[9].

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[1] Or slightly larger than a really big coat button.. Whatever. Eleven weeks is a lime. Limes also make me gag. Specifically, limes in fizzy water. See infra.

[2] The taste – Is it metallic? Just bad? – arrives like clockwork around 5pm, dissipates during dinner, and returns with a vengeance before bed. It’s… exciting!

[3] See FN 1.

[4] We don’t own a scale. But my gastroenterologist – who I visited on Wednesday – sure does. After noticing a small uptick in poundage, she offhandedly remarked, you know you really shouldn’t be gaining weight this early. After I removed my hands from around her neck, I found this refreshing take on pregnancy weight gain. Also, IT BEGINS. You know, the everyone-else-knows-what’s-best-judgy-mcjudgment-of-pregnant-ladies nine-month extravaganza.

[5] C has a “game” he plays where he mentions “fizzy water” and I gag. I contemplated throwing out our Soda Stream and saying that a fox made off with it during the night. We live on the second floor so it’s totally plausible. I’m still considering it.

[6] I’m telling you, it was a vat. Or a trough, even.

[7] That sounds like a challenge I want to sign up for. And a potentially accurate version of my high school diet.

[8] When oh when will the relentless negativity skepticism end? Not soon enough for C’s liking and though I try, probably not soon enough for anyone. I was actually emboldened in my doubt after having lunch recently with a friend who is now – post Clomid, IUI and IVF – the mother of adorable twins. She confided that she remained convinced of catastrophe until she was literally on bed rest, seven months in. Now that’s perseverance!

[9] For the record – and just so I don’t come off as a totally insufferable and greedy former infertile – as long as I get a healthy set of lungs and a diaper (i.e. baby) out of this whole thing, I’m willing to go Jessica Simpson – +60 lbs and what felt like a gestation of 13 years – and never look back. Really. Just as long as most of the weight is in my bra. (Kidding!).

zofran soap-box-ing

Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the Zofran[1].

Before I went on vacation, my OB prescribed me some just-in-case Zofran. A small bottle of tiny 4mg tablets. The anti-nausea wonder drug. Mommy’s little helper. No, I wasn’t throwing up. No, I don’t have what Kate Middleton had. But I AM A GIANT WIMP was existing in a kind of perma-nausea that made basic social interactions and eating anything outside the cracker-spaghetti-oatmeal foodgroup a difficult chore. Also, I’m a wimp. But I am a wimp with a strain of hippy-granola-anti-prescription-drug-ism. An intolerable hypocrite who has regularly relied on all kinds of terrifying prescription drugs to keep my Crohn’s disease in check. And, um, to like, get pregnant. Hello Clomid, my old friend…etc.

What I’m getting at – bare with me now, we’re going deep – YOU GUYS I WAS CONFLICTED.

<Let the insufferable navel gazing begin!>

I had set up some kind of bizarre and convoluted self-righteousness construct wherein nausea was my badge of first-trimester-honor, despite no one giving me a sticker for my incessant suffering[2] and everyone being sick of hearing about it. But in my head, taking Zofran was for wimps. Especially the non-throwing-up kind of wimp[3]. What’s more, taking Zofran would create unnecessary risks for the microscopic grain of rice[4] pulsing its little baby galoshes[5] inside of me[6]. Zofran was weakness/failure/selfishness/the-first-indication-of-poor-parenting-to-come/judgment-judgment-judgment!/recklessness and OHDEARLORDDOIREALLYNEEDTHISADDITIONALANXIETY?

On the other hand, there comes a moment when you are force-feeding yourself plain, cold, sticking-to-itself spaghetti out of a Tupperware in an airport lobby at 10 pm while gazing longingly at your sea bands, only able to respond to your husband’s sweet words of encouragement with a grunt – less of appreciation and much more of leave-me-alone-because-speaking-to-me-makes-me-want-to-vomit – that you begin to feel that there must be a better way.

back in business

And, we’re back on the air. Hi guys. I don’t quite know where to begin. It’s been a while since we last spoke. In fact, I’ve been unplugged from the blog-o-verse for two whole weeks. (Please forgive me while I try to catch up on all your posts).

Some things have changed: I mustered the appetite for fish tacos and vegan pizza! Some things have not: the nausea has returned, along with an unsettling predilection for absolutely disgusting food[1].

More on all that to come, plus some Zofran related soapbox-ing and a bit about the mom-a-fication[2] of my identity (we’re getting pretty post-modern around here). In the meantime, our trip to California was pretty fantastic. We hiked, we camped, we snorkeled. We spent a lot of time laughing with good friends. We collected seashells and stones along secluded beaches. One of us thought she might DIE, like ABSOLUTELY PERISH, on the never ending ferry ride from hell that even a doctor approved Dramamine plus sea bands could not vanquish. <collecting myself and returning to not the third person>. It was, in a word, perfect.

We started up in San Francisco and ventured out to Muir Woods, with an easy six miler down to Muir Beach.

The trail down to Muir Beach - about which there is nothing witty to say. We saw a class of five year olds let loose in their barefoot glory to dig and explore and cause trouble and our hearts kind of melted.

The next day we ventured to my new most favorite of spots – Point Reyes. More specifically, the remote Tomales Point Trail, reached after driving through rolling hills of organic dairy farms and pretty cows. The trail itself is all bluffs, views and tule elk.

Tule Elk not pictured. But, uh, Views! Bluffs! Oh my!

seventh week stretch

Just a note: this is, unabashedly, a post about pregnancy. Yes, it’s also about infertility and fear of loss and the anxiety, creeping like vines, up my back, and threatening to eat me whole, and also the moments of joy that punctuate, on occasion, that anxiety. I know there are intrepid readers who are still trying and if today is not a day you can muster the wherewithal to read about pregnancy – and not that I fault you, oh boy do I not fault you; I too had my days and may well again – then please, let me encourage you stop here and proceed to this very special video. You’re welcome.

You guys, why didn’t anyone prepare me? The first ultrasound is like… it’s like… tripping on acid in the middle of a rainbow. It’s bananas. Over breakfast this morning – plain oatmeal for her, greek yogurt, fruit and granola for him, becauseblandohsobland – C turned to me and stated plainly, we’re going to cry today. Hrmph! Speak for yourself buddy. Is what I was thinking. The truth is that I hadn’t really thought about how I would react today – my only thoughts had been about actually getting here. It was about this arbitrary milestone in a series of (seemingly arbitrary) milestones, each with their own baggage and expectation and apprehension and, fine, potential for ahem, joy. Of course, when C said we were going to cry, he meant for good – for seeing a yolk sac, for hearing a heartbeat, for acknowledging that holyshitthisisreallyhappening. So, readers on the edge of your seats, waiting with bated breath – we I transvaginal ultrasounded, we saw, we cried[1], we got a due date that wasn’t generated by web-bots, we brought home pictures. One heartbeat, strong and steady, sounding like galoshes in the spring rain. Baby galoshes.

It was incredible; it made it more real; it validated the persistent nausea and my absolutely disgusting diet of late. But <drumroll please> infertility changes you. So when we left the exam room and returned to the waiting area and C was joyously ogling our scroll of yolk-sac-headshots[2], I admonished him to put them away already – there were other women in the waiting room, other women who were there in year 4 of their baby-quest, other women who had recently miscarried, other women who might not share in our (seemingly) unfettered joy.

Infertility has changed the equation. It doesn’t mean today wasn’t amazing and it doesn’t mean I’m not happy – for the love of all things good I HUGGED, LIKE REALLY HUGGED the ultrasound tech, you know, the really enthusiastic one who sounds like her thickly accented Bahston drawl is being bled through a radiator. We told our parents and I sent a text to a couple close friends – something along the lines of “heartbeat/shit just got real[3].” But I am also cautious, remaining tempered and C-says-negative-but-I-say-objective. (Potato, Potahtoe, right?) It’s just that I don’t believe that nothing bad can happen to me; that loss can only happen to other women. I’m an only child – my mother miscarried, twice, at around 10 weeks, after having me. Boom. Another (arbitrary but not so arbitrary) milestone to contend with.

Speaking of arbitrary milestones, I ate a baked potato today, thus adding a COMPLETELY NEW food group to my exceptionally diverse and exciting diet. Huzzah!

p.s. We’re leaving tomorrow for about 12 days of vacation. Because, you know, hiking, camping and long stretches of travel by plane, car and boat seem especially appropriate at this juncture. Posting from the proverbial road may be sporadic. See you guys soon.

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[1] Okay, mostly me. Because: obviously someone had to prove C right. Etc.

[2] Probably already a thing for crazy pregnant ladies. That or else I just struck gold.

[3] Because apparently that is the most effective shorthand way by which to both capture and convey my joy?

big girl pants

This post could be about my perma-nausea[1] – the persistent, hungover/seaksick/queasy/woozy feeling that seems to peak in the morning, evening and at unforeseen moments in between[2]. This post could be about how I wallowed for a couple days, dramatically dragging myself out of bed in the morning and keeping saltine crackers on the nightstand in some effort to ward off my early morning blood sugar nosedive. This post could be about how I grimaced at the smell of garlic and could be nowhere near the kitchen during most hours of the day or night lest I lay eyes on some deeply offensive food group like cookies[3], salad or anything not made exclusively from white flour. This post could be about how this morning, I put on my big girl pants, dressed up like some reasonable facsimile of a competent attorney, went and saw my client in jail and realized how frigging great I have it, you know, not having to spend my birthday incarcerated and not facing potential deportation from my home. And then I ate a tuna fish sandwich because damnit, I was in my big girl pants I am very lucky and I need to just deal already.

But that’s not what any of this post is about. Because I am nothing if not a promisekeeper,[4] here I am to deliver on my utterly captivating here-is-how-my-diet-has-radically-changed post.

Once upon a time, way back in the forever-and-ever-until-now, I ate fruits, vegetables, and whole grains. I delighted in perusing the aisles of my local Whole Foods (because I am a liberal who detests the CEO’s philosophy[5] but loves produce more). I loved cooking and baking, having dinner parties and browsing food blogs and other cliehe stuff that white people like, like camping and picking my own fruit. Today, I am sorry to say, I am but a shell of my former self. That Sarah of the past is dead to me now.

In the span of several days, my diet has shifted radically from this:

 

CSA farm share + cookies. You know, an eminently balanced diet.

To this:

Not pictured: copious amounts of oatmeal and lemon-ginger tea.

(The oranges are included to ward off scurvy!). It is utterly disgusting. So, dear readers. When you find me, so many days from now, a bloated, constipated, white-flour-filled corpse[6], my hair thinning from lack of nutrients, my skin grey and pockmarked, you will know why. A moment of silence, shall we?

Very well then. As I mentioned, today I turned a corner. I ate a tuna fish sandwich[7] and I felt fantastic. Now if you’ll excuse me, let me just slip these “sea bands” (seriously, how much fun are those two having with their “adult wristbands”!) back on each wrist and crawl under the covers with a saltine cracker and my will.

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[1] Replace “stole that blind guy’s hot dog” with “the time I cheated at Banagrams as a 29 year old woman” (it wasn’t my fault I saw the other side of my tile letter “T” now was it?).

[2] Yes, yes, grateful for these signs, embracing any possible, plausible “affirmational (not a word) symptom” of a bona fide pregnancy, etc. But also not unwilling to concede that this is all just a dirty trick, played on me by SHINGLES. That bitch. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see at the…first ultrasound this Friday. (Like how I stuck that in the footnote, eh?).

[3] Cookies are a food group. What?

[4] Wait, that came out wrong.

[5] Ick.

[6] Too graphic?

[7] I know. You can tell I’m pretty proud of this. The thing is, I don’t even like tuna that much. But the bar is low here.

rhymes with shingles

What’s that? Despite the nauseating feeling you experience upon breathing you’re interested in swallowing a pill the size of a deck of cards five times a day for seven days? Accompanied by a strange rash and general feeling of total body malaise? WELL HOLD THE EVERLOVING PHONE. Shingles it is!

I would be remiss if I did not tell you – I have shingles. That’s right. All you discerning readers who thought that my casual mention of “shingles” in my last post was just another one of my whimsical, hyperbolic, and melodramatic cries for attention? Well, you were right. But on Friday I confirmed what I feared all along! since approximately 48 hours ago. The red, vesicular rash on the right side of my abdomen that alternately feels itchy and ultra-sensitive has been with us – all of us! we are the world[1]! etc. – since Monday. But it wasn’t until rapid-fire consultation with five different physicians[2] that I had the pleasure of a confirmed diagnosis and VERY AGGRESSIVE treatment plan – pills, deck of cards, take by mouth basically every 15 minutes, etc. – to follow.

So here I am, REALLY, REALLY needing to get back to like, being a competent and together lawyer, because I can only be excused for so many doctors appointments in one 72 hour period unsure whether the intermittent waves of nausea and sudden predilection for bland carbohydrates – and distaste for, no, ABSOLUTE DISGUST FOR, chocolate and sweets[3] – have more to do with the toxic horse pills or the gaggle of cells hopefully-developing-normally in my uterus[4]. Also, let’s be honest – the absurdity of having shingles during my first trimester, after trying desperately to get and stay pregnant for 14 months is really, truly HILARIOUS[5]. <end scene>

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[1] The best kind of vintage MTV. Also, Bethenny Frankel has totally been rocking an MJ look lately. (Yeah, that’s right, I just referenced Bethenny Frankel. What of it?)

[2] Doctor #1 (primary care doctor): <takes one look> It looks like zoster[2]. I’m giving you a prescription for Acyclovir, one pill, five times a day, for seven days. The OBs say it won’t affect the pregnancy.

Doctor #2 (OB who primary care doctor has consulted regarding treatment because, hellopregnantohmygodFETUS! and who has kindly run up five flights of stairs to inspect me herself): <panting – you know, from running – takes one look> I agree with [Doctor #1]. It looks like zoster. Cue: many reassuring words about how zoster has no effect on a developing fetus despite what you may have read on webmd/the treatment is completely safe in pregnancy.

[Intermission, i.e. Thursday evening, in which C, on call at the hospital, where I have just been for two hours, is basically having an aneurysm and freaking the fuck out. Unsatisfied with merely two opinions, he pulls strings so that I can see an infectious disease doctor first thing Friday morning.]

Doctor #3 (infectious disease fellow): <takes one, slightly longer look> It looks like zoster to me. But I want to bring in the attending to see what she thinks.

Doctor #4 (infectious disease attending): <deep in concentration, even breaks out a little flashlight for some serious inspection, which naturally makes me feel like I’m in a spy thriller because obviously> Hmmmmm. I’m not sure it’s zoster. I would stop taking the medication. If it is zoster, it’s mild and it should resolve on its own. There’s no evidence that Acyclovir harms a pregnancy but you’re so early on and there just isn’t a lot of evidence on the effect of Acyclovir in pregnancy. Call your OB and see what she thinks.

<Sarah, *face palm*, panicked, having already taken 3 doses of what now appears to be fetus poison, etc.>

Doctor #5 (my “high risk[2]” obstetrician who I haven’t actually been properly referred to yet because I haven’t actually had my first ultrasound with the fertility clinic but whose nurse suffers through my calls regardless): YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST FINISH THE ENTIRE CYCLE OF MEDICATION. THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.

[3] The horror! But seriously, folks. Let us take a moment to mourn the loss of this very important food interest. And please check back for my absolutely captivating forthcoming post detailing the CATASTOPHIC changes in my quibbling, disgusting, only-eats-starch diet which I continue to resist (unsuccessfully). You know, between the waves of nausea and fear of scurvy. 

[4] I know, I know. Nausea plus strong food aversions plus boobs-so-sore-no-touching! is, potentially, good news. But like my dear friend Tina Fey says, “My ability to turn good news into anxiety is rivaled only by my ability to turn anxiety into chin acne.” <it’s like she knows me!>

[5] I am nearly certain that this baby is ripping up my medical bills. Good baby.

my elusive "pregnancy voice"

I don’t quite know what to do with my infertile-but-now-pregnant self. I’ve been having feelings of…. Guilt! Betrayal! THIS GIRLDLE IS SO TIGHT! And other melodramatic feelings that only exist in the hearts of women in Jane Austen books[1] and Downton Abbey[2]?

Being pregnant[3] after infertility – even after my total junior league, AAA, <insert other sports reference signifying a very novice level of anything> infertility – is fucking strange. (An expletive was appropriate there, I assure you.)

But because delving too deeply into my “complicated” and “complex” feelings would necessarily involve something about my superego, followed by several painstaking hours of insufferable navel gazing, the urge to drink, and the en masse exit of all of my readers I’ll spare you.

That was a lie.

It’s just that <deep breath signifying profound thoughts to come, accompanied by dramatic hand gestures>: I’m not sure where I belong – cue the COLOSSAL ORCHESTRA of tiny violins[4]. On one hand, any admission of a promising beta feels like a direct assault. A kind of virtual, so long suckers! Which makes me feel like a total witch. On the other hand, ohmygoodness half-off-infant-fleece-Patagonia-onesie![5]

But this week, as promised, I’ve been trying to embrace optimism; to allow C (and myself, on alternate Tuesday afternoons, except today, not today), to like, enjoy this. Every godforsaken tender-breasted-getting-up-in-the-night-to-pee-three-times-should-i-bring-a-plastic-bag-on-the-subway-in-case-i-puke? moment.