Hello World

I have not been missing in action for the last two weeks.  I have been very much in action.  I have been spending the last ten days basking in the complete delight of this...

My little "Duck," was born on Thanksgiving Day, at 2:40 pm, after a nearly 24 hour long induction of labor. This  precious little boy is my smallest baby, weighing 6 pounds 14 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.

I am blissfully happy.  Happy to have the opportunity to be a new mommy again.  Happy to have the chance to experience another newborn.  Happy to have him here safely.  Happy to no longer be pregnant.

I would like to warn you in advance that, for a little while at least, there will be a flood of baby posts.  It would be impossible for that not to occur.

I should also warn you that the rest of this post is my birth story and may be overly long and may contain too much personal information.  Reading this is optional.  Writing this is not optional.  I must write to remember and to cherish.

When I went to my last regularly scheduled OB appointment on Wednesday, November 21, I took my time walking over there.  I didn't want my blood pressure to be high from a power walk from the OR to the clinic.  My blood pressure had been elevated on my last two appointments.  However, rechecks had been normal.  I strolled over and arrived with plenty of time to sit, relax, and rest my massively swollen feet and legs.  Despite this, my blood pressure was still elevated when I was checked in, so my urine was checked for protein.  This had been done two week earlier, and the result was normal.  This time was different: my urine came back positive for protein.  With high blood pressure and  proteinuria, the concern for preeclampsia, the diagnosis that had just been a whisper of a concern, suddenly became a real possibility.

My OB came in to discuss the results.  She gave me two options: head over to Labor and Delivery now for an induction, or undergo a 24 hour urine collection to arrive at a definite diagnosis and then have an induction. The only reason she was really giving me an option was because the next day was Thanksgiving. She said that if I were her sister, she would take me to L&D now, and bring me turkey later.  I looked at Hubster, almost feeling numb.

"Let's just be done,"  he said.  I nodded and mumbled my assent.   The OB left the room to arrange for my admission and induction.

I wasn't quite sure what to think.  I wasn't ready.  Yes, I wanted to not be pregnant anymore, almost more than anything.  The swelling that had been a mild nuisance was now significant, going up to my mid thighs; it had been a while since I could fit into normal shoes and my face and hands were now swollen. My heartburn was still raging, despite twice daily medication.  My mild hip and back pain had turned into distracting sciatica.  So yes, I wanted to be done.  But I still had pictured going into labor on my own.  I had undergone an induction with Monkey and had been hoping to avoid it this time around.  That was not going to be the case.

As Hubster and I walked over to Labor and Delivery, I called my mom, who had arrived in town on Sunday and was currently watching Bug and Monkey. I then called my friend who had offered to watch the boys so my mom could be present at the birth. I felt guilty with every phone call, feeling that I was ruining Thanksgiving for so many people. But not a single person complained.

I checked into L&D, changed, had an IV placed.  I then received a medication to help "ripen" my cervix, since I was only dilated to 2 cm.  Now, there was nothing left to do except wait.  Hubster returned home to get my carefully packed hospital bag.  He brought my mom and the boys to the hospital to visit. The boys then went to my friends' house for what we sold to them as a sleepover.

Playing on iPhones is apparently much better than actually visiting.

The rest of the night was spent waiting, having the external monitors constantly adjusted.  Around 2:30 am, the irritating Braxton-Hicks contractions I had been having started becoming more uncomfortable, waking me out of my already poor quality sleep.  At 5 am, when they rechecked me, I hadn't made an cervical change, and a different cervical ripening medication was  placed.  At this time, they also took the monitors off so that I could shower.  That may have been the longest shower I have ever taken, since it felt wonderful to be out of bed, off monitors. At 8 am, the monitors went back on.

I became increasingly uncomfortable with my contractions.  Also, the baby's heart rate, which had looked perfect most of the night, started showing some dips, or decelerations.  These were mild enough and short lived enough that no one was really concerned.

At 11 am, I was no longer able to talk through (or really breathe through) my contractions, and I had an epidural placed (ah, the glorious epidural!)  Finally having my contractions stop hurting, along with my back and hips, I was finally able to get some real sleep.

This lasted only an hour, because the decreases in the baby's heart rate, which had been mild, had become more pronounced.  I was placed on oxygen.  The nursing staff moved me into a different position every 15 minutes.  I was given more IV fluid.  All was in an attempt to make the fetal heart rate tracing look better.

This is the problem with being a patient and being medically educated.  I kept looking at the red tracing of the baby's heart rate, and I knew the zig-zagging line was showing variable decelerations.  Every time the entire team of doctors came into my room, I knew how worried they were, despite their calm voices.  After so long, we have all learned to keep our voices calm despite our concerns.

I was still making very little cervical change.  The OB team was worried that anything to speed up my labor might make the baby do worse.  He already wasn't dealing well with my own contractions, so adding Pitocin to make them stronger might hake things worse.  The decreases in his heart rate could also be from compression of the umbilical cord, and breaking my water could make that worse.  Finally, the team decided that we were at a stand-still and something had to be done and decided to break my water.  When they did, the amniotic fluid contained meconium and blood.  At this time, the concern became that I had a placental abruption, or bleeding behind the placenta, making it less effective at providing good blood flow to the baby. And then the talk of a Cesarean section began. Fetal scalp monitors and intrauterine pressure devices were placed.  The OB decided to try an infusion of fluid into my uterus to see if it would help alleviate the stress on the baby before taking me for a C-section.

Around this time, I started crying.  I help Hubster's hand tightly and quietly cried among all the activity around me.

This was not how this was supposed to go.  This was my third baby.  This was supposed to be easy.  Everyone kept telling me how easy the third labor would be ("Oh, that baby will probably just fall right out."  "So-and-so only had 5 contractions and pushed once with her third baby.")  I wanted this to be the perfect labor, where I got to really be aware of everything, to be in control.  This, what was happening, this was not my perfect labor. This was anything but perfect.

When they broke my water, I had been measuring 4 cm.  10 minutes later, when they came to start the amnio-infusion, the last intervention before taking me for a C-section, I was at 10 cm.  The baby's heart rate tracing was still not looking better, but since I was complete, the OB decided to have me push.

"You are going to get a lot of aggressive coaching," she told me.  "You have to push hard.  You have to have this baby right now."

It felt that there were 20 people in the room yelling at me to push (Hubster says it was closer to 10).  Around that time, my clear picture of what was happening became less clear.  Everything felt more intense, more fuzzy.  Each memory became a mere snap shot.

Pushing, and feeling the pain of each contraction through the epidural.
The OB's expression changing and the vacuum delivery unit being rapidly assembled.
The vacuum popping off twice.
Someone shouting that they needed the pediatric team in the room now.
Hubster voice in my ear, telling me his head was out and to keep pushing.
The physical relief of the baby being delivered.
The backs of the peds team facing me.
The cry of my baby.

My own sobbing, both of relief and pure joy.
Hubster, snapping pictures and become tearful himself.
The OB attempting to explain to me what had happened: a profound decrease in the baby's heart rate, necessitating rapid delivery with the vacuum.
My whole body shaking.

Everything was blur, up to the moment until they placed my new baby boy on my chest, all pink and perfect.

There is this moment, when your child is born, that the universe tilts, shatters, and realigns around this new person. All the concerns and preoccupations that I previously had, those no longer mattered.  Missing Thanksgiving, inconveniencing people, having the "perfect" labor: none of that mattered.  The only thing that matters is the tiny, fragile, damp haired baby in my arms.

Eventually, after everything settled down, Hubster left to get Bug and Monkey to meet their new brother.  Looking at them holding him, commenting on how small and cute he is, made me feel so complete.  This is my family.  

He is here, my little Duck is finally here.

Ready to head home

And he is perfect.

Hello world.

The Nursery

Otherwise known as my new favorite room in the house.

One of the things that I looking forward to doing during this pregnancy was creating a real nursery.  With both Bug and Monkey, we were living in apartments when they were born, so things such as painting and hanging up decorations were just not possible.  And there just wasn't room.   (Although I did paint a room for Bug in one apartment - only to have it quickly repainted over the day we moved out.)

This time, I wanted a dedicated baby room.

Our office/guest bedroom was emptied and all its contents were relegated to the basement (still yet to be finished.)

The before...

I started creating color schemes and design plans almost the very moment I found out I was pregnant. I created a Pinterest board dedicated just to nursery ideas.  And wow, did I have ideas.  I wanted something bold, striking, colorful, unique. Somewhere along in the planning process, I changed my mind.  After all, this was going to be a room for a newborn, a sweet, soft, snuggly newborn.  So I backed off the oranges and teals and lime greens and yellows and decided to go for something soft and soothing. 

And blue. 

The after...

At first, I couldn't believe myself.  How stereotypical, how expected could the nursery get - being blue for a boy. I was a little disappointed with myself.  I could have chosen any color, and I chose blue?

But I'm completely over it.  I love the room, blue walls and everything.

I hand painted trees and cardinals on the walls by finding a picture I liked online, tracing it onto a page protector.  I borrowed an overheard projector from a lady at the boys' school and traced, then painted each tree, leaf, and bird.  The cardinals were my mom's idea.  The nest was Monkey's idea.

Bug helped me create art for the reading/rocking corner.

I completely altered our old mobile, covering it first with brown floral tape, then with artificial vines and felt leaves.  I painted over some cheap bird Christmas ornaments to hand from the mobile.

And look at these darling black and white animal flashcards I found...I had to hang them up as art (but they are still easy to take down, so we can actually use them.)

I still have ideas: I need to get letters for the baby's name to hang on the wall. I want to create some baby accessible bookshelves for all the board books. I'm completely lusting after this owl lamp.

But for now, the nursery is done.  Often, when I walk by, I stand in the doorway and just look at everything, take in my new favorite room, and hope that its future occupant loves it as much as I do.

38 Weeks

I'm getting to the point where I hope that there won't be any more pregnancy update posts. I think I've officially hit the wall. I'm done. I'm fat pregnant enough that I can't fit into most my pregnancy clothes.  My feet are massively swollen.  I waddle.  My hips and back ache. I'm exhausted, but still can't sleep more than three hours in a row. The belly is just getting out of control.

I'm not all miserable.  Every rib bruising kick this little boy gives me makes me wonder how much he will weigh, whether he will be as bald as Bug and Monkey, and when he will make his appearance.

Despite physically having had enough, I'm actually hoping Duck does hold off just a bit on his grand entrance.  My mom arrives in 6 days.  And it would be kind of nice to make it through Thanksgiving without being immediately post-partum. 

To combat the fatigue and overall just blah feeling, I've spent the last week doing a little pampering.  

A couple of weeks ago, I took both Bug and Monkey out for individual dates, just the two of us out for an evening.

Hubster and I have a date planned for this weekend (hopefully.)

But I needed some individual time. I choose a time where my work schedule was lighter and spread a variety of activities over the week.

I bought myself flowers.

I got a manicure and pedicure, choosing a light blue to celebrate the arrival of a baby boy.

 (Just focus on the cute toenail color, and not the swollen toes)

I scheduled a maternity massage, which was the most wonderful thing.  I kept dozing off and may have snored on at least one occasion during.

This last week of some dedicated "me" time was something I have never done before, but was well worth it. I also took my last OR call of residency, (having worked 15 out of the last 17 weekends), and that alone is worth celebrating.

I feel rejuvenated and maybe, maybe even able to resist the temptation to have my OB/GYN induce me a week early.

Panicking

At 36 weeks, there is only one more month to go in this whole pregnancy thing.  Which is good, because I'm pretty much done.

Except for the times I'm completely panicking.

Panicking because I'm starting to feel that I'm never going to be ready for this baby.  I still have so much to do.  The baby quilt is not done. I haven't packed a hospital bag.  I haven't deep cleaned the house.  There is still so much to do.  At 36 weeks, technically the baby could arrive at any time (although hopefully not until after Thanksgiving).  And this house (and mommy) are absolutely not ready.

I'm also panicking because I keep having moments where suddenly I think that this whole baby thing wasn't such a good idea.  Obviously, I'm pot committed at this point.  But there are times when I have this moment of terror that is basically, "What was I thinking!?!"  I'm already so busy, financially we're just making ends meet.  I'm not exactly sure how to continue to juggle my unpredictable work schedule with family time, how to pay for day care, how to study for boards.  I don't know how we're going to do it.

I'll have this panicky moments, and then I'll calm right down. 

We've made it work before. We've been much tighter financially in the past.  We've juggled busy schedules before.  We always find a way to make it work, and I know that we will do it this time.  And scrubbing the walls and all the baseboards is overrated, right?

Other sources of panic these days: having enough swelling that my wedding ring has been moved to a necklace around my neck and no longer being able to fit into any shoes. To have my maternity clothes not really fit.  In fact, one pair of my maternity pants ripped while I was trying to put them on.  How's that for a self-esteem blow? 

But I calm down about this too. I know that the swelling will go away after delivery.  And if some of that swelling actually ends up being extra weight, well...oh, well.

I haven't weighed myself once during the pregnancy (other than the mandatory weigh ins at my doctor appointments). With my other two pregnancies, I weighed myself daily, keeping track of every pound.  I freaked about about every stretch mark. This time, I went into this pregnancy already a little over weight.  So what was a few more pounds?  I've already got an exercise program in place for post partum, and even if I don't lose the all the weight, I know that I'll be all right.  I already had the stretch marks, so what is a few more going to do? 

And let me tell you, with a belly this big, there are a few more...

But with a belly this big, it also means that baby is right around the corner. And even though I'm (just a little) panicked about that, I'm also pretty excited.

32

Getting past 30 weeks in my pregnancy felt like such a milestone, even more than reaching the third trimester.  It felt like finally, finally, I was in the home stretch.

Because that was the one thing I had forgotten about pregnancy.  They say that eventually, you develop a sort of amnesia towards the more unpleasant parts of pregnancy. I hadn't felt that was true.  I remembered how horrific the morning sickness was, how terrible the heart burn was, how much my feet swelled, how my back and hips hurt, how it was impossible to get comfortable at night and get a good night's sleep. (Such a lovely picture of pregnancy, isn't it?).

But the one thing I had forgotten about pregnancy is just how long it is.  I mean, come on, it's almost a year!  It seems never ending.  I still have over 7 weeks to go, and I keep feeling like I'm done now.

Granted, I'm not actually ready.  The nursery is set up.  The baby clothes are all washed and put away.  The day care waiting lists are signed up for.  The stock piles of diapers, wet wipes, pacifiers, and bottles are at the ready.  We have a name picked out.  But we don't have a car seat.  We don't have a diaper bag.  I haven't finished the quilt.  And I still have 6 call shifts (4 in the surgical intensive care unit and 2 in the operating room) that I have to complete.  I still need to have one on one dates with my boys before my attention is divided.  I still need to get a pedicure, and get my hair cut, and get a massage, and have lunch with my girl friends before the demands at home grow even larger.

Speaking of larger, here is the 32 week belly shot. 

I feel enormous. A couple of my maternity shirts are actually having a hard time making the complete journey to meet my waist band - always a classy look.

Despite the fact that I am willing the days to pass as quickly as possible (partially just to be able to take a deep breath and to not get winded while putting on socks, but mostly out of excitement to meet my newest little man), there are things I want to remember:

-I still am having food aversions: I can't stand the thought of eating (or cooking) chicken, which has made meal planning much more difficult. I also can't eat strawberries, which is terrible, especially considering my town just got a Costco and the large trays of strawberries call to me.  But I throw them up nearly every time. That and toast.  I can't eat toast.

-I don't have any noticeable cravings.  I have been able to drink milk and orange juice, something I couldn't do with my previous pregnancies.  But unlike the time when I was pregnant with Bug and craved anything with cinnamon on it, or the crazy onion ring cravings I had with Monkey, I haven't noticed any new food loves.  Yet.

-The baby is most active between 9 and 10 pm.  Every night without fail, he starts a little gymnastic routine right around 9 o'clock, delighting Bug and Monkey with the associated stomach distortions.  I know he has active periods during the day as well, but my schedule is usually so busy, I'm not as  in tune with those.  I'm predicting that he continues with this schedule post birth.

-I'm having those typical vivid pregnancy dreams (when I'm not sliding down my mattress that has 3 pillows stuffed under it to combat my reflux symptoms).  A lot of my dreams involve preterm delivery, hemorrhaging to death, or having a huge audience at the birth, but I've also had dreams about the most beautiful little boy ever.

8 weeks left.  That is all.  That's what I keep telling myself.  That is all.

2/3

...of the way done!

At 28+ weeks along, I am official full into the third trimester.

And how are things going, you might ask.

 Well, the nursery is half painted.  All the quilt squares for the baby quilt are cut, but not a single thing has been sewn.  The nursery is still filled with office/guest bedroom furniture.  We think we've decided on a name.  My heart burn is worse than ever, despite medication.  I'm getting the start of what promises to be some fabulous low extremity swelling.  This little boy is already strong enough to keep me awake at night with his kickboxing routine.  I'm sporting some wicked lordosis and a belly large enough that people don't hesitate to ask me when I'm due.  (Even though they expect me to say next week, instead of Thanksgiving.)

I don't even want to think how big this belly is going to be in 12 more weeks!

And despite all that, I'm finding that I'm enjoying this pregnancy more than I did the first two (please, do not mistake this for wanting to do this again.)  Somehow, realizing that this is the last time allows for more perspective.  I'm attached to my baby bump, instead of being resentful of the changes.  I already have the stretch marks, so there is no new crying over the few new ones.  Don't get me wrong, it will be wonderful to be able to lie down without overwhelming nausea or the remains of my dinner refluxing back into my mouth.  But I have an appreciation and a patience that only now do I realize was lacking last time.

Give me another 4 weeks, and in inability to get my wedding ring off my swollen hands, and I'm sure I'll take all of this back.

Bump: Week 23

In just 3 weeks since I last posted a picture, I have gone from looking just a little bit pregnant (or just overly indulgent at Daylight Doughnuts), but still fitting in my own clothes to this...

Very obviously pregnant.

The only thing that I previously owned that still fits me is two pairs of sweat pants.  Not even my old T-shirts can make the distance to completely cover my belly.   I finally had to break down and buy some maternity clothes.  I felt a bit silly spending money on clothes that I will only wear until the end of the year, but walking around with my jeans unbuttoned was just not going to cut it. And there are so many cute maternity clothes now, outfits that are much better than anything I had six years ago.

Oh, and I have raging, esophagus eating heart burn.  Just thought you wanted to know.

Oh Boy

It's official.

Duck is a boy.  And I couldn't be happier about it.  We are all very excited about it.  Even Monkey, who initially said that if that baby wasn't a girl, then he didn't want it.  After all, he already had a brother, and didn't need another one.

I'm relieved in many ways.  I already (kind of) know what to do with boys.  I don't have to wade into the world of Barbies and pink and ballet classes.

I've already painted the nursery, bought fabric for a quilt, and Hubster and I are pretty certain we have settled on a name.

Now, I just need to get through the next 18 weeks.  I'm not wishing away those 18 weeks though (well, except for the persistent nausea, the sleep interrupting leg cramps, and the insidious onset of heart burn).  I'm trying to savor the moments, the planning, the expectation.

I've been wanting this baby for a long time, a very long time (the posts date back to 2009 and 2010). I talked about having a baby all the time for over two years. Hubster and I kept talking that we would do a year of dental school first, see how things worked out, and then try for baby number 3.  But that put me at the end of residency and losing my amazing resident insurance. So early last summer, I stopped my birth control and we official started trying.

The first three months of not getting pregnant didn't really bother me.  Okay, that's not true.  I wanted to get pregnant immediately. But the first three months of not getting pregnant were at least expected.  Even though, after that, I did start to go even more crazy and bought ovulation sticks and meticulous charted everything.  Only to realize two months later that I wasn't ovulating.

My periods were irregular.  I never had a positive ovulation test.  I never had a typical change in basal body temperature. And even though by that point, we had only technically been trying to conceive for 5 months, I started completely freaking out.

Take a person who is slightly neurotic as baseline, give them several years of distracting baby hunger, and then introduce even the slight possibility that there might not be another baby, and you can start to create in your mind the totally irrational, panic ridden person I became.  It took a good friend to grab me by the shoulders, give me a little shake, and tell me that I was being crazy, for me to even start to calm down.  Poor Hubster, during all this time, kept saying that he thought baby-making was supposed to be at least a little bit fun.

In December, armed with several months of menstrual dates and (lack of) ovulation charts, I called my OB/GYN to make an appointment. The first available appointment wasn't until April. I took a deep breath and made the appointment, figuring that by that time, it would have been almost of year of trying, and if I wasn't pregnant by my appointment in April, then they would have to take me seriously.

However, my friend, who also saw the same OB/GYN had an appointment in January that she gave me (the scheduling person must have thought we were both bizarre, trying to get her to change our appointments). So, four negative pregnancy tests and seven months later, I went to my first appointment.  My OB/GYN was wonderful, sympathetic, and didn't think I was completely crazy (which I still can't figure out why that was such a concern of mine).

I went through series of blood draws to check hormone levels. I went through timed ultrasounds to look at my ovaries and the lining of my uterus. 

All of which came of the same conclusion - I was not ovulating.  It could have been a million things: the stress related to residency, the extra weight I had gained since I became pregnant with Monkey.  As my doctor said, "Residency is trying to kill your ovaries." 

We decided to start on progesterone and Clomid.  I started the first round of drugs in February.

I didn't particularly have any hope. I had seen the ultrasounds, with my sleeping ovaries on them.  My doctor and I had gone through everything, about the all the different drugs and technologies that were still available.

During most of this time, when I wasn't being neurotic, I felt incredibly silly. After all, we already had two gorgeous boys.  Expensive fertility treatments seemed like they should be saved for those who had no children.  It hadn't even been a year since we started trying.  I knew couples who had tried for years and years to get pregnant. What was 9 months? Why should I been worked up.  Why should I even care?  But care I did.

On my 30th birthday, in March, I decided I would check.  Just for fun.  As a birthday present to myself.

I nearly fell over when I saw two pink lines.

I took a picture, and sent it to Hubster, who was downstairs cooking breakfast.  About 6 seconds later, I could hear him running up the stairs.  We did a little celebration happy dance together. I walked around with a stupid grin for days afterwards.

Turns out those sleeping ovaries, the ones that residency was trying to off, they just needed a swift kick in the butt.

This whole process was strange to me.  I've always been such a planner.  Both Bug and Monkey were conceived within two months, the timing of moving and major tests and such planned around those dates.  To have the process of when I would have a baby taken away from me (my initial plans of a mid spring baby changed to a Thanksgiving baby) was humbling.

But I am grateful. Even on my sickest, most fatigued days, I remember that I wanted this.  I planned for this.

This little boy is wanted. 

20 Weeks and A Guessing Game

I've counted the last weeks by hours between Zofran doses and by number of Saltine crackers consumed.

The new contents of my bedside table

Lately, I've been counting it by quiet, but firm little kicks against my stomach wall.

The boys have been counting the weeks by the silly names they come up with for their new sibling and the days left until they know if it's a boy or a girl.

Somehow, I have survived the harrowing vomiting and bone marrow deep fatigue to make it to the halfway point.

Seriously, I don't remember the fatigue being this bad with the other two.  Granted, it was six years ago and I wasn't working 50-70 hours a week, but still. Coming home and talking to the nanny and then falling asleep on the floor while talking to her...that's pretty major fatigue.  But even that is improving.  I have actually made it past 9 pm on several occasions.

I'm still wearing my regular clothes (I'm not calling them pre-pregnancy.  The only things I refer to as "pre-pregnancy" are my body and the clothes I wore before Bug...10 years ago).  But I'm getting to the awkward stage where the buttons don't quite meet, the waists are just a little too tight, and people can definitely tell that my body is changing, but they aren't completely sure if it's because I'm pregnant, or because I've over indulged on the breakfast doughnuts.

Yes, I shared a picture of my little bump. Which I can't believe I did.  I'm normally self-conscious about sharing any pictures where I'm not safely hidden behind my two boys. But I'm hoping that I'll look back and be glad that I documented all the changes associated with this baby, both good and bad.

Currently, the most anxiety producing thing (since I've stopped worrying about all the basics, having had an early ultrasound that revealed that my baby does in fact have two arms, two legs, a head, a brain, a stomach, a bladder, and an intact spine) is the matter of gender.

Yes, we are going to find out.  I am way too much of a control freak to not find out.

Everyone assumes that I want a girl, since we already have two boys.  If I'm being completely honest here, the thought of a girl scares me to death.  I'm raising two boys.  I already have all the stuff for boys.  I feel like I know what I'm doing.  Boys are my comfort zone, my worn-in jeans feeling. I would have no idea what to do with a girl.  And I worry that people will assume the whole reason we wanted a third baby was to have a girl, when really it was just the baby I wanted, regardless of gender.  I have spent so much time stressing about what on earth I will do if I find out the baby is a girl.

But there is also a part of me that thinks about dresses and bows and pink and fairy wings and tea parties and prom and weddings. And really, wouldn't a girl be wonderful.  Especially since Monkey has said that he only wants the baby if it's a girl, because he already has a brother.

Our official ultrasound is next week.  Don't think for a moment that I haven't tried to figure this out on my own.  I've been ultrasounding myself every couple days trying to figure out what Duck is.  However, my ultrasound skills are severely lacking in that department. I spend the time instead looking at the tiny little arms and legs and the reassuring flutter of the heart.

So, until next Thursday at noon, any guesses as to the gender of little Duck?

24 Hour Sickness

It's been said before: morning sickness is misnamed.  Those of us who have survived it know that it doesn't have to be just a morning thing, or just an evening thing, but can be an anytime sickness or, for me, and 24 hour sickness.

With both Bug and Monkey, I somehow managed to survive the entire 9 months of pregnancy feeling nauseous the entire time. With Bug, because I hadn't experienced it before, it took me off guard and frankly made me think that death was preferable to the puking 20 times a day, hating the sight of food, people talking about food.  I would spend ridiculous amounts of time constructing driving routes to and from school that would avoid driving past fast food joints, because the smell would send me into heaving fits.   I was sick enough both times that I required IV fluids due to dehydration and electrolyte imbalances.  I was started on strong, ridiculously expensive anti-nausea medication when all other remedies failed, and that medication only just managed to take the edge off.

This incapacitating sickness was one of the major reasons I was hesitant to become pregnant during residency.  I wasn't sure I'd be able to function in an operating room, maintaining the level of focus and vigilance requiring.  I had images of me throwing up into the garbage can by the anesthesia machine. 

A week after my positive pregnancy test, I was still feeling pretty good.  Tired, tender, but not sick.  I waffled between thinking that this pregnancy would be different and that something must be wrong if I was feeling okay.

And then, it happened.  The nausea, the vomiting, the bitter taste of puke and acid in the back of my throat at all times.  I tried all my old tricks: eating the foods I had tolerated the last time around, eating small frequent meals.  I wanted to stay away from medications as long as I could, to give my new, growing fetus the healthiest environment. 

I couldn't focus in the OR.  I had used to be able to care for the patient and get some studying done as well.  Now, every extra ounce of focus I had outside of watching the patient went to keeping the overwhelming sickness from taking over.  My routine of small constant snacking didn't work because food isn't allowing in the OR and I was lucky for two breaks a day, if that.

I started to lose weight.  I was weak and shaky.  And I wasn't nice.  I stopped talking to people.  I was short tempered at home and stopped playing with my boys, because the only thing I could think about was the nausea.  All my evenings and free moments were spent laying on the couch and crying. I contacted the OB office, and they said as long as I was still making urine, not to worry.

Less than two weeks of this, a friend at work said enough.  I was given a prescription for anti-nausea medication. 

I'm now almost 15 weeks along.  I am still taking the medication around the clock, every 8 hours.  I still throw up at least once every day.  I still can't eat chicken or Mexican food or toast or chocolate.  But I'm doing better.  I've stopped losing weight.  I lost 15 pounds.  Normally, I would be excited about a 15 pound weight loss.  But this is not how anyone should lose weight. 

I'm not back to normal.  The nausea is still there, always constantly on my mind and in my throat. But I'm starting to feel more like myself.  I'm starting to remember all the reasons we wanted this baby in the first place.