challenges

This post could also have been titled "Many Sources of Stress", but I'm trying to be, y'know, positive.

At my last OB visit I got a lot of very good answers to my questions about inductions and interventions: this particular hospital has policies which make a lot of sense to me, but my doc also kept saying, "We'll see what's going on with you; these aren't rules we implement no matter what," and that was exactly what I needed to hear. (I mean, I never believed Ina May Gaskin's claim that standard hospital policy is to perform a caesarian if the doctor feels like going for coffee, but I had heard about the "twenty-four-hour rule" from other places as well.)

Also, I have only gained seven pounds since the beginning of December. I was very proud of this, and wrote a whole long draft about Trusting My Body and Fat-Shamers Can Suck It, and then because my hubris is the fast-acting kind I promptly failed the glucose tolerance test. Cue the sad trombone.

Failing the first test doesn't necessarily mean I have gestational diabetes (though you try getting me to be that rational when the e-mail with the test results arrives at eight o'clock at night [or in any other situation which combines the words "test" and "fail"]). It just means that I have to take the second, infamously awful, three-hour test. If I fail that one, then things get unpleasant: I will probably have to see that terrible nutritionist on a weekly basis, and I doubt she will be above saying, "I told you so," and food will be a source of complications and guilt for the next two and a half months at least, possibly longer. I know women who've had GD and who say it wasn't a big deal, but food restrictions and denial are really, really triggering for me, so I'm quite worried. We'll see.

(My blood pressure and urine results show that I don't have pre-eclampsia, so that's good. I am, however, still anemic. That's bad. Sigh.)

The great thing about pregnancy (and parenthood, down the road) is that there are always new standards for you to fail to meet: at 28 weeks you enter the realm of the "kick count". This means that twice a day, in the morning and evening, you are supposed to sit still and count how many times the baby kicks in ten minutes, and if it's fewer than ten times, you're supposed to panic. (I have also seen the recommendation be ten movements in an hour, which initially seems much more reassuring until you read the fine print on how it has to be movements, not kicks, and I'm really not sure how to differentiate between those two. Also the hour recommendation uses the same times of day, meaning you're supposed to have an hour first thing in the morning when you can do nothing but sit and count. Yeah, I'll just pen that in around brushing teeth / putting in contacts / yoga / making coffee / taking dogs out to pee / breakfast / dogs' breakfast / taking dogs out to poop / getting dressed / doing face and hair / packing lunch / starting car / human interaction with husband / etc. No problem!)

My little incubatee has long shown an unwillingness to perform on command. She has her own schedule and it does not correspond to the Recommended Kick Count Times. Yes, there is frequently movement when I'm reading in bed just before sleep, but if I start to time it, then she stops; and first thing in the morning she's always napping to make up for the three a.m. party and in preparation for the ten a.m. one. So far I still find this amusing rather than panic-inducing, and will not be giving much of a crap about the kick counts unless she has a really quiet day.

(In your final month, you're supposed to panic both if there is not enough movement and if there is too much, which is enormously helpful [no, I have no idea how you're supposed to know if there is "too much" movement]. And if the movement becomes "jerky" or "frantic", RED ALERT! This is also helpful, since normally the feet slamming into my esophagus have the fluid grace of a tiny Baryshnikov, so of course I'll be able to tell if suddenly things are "jerky". Sure.)

Last, and worst, is that Darcy's paw is not improving. The swelling went down and for a few days we thought it was better, but he's now trying not to put any weight on it at all, and is obviously in pain. He went back to the vet tonight; they still couldn't figure out what is wrong. Samples were sent to the lab, and hopefully we'll know more soon. I would happily eat plain oatmeal for the next three months if that meant my big wolfy dog was okay.

Also-also, I'm reading an enormous novel about the Nazis which is like being beaten with a stick, but I refuse to give up now. If I get through it I will allow myself vast amounts of fluffy reading afterwards. And hey, I gotta have something to read while I sit fasting for three hours in the lab waiting room, being called in every hour for more blood removal. WHY NOT NAZIS? 

Geez. Some years February just comes sooner than others, emotionally.