The Wife of Bath’s tale

This is a somewhat serious post. Cause I found out I’ve been doing a bad thing.

When you’re pregnant, you’re supposed to avoid really hot baths, hot tubs, saunas, heating pads, electric blankets, love, warm breezes and anything else that might remotely improve the lower back pain you feel in those first few weeks.

For the record, the theory behind this (to the best that I can figger) is that all of these lovely devices raise your core temperature. Anything above 102 degrees is a problem and can result in everything from hemorrhages to miscarriages to birth defects to comfort to hard-boiled embryos (which are not kosher).

I still take long, luxurious baths. Following the advice of a former OB/GYN, I bought a bath thermometer that you use for babies (to make sure the water isn’t too hot) and I always keep the temp low. Just for kicks, I took my temperature the other day while I was in the tub in an event to clear my mind of any worries that I might be bathing in water that was too hot. For the record, the water was 98-99 degrees. Not much warmer than the 98.6 that humans are supposed to be.

Imagine my surprise when my temperature came back: 101 degrees.

I don’t know if this was contributing to the bleeding in my uterus. I do know that I was completely flummoxed that what I thought was a really moderate temperature would still cause my body to run so hot. So it’s no more baths for me for awhile. Any cooler and I wouldn’t enjoy them (I only took the temps to begin with because I thought it was so cold that I was going to add more hot water).

It’s the Wife of Shower’s tale from now on.

Want some lasagna?

If you have an self-decency, good manners or nausea, do not read this post.

You may have thought I had reached the bounds of oversharing. That the poop tag could serve as a sort of event horizon for all things foul.

You were wrong. Lemme tell you a little story. Those of you who have taken Endometrin are already well aware that the nasty little suppositories lead you to leak discharge not unlike that of soft Italian cheeses, complete with the same smell and … umm … whey.

But the side effects are the real benefit! And I don’t only mean that by 3 a.m. I had become Satan Incarnate rowing away on the burning lake in the fifth canto, I was shedding so much hot flash heat. I had thought that the closest I would get to “glowing” would be if I stumbled upon the nuclear reactor in Dimona, but I was certainly radiating.

I was awoken on Saturday morning by an extremely sharp pain in my right breast. It felt as though a dull needle were puncturing my nipple.

Mostly cause that’s what was happening.

I had a THO* so bad that it had risen through my industrial-strength sports bra and shirt and created a small bump under the sheets. Our youngest kitten, some five months old, thought that funny Mummy was hiding under the blankets again. So she pounced on said nipple, gave it a couple good bites (why she is a biter, I don’t know, but these Israeli cats just aren’t to be trusted) and attempted to … umm … pull it off of me and play with it.

Now, mind you, I’ve considered removing my nipples several times this week, too. Can’t fault her for the good idea. But I kind of panned on them when I realized that removal would require that something would have to touch them. The very thought of which makes me shiver with pain.

Amazingly, the cat is still alive. I had the composure to gently fling her onto another pillow with a dull roar. It appears Mr. Nipple has sustained minor damage (though that’s anyone’s guess, since my breasts now resemble two squashed Nerf footballs with pancakes stuck to the front of them – and what is the deal with the hair growing on them? My gawd, I’m beginning to look like a Victorian sofa – both in size and upholstery).

I’m a bit bloated too. A bit here having the meaning that the clothes that fit me when I was a good 35 pounds heavier are now a bit tight. And the gas! Oh, the gas is amazing. I’m thinking of hanging out around the local middle schools just to impress the teenage boys. I am apparently getting enough fiber, as that is one aspect of this body that has become surprisingly regular.

Unfortunately, the gas that accompanies it is pretty amusing. I’m like a brewery. I can’t help but here the Budweiser Clydesdale song in the background as I walk to the bathroom at night. And when our big kitty crawls up to sleep on me, it’s like someone’s playing a pipe organ. Thank God, it doesn’t hurt, but it sure as hell is funny.

The hubby, for his part, is also a bit gassy. I like to think of them as sympathy farts.

So anyhoo. How was your weekend? Anybody else take Endometrin? Did it all fall out of you about three hours after you took it? Does that mean it isn’t working (though I’d put money on it that it is given my menopausal vacation last night)?

* From middle school: Titty hard on. I am so vastly inappropriate that I occasionally offend myself.

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Good news and bad news (edited)

The good news is there is one little sac growing nicely in my uterus. It is measuring 5 weeks. And I was told it was too early to even think about looking for a heartbeat. There is no ectopic stuff and everything is where it should be. Our next ultrasound is scheduled for Jan. 6.

The bad news is that there is bleeding in my uterus though it appears to be opposite the little bean and doesn’t seem to be affecting the pregnancy (aside from the fact that is is bleeding in my uterus and well, that’s kind of where pregnancies happen to take place). It is supposedly not that bad and is expected to resolve itself. In the meantime, I will be taking 100 mg of progesterone twice a day via suppository. There hasn’t been any spotting or bleeding or pain, so I’m told this is normal and the only reason we are even seeing it is because I was an infertility patient and happened to be having an ultrasound this early.

In any event, keep your fingers or other extremities crossed for us.

Edited to add (I took a nap and am more clear headed now): I should mention there is something in the little sac too. It looked like a little grain of rice inside an almond (the sac) all inside a pear (the uterus). So either I have a would-be baby growing or I’m starting a small-scale agricultural operation. They did not look for a heartbeat, so I guess that (and not miscarrying) is the next big hurdle.

My guess as to what the bleeding is? I was told my cervix is closed tight as a drum and that my mucus plug (sorry – I know it’s a bit gross) is there are very established, etc. So my guess is that this is the result of having taken aspirin up until next Friday. Maybe a bit of implantation bleeding that couldn’t get out. Only time will tell, but I took my first progesterone pill and all seems to be well.

I are using big wurds

Found this little gem care of Mrs. Spock. Her blog is rated genius. Mine is rated:

Okay, that kind of cracks me up. According to the site, that’s the level of education required to understand the content on my blog.

Next year, I’m going to strive for middle school. It’ll go well with the acne and gas I have going on now.

How very strange

I woke up this morning at 6:30 a.m. with cravings. For Chinese food. Specifically, sweet and sour chicken.

This is especially interesting for several reasons:

1. I went to bed at about 1 a.m. I got home from work at 11:30 p.m. to find that my husband was not at home. He was not answering his cell phone. Given that he is usually in bed by 10 p.m., I did the only thing a newly pregnant woman can do. I sat down on the floor and started sobbing, wondering how I was going to raise my baby(ies) all by myself. I knew it was only a matter of time until they found his cold, lifeless body on the highway to Jerusalem.

And then he called back. He was playing football (oh yeah – it’s Tuesday) in Jerusalem and they had to give their medic a ride back to Hashmonaim before he came home. At which point (cue more tears) there ensued much threatening and muffled angst. I believe “I’m fucking pregnant” featured prominently in the discussion.

After promising that another failure to answer his cell phone would indeed result in his cold, lifeless body for all sorts of other reasons, I feel we’ve reached a mutual understanding. There may have been additional threats about drinking/eating my food and doing the dishes. I managed to swallow another two cups of milk, a cup of orange juice, my vitamins and some Indian food and then I went to bed. Indian food, oh how I love thee. But not before I burst into tears a few more times. The hubby let me have a soft t-shirt of his and I thought that was really nice. So I cried about it. Shit, I’m getting all klempy now just thinking about it. God help me.

Clearly, the emotional aspects of this are going to take some getting use to.

2. I am wide awake and have been for a couple hours now. This is bad. Because I have to leave for work at 2:45 p.m. and newspaper pages wait for no man. I’m having some milk now and might take a shower (I find that if I wear a sports bra in the shower, it hurts less). And then hopefully I can fall back to sleep until about 12:30.

Other things that still blow my mind:

I am pregnant.

I got this way from having sex, of all things.

My breasts, which were not exactly small to begin with, are getting bigger. I fear I will go to sleep at night, roll over on my tummy and smother myself. Who knew that the “tenderness” was actually a survival mechanism?

My clothes are already kind of fitting in a hinky way. I know enough to know I’m not showing, but I am evidently retaining enough water to irrigate most of the Negev. Good times. If you were to do an ultrasound of my abdomen, you would no doubt find a couple camels. This is all the more amazing because of how often I pee. I have always been proud of that fact that I have a Bladder of Steel that could hold it for hours. Now, I pee 3-4 times a night when I’m asleep (okay, obviously, not exactly asleep – I do use a toilet). And I’m not getting anywhere near the suggested amounts of water (instead, I drink four cups of milk and two cups of OJ a day – so far, so good).

The food cravings change by the day (hour?). The aversions are profound and things smell funny.

Anyhoo. My water is hot for my shower now (long story – solar heaters in Israel). And then it’s back to bed.

Edited to add: Malky nailed it for me. A warm shower makes the cleavage feel better, as long as the downpour comes through some sort of restraining device. Thanks for that. It made me sleep better than ever – I got another four hours in.

Take two, they’re small

Since I’ve already gotten four e-mails asking me why I think it’s twins, here’s my logic.

If you’re bored, travel on over to a nifty site called BetaBase.info. Women who are pregnant put in their betas, the number of days after LMP that they got them, whether there was a heartbeat and whether they had IVF, IUI, etc.

The key point? They also say whether they had a singleton or multiples.

It is assumed my beta was on day 16 after ovulation. At most, it could have been day 18. No more than that, according to bloodwork and ultrasound and really, even that is pushing it.

The average for a singleton pregnancy 16 dpo is 249. The average for multiples is 422. For the record, mine was 672.

Assuming they are dating the pregnancy wrong, the average for a singleton pregnancy 18 dpo is 543. The average for multiples is 853.

Either way, my numbers are high. That’s why I’m going with twins. Should be fun. Might try and push for a Friday ultrasound, if I can conquer my fear of the shower. And my fear of seeing bad things or not seeing anything at all.

Let the betting begin

It’s funny how when you find out you’re pregnant that all of a sudden there were all these obvious signs that you missed before.

Food tastes funny and I have no appetite whatsoever. I am forcing myself to eat, which is a first for me. I crave all things protein and dairy: cream cheese, scrambled eggs, meatballs and chicken. And beans. Which isn’t going over so well down below. It’s like a symphony every time I potty.

I have been sleeping anywhere from 12 to 15 hours a day. My breasts hurt so much I may never shower again. I almost ripped the shower head right out of the wall when the water stream connected with a very sore nipple.

And I’m all boogery and drooly. I pee constantly. Thank God Israrail trains have bathrooms on them.

The funniest thing is that I am already so bored with all my pregnancy books. I have two on nutrition (What to Eat When You’re Expecting and Every Woman’s Guide to Eating During Pregnancy) and two on pregnancy in general (What to Expect and The Girlfriend’s Guide). My advice? If you’re trying to conceive, read them now. You may not want to read things like “broccoli” or “casserole” when you’re feeling sick. I can get through a few paragraphs and then I fall asleep. Oh well. I read them all before anyhoo.

For the record, I know this isn’t morning sickness. I don’t feel sick, per se, just not hungry. And some things taste funny. I don’t like carbs anymore. Bagels and veggies are dead to me.

The exhaustion is unlike anything else. It really feels as though I’m permanently on nighttime cold medicine. I sat down for a minute while the hubby used the bathroom and fell asleep on a couch at IKEA.

The emotions take some getting used to. I saw a little kiddie size table and chairs and managed to limit my sobbing to just a few tears and gaspy breaths. Note to self: No more IKEA for a while.

Of course, no complaints throughout all of it.

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And now, what you’ve all been waiting for. How many beans are in the Kirby?

Your choices are: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 or more. Post your guesses in the comment. The winner gets my leftover Gonal F and Ovidrel trigger shot.

It’s official

Beta was 672.

Ultrasound on Sunday to see what’s going on where.

The betting pool for number of beans will begin later this week.

Edited to add: Oh gawd. Brain is mush. Need another five hours of sleep. Cannot edit. Have mercy on the paper’s readers tomorrow morning. 

Sometimes…

A picture is worth a thousand words.

Against all odds, it would appear that I am having a something.

We’re going to visit the women’s center tomorrow morning to see if they will do a blood test.

On average, we are cautiously optimistic. Which is what you get when you mix my outright ecstatic faith and the hubby’s utter disbelief.

More shock and awe in my uterus as it happens.

Who inspired you?

“Sing in me Muse and through me tell the story of a man who was skilled in all ways of contending.” *

Just when you thought I’d run out of shameless acts of self promotion…

This weekend’s a fine time for a new meme. From the genius that brought you the Haiku meme comes The Muse Meme.

Who inspired you to start blogging about infertility? Who did you stumble upon when googling “low positive beta” or “ivf protocol” that introduced you to the blogosphere? Who was your first friend inside the computer?

Here’s how it works. You write a short tribute to the kind person or persons who inspired you to become a blogger. (If you’re still sitting on the fence about starting a blog of your own, this would make an excellent first post, no?) Post your tribute on your blog. You might think about e-mailing it to your muse too, just to be sure they see it. The honorees are the ones tagged, but you might want to tag a few other folks, too, especially if your muse is no longer blogging.

* Bonus points if you know who wrote it. If you are my hubby, you are disqualified, so don’t blow it for everyone.

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Though several people have given me the inspiration to put my heart (and details of my vaginal secretions) into print, there was one blog that started it all for me. The impetus for “What to Expect” came when I found Persephone.

Her original blog, “In the Barren Season,” was the first infertility blog I ever found. She was someone like me – Modern Orthodox – and just as outspoken, albeit in somewhat different ways. When I found her blog, I literally sat down with a bottle of wine and read the whole thing from the first post onward.

She gave me insight into treatment and taught me two of the most important lessons you can learn when you start infertility treatment: First, some of the best advice and most vital information about treatment comes from your friends inside the computer, not from your RE, and second, that there is light at the end of the tunnel for most of us, whether it’s in the form of gorgeous little IVF twins like hers or donor eggs or surrogacy or adoption.

Persephone has moved to the other side of the two pink lines and is posting less now that she’s an Ima to Aleph and Bet. Her motherhood blog “First Fruits,” has already given me insight into what the other side looks like. It’s not all sunshine and kittens, but I’m still game.

Thanks Persephone. You don’t know me. You’ve probably never read my blog. But you inspired me to start and to connect with a community that has saved me – both physically and emotionally – more times than I can count. Through it, I’ve found literally everything from jokes that made me laugh so hard I nearly wet myself to a new adoptive family (for me and the hubby, not as a means of procreation) in Israel. Thanks a million.

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I also tag es at subfertile sadness and Mary Ellen at Not According to Plan!