Last night I had the most wonderful dream.
My water had broken. I received a shot of Pitocin. Labor was underway with the help of one of my favorite midwives and the “bonus” was that the lady who had delivered in the room before me left behind an Internet-accessible laptop so I was able to alert all of Facebook friends that our little guy was on his way.
Then reality set in when I woke up at 4:02AM to take my usual “pinkle” (these are the “My-God, it-feels-like-I-have-to-pee-like-a-racehorse-but-only-tinkle” moments courtesy of the 6-pound fetus on my bladder. “Pinkles” can occur anywhere from every 15 minutes to every 2-hours for a pregnant woman. TMI? Sorry.). Needless to say, it was an incredible disappointment.
Now that I am in the midst of my 36th week of pregnancy, the honeymoon phase of gestation has quickly dissipated and I am SO READY have this baby. The “pinkles” disrupt any form of activity whether it be sleep, housework, grocery shopping, playtime with Caiden—HOLD ON-- yep, and now, blogging. Finding a comfortable position to sit, stand, or sleep is next to impossible. Recently, I have been getting ridiculous rocket-me-out-of-a-sound-sleep-and-make-ya-wanna-cry leg cramps at night. My hips go numb if I am sedentary for more that 30 minutes at a time forcing me to walk like an 87-year-old woman every time I get up. I make stupid, slovenly “ugh!” sounds every time I have to shift positions in bed. I can barely breathe and actually call myself “Fatty McGee” when climbing a flight of stairs because I start to pant. Eating is done solely for prenatal nourishment rather than to satisfy hunger. (Seriously, eating a doughnut should never be considered a chore. So depressing…) I can see my toes, but touching them has become a distant memory. And to top it all off, a symptom that no What to Expect book can prepare any mother for is the amount of guilt she will experience in subsequent pregnancies when she can’t be the momma she wants to be for her existing children.
After my multiple “pinkles” throughout the course of each night, I end up lying in bed wide-awake for at least a good 30 minutes. This leads me to stare absent-mindedly at the clock and think about all sorts of things. It usually starts out with, “Hmmm… what should we have for dinner tomorrow?” Then it morphs into things like making mental grocery lists, new blog topics, and, most recently, solving other people’s problems. Last night after my wonderful fantasy, however, I was struck by the disappointing reality that I was still uber preggo and a month away from where my lil’ one really needs to be. My “post-pinkle pondering” lead me to become conscious of something far more important.
At the age of 20, during my junior year of college, my weight began to fluctuate like a roller coaster, I had severe heart palpitations, bad skin, my abdomen was constantly aching, and I no longer had any “monthly visit” from a particular “Aunt”. I went through a battery of medical tests and was poked, prodded, and pricked for a good month or so. Finally, after many doctors’ visits, blood samples, an ultrasound, and even a radioactive iodine uptake test, results indicated that I had a thyroid disorder and polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS).
The thyroid diagnosis was easy to accept. It was common. I had heard of the thyroid gland. I could “fix” everything easily by popping a pill daily. Over time, it could actually go away. PCOS, on the other hand, was a different story. I had never heard of it and had so many questions. When I heard the answers, they made me feel freakish and thrust me into a state of devastation for quite some time. Although all women actually produce some testosterone, women who suffer from this disorder produce an abnormal amount of the male hormone. This imbalance of endocrinology “tricks” the reproductive system and while the ovaries are trying to do their job, an excess of painful cysts begin to form on them. PCOS is treatable, but not curable. What was most overwhelming to me, however, was that at that age of 20, my doctor told me that down the road, conception, if at all possible, would be very difficult.
That is yet another reason why Caiden was such an unexpected “surprise”—and blessing--for Dan and I. My doctor and midwife called him my little “miracle baby”. After he was born, I was told that my situation was not very common and if we were to want to try for another baby later on, we would need to prepare ourselves for a long haul, a lot of “trying”, and to brace ourselves for some disappointment because it might not happen so easily again. And so we did. We knew that after the wedding it was time for us to start thinking about a new addition. Caiden was at a good age. We were “legal” now. I “got” motherhood (not down pat, but a good grip at least). We decided that after the New Year we would start trying. It took us two weeks.
Two weeks. That’s it. No long haul. No disappointment. Just another “miracle baby”. It literally brings tears to my eyes as I write this because for the past few weeks all I can seem to focus on is how much “suffering” I am enduring during this homestretch of pregnancy; complaining about stuff that will disappear as soon as my sweet little boy is ready to make his entry into the world. And it was a form of this “suffering” that gave me grace and a good ol’ “snap out of it” metaphorical slap in the face. It was a “pinkle”, the inability to sleep, some serious recollection of the distance I have come through the gift of my family, and a HUGE epiphany in the form of absolute gratitude for me to realize that I am SO FREAKING LUCKY have frequent urination, cramping, swelling, and heartburn.
Take your time, Buddy. You are so worth the wait.
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