Multitasking. It's a beautiful art that not only lets us live life to the fullest, but also drives us crazy. The more you multitask, the more you think. The more you think, the harder your brain works. I truly think around the holidays that our brains double, even triple in size.
With all of the work, shopping, wrapping, budgeting and other verbings I'm forgetting, I believe it.
Now, hubby and I have added a baby. My body has added a subchorionic hematoma. And now my baby and hematoma are sharing my uterus. Let's just hope that ultrasound shows a smaller or no blood clot on Thursday. (Fingers, toes, legs, arns and eyeballs are crossed.)
In the meantime, I'm celebrating all of the good pregnancy symptoms (nausea, tenderness, growing pains) and cringing at the bad (crampiness). I think I'm one of the only people right now who gets excited when I feel like I'm going to vomit my jelly toast. And I'm OK with that.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The rant about the neighbor
You'll read this and go, "yeah, that's Laura." I'm not sure if that's a good thing, though.
I wanted to bring you up to speed on a past promised blog post. So, our neighbor. He's one of two people I loathe (not hate, but loathe). The German has a thick accent and has his property all buttoned up complete with lots of fences, blinds and no one ever (and I mean ever) goes outside. Another neighbor has told me that he doesn't allow his wife to drive, too. Although, that's just hearsay.
On that note, though: He has five cars. Five. And do you think they all fit in his driveway? No.
That same neighbor who I mentioned earlier has a few bird feeders in their front yard. It's quite nice to hear the chirping, but not so nice to see blobs of white and blue poo all over my black car. Except, I don't really let that bother me.
Our German friend across the street, however, does. So, he parks three cars in his driveway, one in front of our driveway across the street and the other in front of our house. Just typing that last clause raised my blood pressure by a few ticks. He thinks he owns the neighborhood, so he can do whatever his big pot-bellied, hair-chested brain wants. (And trust me, this is no Santa Claus.)
Well, it happened. I backed out of our driveway, slid on the ice and gently tapped his disgusting Volvo. Then, panicked, I drove away. As I caught my breath, I called my husband to own up to what happened. It appeared that I had woken the cops reporter in him, and he got upset.
"Do you know you could be charged with a hit and run?"
Whoops. Luckily, he quickly scribbled a note and ran outside to drop the note at the scene of the crime. (Phew, disaster and jail time averted.)
Now, I just wait for our rates to go up. In the meantime, I'm parking in his spot.
I wanted to bring you up to speed on a past promised blog post. So, our neighbor. He's one of two people I loathe (not hate, but loathe). The German has a thick accent and has his property all buttoned up complete with lots of fences, blinds and no one ever (and I mean ever) goes outside. Another neighbor has told me that he doesn't allow his wife to drive, too. Although, that's just hearsay.
On that note, though: He has five cars. Five. And do you think they all fit in his driveway? No.
That same neighbor who I mentioned earlier has a few bird feeders in their front yard. It's quite nice to hear the chirping, but not so nice to see blobs of white and blue poo all over my black car. Except, I don't really let that bother me.
Our German friend across the street, however, does. So, he parks three cars in his driveway, one in front of our driveway across the street and the other in front of our house. Just typing that last clause raised my blood pressure by a few ticks. He thinks he owns the neighborhood, so he can do whatever his big pot-bellied, hair-chested brain wants. (And trust me, this is no Santa Claus.)
Well, it happened. I backed out of our driveway, slid on the ice and gently tapped his disgusting Volvo. Then, panicked, I drove away. As I caught my breath, I called my husband to own up to what happened. It appeared that I had woken the cops reporter in him, and he got upset.
"Do you know you could be charged with a hit and run?"
Whoops. Luckily, he quickly scribbled a note and ran outside to drop the note at the scene of the crime. (Phew, disaster and jail time averted.)
Now, I just wait for our rates to go up. In the meantime, I'm parking in his spot.
Our ultrasound that melted my heart
We only got to see Morgan alive at six weeks, four days. When we saw this child, he or she is about nine weeks and so much bigger! It was unreal. When Brent and I headed to the ultrasound room, the tech zoomed in on our little one.
The baby was furiously kicking her legs and moving her arms, almost like she was waving to us! Then, all of a sudden, the baby bounced. I kid you not. The baby scrunched up and bounded upward.
What a miracle. What an incredible site to see this child doing this. (I think she gets her moves from me.)
When I was talking to a friend about this, she goes, "Well, you have a fighter in there." She couldn't be more correct. After all, this baby is a Randisi/Burkey. Did I expect anything less? And this baby is fighting for his or her life, so there's no way in hell I'm giving up on him.
No more sadness. No more downtrodden, what-if thoughts. God will take care of this child. And we will greet him or her with open arms in July 2010.
The baby was furiously kicking her legs and moving her arms, almost like she was waving to us! Then, all of a sudden, the baby bounced. I kid you not. The baby scrunched up and bounded upward.
What a miracle. What an incredible site to see this child doing this. (I think she gets her moves from me.)
When I was talking to a friend about this, she goes, "Well, you have a fighter in there." She couldn't be more correct. After all, this baby is a Randisi/Burkey. Did I expect anything less? And this baby is fighting for his or her life, so there's no way in hell I'm giving up on him.
No more sadness. No more downtrodden, what-if thoughts. God will take care of this child. And we will greet him or her with open arms in July 2010.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The midwife steps up
"Hi, I'm Felicia, and I'll be your midwife today."
Stealing a look toward Brent, I rolled my eyes. I don't want to see a midwife. I want a D-O-C-T-O-R. I turned off my disgruntled expression, as she looked up from my chart. She asked me to explain what happened the night before in detail, asked if I was still bleeding (yes) and then walked over to me.
She took a look and explained that my cervix was never indeed open, and I was never dilated. It's a common mistake that ER doctors make in their hasty peek since they're not used to that sort of thing everyday. (great)
Felicia explained a little about what happened, what a subchorionic hematoma is and reassuringly said that my uterus felt the right size for around nine weeks! (The hematoma is when blood vessels break when the baby is implanting. If it blocks the area where the baby switches from the yolk sac and grabs onto the placenta, a miscarriage occurs.)
Then, Felicia said she'd make a deal with me. Using a doppler, she thought she'd be able to find the baby's heartbeat. BUT, if she was unable, I had to promise not to get distraught. I hesitantly looked at her and said, "I'm a little fragile to say the least right now. But I'd like you to try."
Brent shot me an incredulous glance. We had previously decided not to listen only because we didn't want to add more worry to the situation than already existed. I just had a feeling that she'd find it though.
Within 10 seconds, we heard the glorious lub-dubs coming from my belly. It was in the 170s. Perfect. I grabbed for Brent's hand, and we tearfully smiled at each other. Soon after I was dressed, we were sent downstairs to the ultrasound room. The technician, Tim, wanted to get a baseline for the hematoma. (He didn't trust the ER's reports, and that was fine by me.)
The unfortunate part was that the hematoma had gotten bigger from the night before, so it's a little more worrisome now. He said if it gets any bigger, a miscarriage is most likely imminent. So, now it's bed rest for me. No lifting, no walking, no running, no nothing. And that's fine by me because it's about our baby now.
And now we're officially considered a high-risk pregnancy. So, we will need weekly ultrasounds to monitor things. On the up side, we'll get to see our little one more than ever now! Every Thursday, we'll make sure that heart is fluttering away.
Stealing a look toward Brent, I rolled my eyes. I don't want to see a midwife. I want a D-O-C-T-O-R. I turned off my disgruntled expression, as she looked up from my chart. She asked me to explain what happened the night before in detail, asked if I was still bleeding (yes) and then walked over to me.
She took a look and explained that my cervix was never indeed open, and I was never dilated. It's a common mistake that ER doctors make in their hasty peek since they're not used to that sort of thing everyday. (great)
Felicia explained a little about what happened, what a subchorionic hematoma is and reassuringly said that my uterus felt the right size for around nine weeks! (The hematoma is when blood vessels break when the baby is implanting. If it blocks the area where the baby switches from the yolk sac and grabs onto the placenta, a miscarriage occurs.)
Then, Felicia said she'd make a deal with me. Using a doppler, she thought she'd be able to find the baby's heartbeat. BUT, if she was unable, I had to promise not to get distraught. I hesitantly looked at her and said, "I'm a little fragile to say the least right now. But I'd like you to try."
Brent shot me an incredulous glance. We had previously decided not to listen only because we didn't want to add more worry to the situation than already existed. I just had a feeling that she'd find it though.
Within 10 seconds, we heard the glorious lub-dubs coming from my belly. It was in the 170s. Perfect. I grabbed for Brent's hand, and we tearfully smiled at each other. Soon after I was dressed, we were sent downstairs to the ultrasound room. The technician, Tim, wanted to get a baseline for the hematoma. (He didn't trust the ER's reports, and that was fine by me.)
The unfortunate part was that the hematoma had gotten bigger from the night before, so it's a little more worrisome now. He said if it gets any bigger, a miscarriage is most likely imminent. So, now it's bed rest for me. No lifting, no walking, no running, no nothing. And that's fine by me because it's about our baby now.
And now we're officially considered a high-risk pregnancy. So, we will need weekly ultrasounds to monitor things. On the up side, we'll get to see our little one more than ever now! Every Thursday, we'll make sure that heart is fluttering away.
We arrived to the official appointment
On Thursday morning, we arrived at the doctor's office still bleary-eyed and depressed about the night before. The nurse cheerfully brought us into her office to give us the rundown on prenatal care, the cost and jot down our family histories. She said congratulations and asked us if this was planned.
I looked at Brent, eyes wider than my face. As the nurse waited for an answer, I turned back to her overly happy face and her lipstick-stained teeth.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "What is going on? We were in the ER last night, and now we're having a conversation about a baby that might or might not still be alive inside of me. I need you to help me!"
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I started shaking all over again. (Then, I just felt badly for the unsuspecting victim of my stress.) She fumbled for the mouse and clicked away trying to find my charts from the emergency room.
"Looks like everything is fine," she cautiously said, as she looked up from her keyboard. "You have a subchorionic hematoma, but the baby is OK."
Then, Brent teared up. WHAT? (OK, breathe.)
She finished up the paperwork with us, threw a bunch of freebies into a canvas bag and ushered us into the officially appointment. At the end, all she good stammer was a "good luck."
Luck? After this crappy year, we're going to need more than luck.
I looked at Brent, eyes wider than my face. As the nurse waited for an answer, I turned back to her overly happy face and her lipstick-stained teeth.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "What is going on? We were in the ER last night, and now we're having a conversation about a baby that might or might not still be alive inside of me. I need you to help me!"
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I started shaking all over again. (Then, I just felt badly for the unsuspecting victim of my stress.) She fumbled for the mouse and clicked away trying to find my charts from the emergency room.
"Looks like everything is fine," she cautiously said, as she looked up from her keyboard. "You have a subchorionic hematoma, but the baby is OK."
Then, Brent teared up. WHAT? (OK, breathe.)
She finished up the paperwork with us, threw a bunch of freebies into a canvas bag and ushered us into the officially appointment. At the end, all she good stammer was a "good luck."
Luck? After this crappy year, we're going to need more than luck.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Catching up since the last post
I just re-read the last blog post about our first appointment. Unfortunately, a lot happened 12 hours before we even got there.
It all started with a snow/ice storm that led to me sliding into our jerk neighbor's Volvo, which he parks in front of our driveway. (More of a rant on that later. Trust me, I have lots to say.)
A half-hour into a friend's birthday celebration at a local restaurant, I realized I was bleeding. I won't go into the horrid details, but I began hemorrhaging. I (in hindsight stupidly) drove myself to the hospital with Brent on the cell phone trying to calm me down. That's all we'd need is me getting into an accident on top of everything.
After tests and taking blood and more tests, I was wheeled into an ultrasound room for a sonagram. Expecting that I had lost our child, the technician suddenly told us we had a fetus with a heart beating at 174 beats per minute.
What?
You have a baby with a heartbeat.
After six hours in the emergency room, the ER doctor gave me discharge papers. Confused? Yeah, so were we. He told me to go home, relax and go the scheduled appointment the next morning. This was after that same man told us I passed the baby, I was dilated and hemorrhaging. You can imagine our disbelief.
In bed that night, all we could do was pray.
It all started with a snow/ice storm that led to me sliding into our jerk neighbor's Volvo, which he parks in front of our driveway. (More of a rant on that later. Trust me, I have lots to say.)
A half-hour into a friend's birthday celebration at a local restaurant, I realized I was bleeding. I won't go into the horrid details, but I began hemorrhaging. I (in hindsight stupidly) drove myself to the hospital with Brent on the cell phone trying to calm me down. That's all we'd need is me getting into an accident on top of everything.
After tests and taking blood and more tests, I was wheeled into an ultrasound room for a sonagram. Expecting that I had lost our child, the technician suddenly told us we had a fetus with a heart beating at 174 beats per minute.
What?
You have a baby with a heartbeat.
After six hours in the emergency room, the ER doctor gave me discharge papers. Confused? Yeah, so were we. He told me to go home, relax and go the scheduled appointment the next morning. This was after that same man told us I passed the baby, I was dilated and hemorrhaging. You can imagine our disbelief.
In bed that night, all we could do was pray.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The first doctor appointment
Thursday morning we head to the doctor for the same appointment that we actually made it to with Morgan. It's the one where the nurse practitioner asks a million and one questions in her cushy office.
Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you have depression? Do any of these 3,000 diseases listed here run in your family?
Then comes the fun part, though. We get all sorts of baby magazines, freebies, products to try and a ton of paperwork. Thank goodness they give you a canvas tote bag to bring it all home. Now, we did receive all of this with Morgan, but I threw all of the freebies and information out in a fit of fury. (Whoops)
After the chat, the doctor takes a look and so begins the question-and-answer session. This poor doctor has no idea what's going hit her when I get in there. Couple being a naturally inquisitive journalist with a past of a miscarriage ...
Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you have depression? Do any of these 3,000 diseases listed here run in your family?
Then comes the fun part, though. We get all sorts of baby magazines, freebies, products to try and a ton of paperwork. Thank goodness they give you a canvas tote bag to bring it all home. Now, we did receive all of this with Morgan, but I threw all of the freebies and information out in a fit of fury. (Whoops)
After the chat, the doctor takes a look and so begins the question-and-answer session. This poor doctor has no idea what's going hit her when I get in there. Couple being a naturally inquisitive journalist with a past of a miscarriage ...
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