dianaschnuth

Not as preoccupied. Can count on only one hand the number of times my day came to a grinding halt and I stared off into space in sorrowful contemplation. Smiled. Laughed. Am eating and sleeping fine. Made it through the follow-up consult with my OBGYN with no problems. Discussed future baby-take-two plans with Mom over the phone.

Still feeling odd about finally feeling like myself again.

I feel weird about feeling almost OK. I’m sure it’s only temporary.

All the associated magazines and freebies and bills and other accoutrements have been tucked away into a corner, as if the “out of sight, out of mind” methodology will work on this.

Not like I’m not reminded by every commercial, every slip of the tongue, every time one of my pregnant co-workers walks by. Not like I don’t zone out and think about it, instead of successfully getting back into the daily grind.

The logical part of my mind, the part that’s usually in control of how I live my life and how I present myself to others, says that grief is stupid. It’s more useless than even regret, because at least, with regret, you have the opportunity to learn something and make changes in the future. Grief… it’s like constantly reminding yourself that this situation sucks, and that there’s nothing to be done.

The emotive part of my mind has been held in check for far too long — years, in fact — and threatens to take off with the rest of me.

I feel alone. No, not alone, because Aaron’s feeling quite the same way I am, although he’s trying to be strong for me. I feel… empty. I’m alone in my own skin again, and I’m not sure how to react to that, especially after having just gotten used to being someone’s… home?

I tell myself, at least it wasn’t really self-aware yet. Or even conscious. Not yet able to hear, or see, or feel. Still, it doesn’t help. To see it grow from a barely discernable blob with a heartbeat to a small human being with wriggling arms and legs — then to see it lying horrifically still and lifeless, displayed on a monochrome monitor in a darkened room, as the poor ultrasound technician tried every possible way to find a heartbeat…

This is probably the single most gut-wrenching experience I’ve ever been through. Maybe that’s a testament to how lucky I’ve been in the past 30 years.

I’ll miss you.

Being that we’re actively trying to conceive, I’ve been searching around teh internets a lot lately about, well, having babies. Not just having them, mind you, but HAVING them. Like, how does one successfully pass a bowling ball through one’s hoodie-hoo?

I came across an interesting set of photos by snowdeal (a.k.a. Eric Snowdeal III, father of internet-renowned micro-preemie Eric Snowdeal IV). This subject of this set was his… sister? sister-in-law? At any rate, it was of a home birth. It hadn’t occurred to me that a home birth could be more like a holiday or a family gathering than a private moment with one’s partner and one’s doula and/or midwife. But, sure enough, here was a woman inviting her family and friends into her home to hang out while she had contractions and watch as she gave birth to her daughter.

Watch.

Y’know, I love you all, but I don’t know how comfortable I’d be with you all in my living room, seeing me squat down and produce the miracle of life right there before you. I think that takes a certain kind of person with a certain kind of social network. And even my closest friends — Amy, Sheryl, even my Mom — I don’t know how comfortable I’d be with you guys RIGHT THERE watching my first delivery. Afterward, sure, come visit and meet Diana Junior. But during the process? I dunno.

There are so many options… home birthing (which I don’t think I’m down with, even without the party), water birthing, hypnobirthing, lying down or squatting or reclining… I’m looking forward to eventually sitting down with a medical practicioner and finding out what the options are. And what Aetna will pay for. I’m guessing I’ll be getting the standard Delivery Room, bright surgical lights, lots of strangers staring at my crotch, doctor not even there yet, WTF is going on right now kind of dance that is my impression of what The Big Day must be like.

Of course, I have no idea what any of this is really like. And I’m NOT asking my Mom until we’re at T-minus nine months and counting.

It’s been a few days since I wrote, so I figured I should spout off a few paragraphs before I turn in.

There’s this woman at work who’s pregnant — hold on, let me stop there. First off: is anyone else weirded out by calling your peers “women”? I mean, yeah, that’s what they are. Late 20’s, early 30’s… you’re not a girl anymore. You’re a woman. I’d rather call my female peers “chicks,” but some of them might not take kindly to that. And using the term “lady” is kind of weird, too. “Lady” always has the connotation of “bitch” somewhere in my mind. Like, “Hey, lady, get outta the way!” You know.

ANYway. There’s a chick at work who’s pregnant. There are a lot of them, actually, but I’m thinking of one in particular who’s got a personality that jives with mine. Irreverent, cool, blunt, and totally floored that she got knocked up by her boyfriend. I mean, no one thought of her as the motherly type before — not even herself.

She had her first ultrasound this week, and brought in the “baby pictures” for us to see. Thankfully, the printouts were labeled with body parts, to give us a frame of reference. One was a full-body shot, with the head and arm labeled, and one was an image of the head, with the eyes labeled. What’s really weird? This 21-week old fetus has teeth! Really visible teeth, obviously still in the gums, but still. I hadn’t thought of such things before. It was kind of cool, seeing an ultrasound photo where I didn’t feel all self-conscious about saying, “What IS that? What am I looking at?” Usually I feel kind of awkward about the whole thing.

At the ultrasound, she found out that her child is a girl. She told us all about how her unborn was doing friggin’ backflips, and the nice ultrasound technician was having a bitch of a time getting all the images she needed. One that she did manage to get, though, was a total spread-eagle of the kid with her feet up by her ears. We all had fun with that — I made some sort of comment that we’d have to get her daughter some big hoop earrings.

The more pregnant people I deal with on a regular basis, the more comfortable I get with the concept of *being* one of those people someday. I mean, you guys know me. Candlemaking and wearing the occasional pink shirt is as girly and frilly as I get. Something about pregnancy just harks back to my days in church, where there was always someone pregnant, and all the womenfolk could make perfect pie crusts and sew their kids’ halloween costumes and their favorite paint color was mauve. I’m not like that. But I guess moms don’t necessarily have to be.

I’m really tempted to share too much about my private time with Aaron… but I’m not going to. There are some things that, although really fucking funny, are just a little too personal and weird to share with the entire internets. If, however, you want to know what Aaron says after unprotected sex now, feel free to ask privately. 😉

Visited the OB-GYN’s office today, for the first time since college. Don’t worry, I won’t give gory details — not that there are many gory details to give. Most of my time was spent waiting, either in the waiting room or in the examination room.

Let me say that I started out the day pretty stoked. I stepped on the scale, and it told me I weigh 201.5 lbs, which is continuing my downward trend, and is my lowest weight point since December 2004. When I got to the doctor’s office (over my lunch break) and the nurse was doing her pre-exam thing, the scale in the examination room also read 201. Rock! My scale’s not fubar!

Then, after a long several minutes of me chilling out on the examination table, the doctor came in.

One of the things I asked Dr. Okin was whether I should try to lose more weight before trying to conceive, or if I should just wait until after pregnancy to continue my weight loss. Predictably, she told me that a woman should be in her best physical shape before becoming pregnant. Sure, that makes sense. Then she continued to tell me things I already know: My BMI is 29, I should be around 21 to 23, and that means my ideal weight is around 160 lbs.

Right. So, considering the steady weight loss trend of .5667 pounds a week I’ve had since July (yes, I *do* have a weight-tracking Excel spreadsheet), and not discounting any lengthy plateaus, I should be in prime condition to conceive in… *does calculations* …April of 2008.

*sigh*

She must realize I’m not inclined to wait, though, because she prescribed me some prenatal vitamins.

(The entry continues in a rambling self-pitying fashion, should you care to read on…)
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