Life is a Banquet

Doctor Politics

Apologies for my absence . . . I'm in the midst of the final weeks of the semester and it's a bit hectic. Plus I spent my memorial day weekend playing with this. But, instead of telling you about the wonders of house guests and what Freak and I learned about 15 month olds or telling you about how HUGE I am at 25 weeks today, I get to tell you about doctor politics. 

Way back in January, I did a lot of agonizing over where this hypothetical birth might take place. I still have a 3 page list of home versus hospital, and then another list about WHICH hospital.  But, in the end, I decided to stay with the same woman centered practice that I've been with since coming to Salem.  They diagnosed my PCOS, helped me understand it, referred me to my endocrinologist, educated me on the links between birth control and depression, and overall, my experience with them was stellar. My only hesitation, and the reason for all the lists, was that I just couldn't see giving birth at this hospital. 

Turns out, I was right.  I won't be giving birth at this hospital. This hospital has suspended the privileges of my doctor, and is refusing to offer back-up physicians for the  midwives and/or allow the physicians to deliver there.  (This article and this article provide more information). Now, why doesn't the practice just shift to another hospital? My parents live in a town of 60,000 with two major hospitals. My city of 100,000+ has one mammoth complex. The smaller towns in the area aren't able to accommodate my practice.  More politics at play.

Now, in an ideal world, my doctors would have sent a letter to OB patients and I wouldn't have found this out two weeks after the first news article via a random mention in a listserve that I'm on.  But, that frustration aside, I'm really steamed at the politics of the situation. After talking to my current midwife, my doula, and others, and doing my own research (I pulled the med mal files among other things), I see the dispute as largely one of personalities and politics. I don't see the OB whom the hospital has issues with, but I do see a group of amazingly committed midwives who form the backbone of a woman-centered environment that lets you see both doctors and midwives under a single umbrella and transition between them as needed. There is no other practice like this in my town, and now it appears that politics may be its undoing.

This would be tragic.  A lot depends on an injunction which may force the hospital to allow the practice to continue, but really, who wants to deliver with a back-up doctor who's forced to be there by court order? So, I considered my options, and I'm switching to a smaller town's hospital and the associated midwife/OB combo practice that serves that town. My Doula is thrilled because she loves this new hospital choice, and in her opinion, it's worth the 20-30 minute drive.

And I'm sure it is. Freak and I will take a tour this weekend, and I've got an appointment in two weeks with the new doctor. We're lucky: we're insured by the biggest group in the state, we have access to transportation, I'm not high risk (knocking on wood), and I've got a little time. I'm not a pregnant teenager with medicaid due next month. Those are the women who are truly hurt by this development. Situations like this remind me of why I went to a law school.   Part of me wants to sort this all out, figure out the multiple sides that certainly lurk beneath the sound bites and rumors.  But, I'm also still a little bitter and agitated right now. and feeling a bit rattled by the whole thing.  Rattled might be winning right now. 

Subaru Mama

Subaru Mama
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

Check out the Insight's Eulogy below, but we're also very happy with the new arrival. Also, Freak told me I looked adorably pregnant and all Buddha-esque today and keep rubbing my belly, but the picture just isn't showing it. New maternity clothes thanks to another awesome swap!  Hair courtesy I-need-a-cut-now, inc.

End of an Era

I met Freak through a mutual friend. Said friend sent me Freak's personal webpage as proof that "hey, dude's not a serial killer." Since I was in the middle of horrifically painful break-up, I kept repeating my  "not looking for anything serious" mantra, but I clicked anyway.  He had a ponytail. He made beautiful art. He drove an Insight. Hook. Line. Sinker.

I asked about the car during our first phone conversation. His enthusiasm about his 2001 Blue Honda Insight Hybrid that could get 70 mpg was infectious. My usual rule of "never ride in the guy's car on the first date" flew out the window. Hey, when had this become a date? My mantra was gone. I loved the crystal he kept in the front seat of his car. I think I loved the driver a little bit too, even in those first few days. I hugged Freak for the first time next to his car, and it's not much of an exaggeration to say that something in the universe shifted.

I made my friend Jim start taking me out for stick-shift driving lessons in his ancient BMW. I think I wanted to impress Freak. I never did master the stick, and four years later, my Insight driving experience has been limited to parking lots. But, I did become an Insight evangelist, just like Freak. When we drove out West (a whole month after meeting), I loved the looks that we got from surprised Farmers at rest stops. "Do you have to plug that thing in?" "How many miles to the gallon?" Freak once talked himself out of a ticket in Wyoming because the cop just wanted to learn more about the hybrid, and Freak convinced him that an Insight might be fast enough to be a traffic car. 

A few months later, I was living out here, and the Insight made its third Western voyage (the first was without me), packed to the gills. Freak had been practicing for a few weeks, driving his cat around St. Louis. I teased him about driving Miss Terzo. But, nothing prepared him for the hellacious drive he endured with an unhappy, unmedicated, unable to sleep cat.  He arrived looking like he'd emerged from a war zone. There was not a spare inch of space in the Insight.  The man limited all his wordly goods to an Insight just to be with me. I was awed, humbled, and scared.  This was serious.

That fear led me to try to break up with him in the Insight while driving around a tony Portland subdivision. He still reminds me of this. But, instead of breaking up, a few weeks later, he was moving in. He now had two Insights full of stuff, thanks to a few visits to the goodwill. He never complained about what he'd left in St. Louis. The first year here, he was delighted to be in the land of hybrids, and would get giddy when he saw another Insight on the road.

During that first, difficult year, we got in the habit of taking long weekend drives. Freak took me to the beach when my depression threatened to engulf me, south when frustration had me climbing the walls, and a thousand other places. I truly believe that these drives are what kept us from breaking up. Our drives often followed a pattern: initial excitement, followed by finally having out whatever issue was between us, and making up. The having-it-out part could last several hours. The 70 mpg thing really came in handy. But, thanks to the drives, we got to know our new state really well.

The Insight took me to my first visit to Ikea, my mecca. It continually proved just how much stuff a two-seater roller skate could hold. We house hunted in the Insight. Once it was parked in the driveway, it felt like it was truly our house. And it was a house that needed a dog.  We brought Caylis home in the Insight. She rode on my lap.  But, she outgrew my lap in the first 48 hours, and we wondered if we'd only be able to haul her in my ancient Jeep.

But, Freak taught her how to ride in the back hatch, hopping in and out, wriggling to the front and center. Soon, she went on most of our drives too. She loves the word "drive" almost as much as she loves the word "ball," and she's endured sharing painfully cramped quarters with luggage just to get to the beach.  When I taught late classes, Freak would often bring her to fetch me, and her wriggly enthusiasm as she emerged from the hatch was enough to break through the crushing depression following me around then.

The Insight drove me to Reno, my first writer's convention. We drove the to Insight to our wedding and stuck a "just married" flag on the window.  It seemed only fitting that the car was at our wedding. After all, it was kind of symbolic of us: multiple sources of power, two seats to explore the world, and an alternative way of thinking about something so basic as transit.

The Insight was a part of our lives for four years in so many big and small ways. It brought Freak back safely all the nights he worked overtime in Portland, it brought me to countless doctor's appointments, it survived torrential rain in South Dakota, unexpected snow in Oregon, and blazing heat in Nevada. It made it up Mountains and down beach roads. It can practically make the trip to the vet and the dog park without a driver, and it's suffered the abuse of one dog and six different cats (not all the cats at once, thankfully).

Last summer, when we started investigating adoption, we knew that the Insight's days were numbered. Or rather, I knew. Our few limited car shopping investigations ended in disaster as we realized that we could not afford to adopt AND get a new (to us) car AND keep the Insight. But the Insight has no legal way to carry more than two adults, and no way to carry a small child at all. My jeep embodies the word "decrepit," and with one side-view mirror, a death rattle, and a peculiar odor, no social worker (or grandparent) would be comfortable with us calling it, "the family car."

But, luckily, when you reproduce on your own, no social worker comes out to investigate your cars and your home. So, while I have made noisy (okay, endless) proclamations about the need for a Beta mobile, Freak was okay with the idea of the Jeep for hauling Beta. But, then two weeks ago, the Jeep suffered yet another major repair, the Insight started showing its age, and gas prices skyrocketed. I think it was the skyrocketing gas prices that drove Freak to list the Insight, figuring that he could get a good price, despite its well-loved state.

And he did. Yesterday, an excited college student drove off in the Insight. She wanted an Insight at this price badly enough to drive several hours. We know that it will be well-loved. Heck, *I* know that was my idea. But, still the driveway looked mighty lonely. We went out for dinner to console ourselves, and returned with a Subaru. In the easiest deal ever, we are the proud owners of a used Forester. Low miles. Decent MPG, and perfect for the new dog + baby era. But, still I think we'll be missing the Insight for quite some time. It was truly one-of-a-kind. 

Bed is No Place for a Mother

I hope everyone had a good Mother's day whether you were celebrating your own mother, being celebrated, or hiding in bed with the covers up over your head waiting for Monday.  Clanna sent me the perfect card that featured a pregnant mother-to-be obsessively reading books and searching the internet. Gee, I'm not sure WHERE she got the idea that that might be a good choice for ME? My MIL called and reported that she has started shopping (aack!) and was very sweet. 

Freak let me get vegetarian (NOT RAW FISH) sushi from Whole Foods. But, and this is where my Sunday went south, my stomach didn't like the Sushi-chicken salad-gluten free chocolate combo I forced on it. After being ill for an hour or two, my nether regions decided to jump on the bandwagon with lots of cramping. Which I dismissed as a product of the sick, and once the upset stomach passed, and I went to sleep, I didn't think too much of it. Until it woke me up around 3 or 4, and I couldn't sleep through the cramps.

This of course, caused me to build to a slow freak-out as the cramping seemed to get worse and more frequent. I called my doctor the exact second that they opened, and was advised to drink lots of water, and rest until I could be seen. So, I (bad, bad, bad professor) canceled class, and trotted off to the doctor. They are checking for a UTI, but beyond that, they're not sure what's causing the cramping--maybe round ligaments, maybe growing pains, maybe braxton hicks, maybe nothing. So, I'm supposed to drink lots of water and rest. And not freak out.

I'm doing pretty well at TWO of those. The not-freak-out thing is a bit harder, especially since a year ago, I was an avid reader of Blue's, and she had a supposed-UTI that turned into to the incredibly rapid delivery of her daughter at 24 weeks. And I KNOW that my situation is different, yada-yada-yada, and it's also different from all the other pre-term labor horror stories I've collected, but I'm still freaked out about the cramping. I do freaked out really well.

Off to work more on the other two--resting and drinking. I'm going to alternate grading with a book today. Maybe that will minimize my freaking out. 

Don't Move

It's happening again. Right now. I'm rooted to my office chair. If I get up, or go get a drink, it will surely stop. Last night, I did not turn off the light or move from an awkward half-hunch for almost an hour because of IT. It is moving, flopping, tremors in my nethers, unmistakable movement, glorious movement that began on Thursday at 22 weeks. The little flutters and tremblings have become something so real and amazing, that all I can do is sit motionless, in awe of what is happening.

I'm chatting with Clanna right now who says, "Maybe I'm just OLD -- but I don't remember being so focused on all this. Sure I had the tap-dancing maniacs, and all." To which, I replied, "I am sure in two years I won't remember all the little movements." Instantly, I knew I had to write this, even though there are no words, because I don't WANT to forget. I want to remember how Dutch Brothers on a rainy Saturday elicted a little earthquake, how steak got rolls, how sitting in the Papsan chair produces different feelings than my office chair, and how that place between waking and sleeping is the coolest place of all--filled with tons of flops and jumps.

I need to remember the moment when Freak said, "Wow, it's louder than it's ever been," and promptly got kicked in the ear, erasing all the worries that had plagued me minutes earlier. I want to remember grabbing his hand, wanting to share this wonder with him, with someone--the joy too much to keep to myself. I want to remember how anxiety builds until I am sure that something horrid will happen, and then POW! movement as if to say, "I'm okay. Just checking in."

It feels like a large heart, centered in my pelvis, throbbing. Or an hourglass turning over. An egg on a counter. I struggle for a metaphor, but there are none. Just this: It feels like my heart growing larger in response to pull from below.

I stay rooted to the moment, totally absorbed in this new sensation. Clanna keeps teasing me, "I think maybe he/ she trying to remodel the accomodations!  how about a nice porch over here POKE! Or a billards room here, POKE! Wait til he starts installing the granite counter tops and ripping up the carpeting and I'm sure SHE is bizzy planning a second bathroomright over ..HERE ... let's get rid of that ol liverand take out that kidney so we can install a jacuzzi."

I am struggling with my moods this weekend, and this is like a little gift from the universe.  A little reminder that all depression is transient and tempered by joy. And laughter. And pure amazement. And maybe, if I can feel THIS, I can feel better soon, too. After all, it's hard to stay depressed or grouchy or irritable when you have this to entertain you. Of course, when it stops, then the bad mood returns, but the movement keeps coming back too. The new emotions are in and of themselves overwhelming, fueling new anxieties because each movement invests me more deeply in a good outcome.

I am trying hard to trust this feeling, to savor it, to capture it.  And so I sit here, inviting more, opening myself up for more of this ride, letting myself enjoy each little concert. 

22 weeks: All about the Angle

22 weeks: All about the Angle
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

I will undoubtedly regret posting my naked stomach on my blog. Blinding one's readers with a large shiny white object the approximate size and shape of the moon has to be bad form. But, if you're in need of a laugh, click the link and see my other flickr pictures for how I can go from looking this pregnant to really un-pregnant all depending on the angle!

And thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who read and commented on the knitting piece I posted below. It feel really good to work on an entry again, developing it as a piece of nonfiction and not just posting about the pregnancy/whining. And yet, here I am posting about the pregnancy again . . . More real writing coming though. That felt really good!

Behold the Power of Knitting

7:40 a.m.  I am wearing a shirt with a bow (something I never thought I'd do) and standing on one of the busiest street corners in town, knitting (something I always do). The construction gods have blessed us with two months of road-closure-for-unknown-watery-purposes, so I now catch my bus at much more public locale. There is no shelter, no cozy bench, but this does not stop me. I lean my back against the post and knit.  Drivers stopped for the light notice me. How could they not? Huge pregnant lady overdressed for public transit (in this town at least) knitting on a street corner.

I am my own piece of performance art, a testament to the power of knitting, of doing SOMETHING with those ten minutes of waiting for the bus to appear. Some days I get a half a row in. The bus is on time. Other days, I get 10 rows in. The bus is late. A cherry red Prius checks me out. "I want that car," I think. "I want what she's smoking," the driver thinks. I can tell the ones who wish that there was no glass between us, who wish they could connect. The convertible filled with young Mexican men has no such barrier. Blasting loud Salsa music and sporting a spoiler that could double as a NASA telescope, the black car pulses with life. "Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" One guy drawls approvingly and his buddies all give me a thumbs up. They seem to get a total kick out of the pregnant gringa waiting for the bus and knitting like a grandmother.

I am a very public exception to the wide-spread belief that our transit system is only used by the poor, the disabled, and the immigrants. But, this morning, as I plop into the first empty seat on a full bus, I am surrounded by the usual population. The developmentally challenged young man who is unlucky enough to score me as a seat mate clutches his backpack close to him and scoots far enough away to hug the plastic wall. On intercity buses, I often see other knitters, and I almost always see them when flying. But, on a 15 minute ride on a 20 minute intracity route? I am as much an aberration as whatever demons dancing in this poor fellow's brain.

BING! He gets off a stop before his usual one. I am momentarily saddened that I might have scared him off. But, two stops later, a fellow professor joins me. "You really are a knitting fool!" she exclaims. "I just don't want to be bored," I reply.  She passes the minutes until campus by chatting at me. We've formed something of a bus friendship in the last few months, moving from knitting to students to husbands as we expand our universe of acceptable topics.

Two of my favorite passengers get on. A sister and brother--maybe 12 and 9--climb on, arguing as usual about who gets to put the dollar in the slot. They always have crisp, painfully new dollars. I'm dying to ask why they go to a college campus at 8 a.m.--I'm not aware of any middle school programs offered.  She is equally curious about the knitting. She always watches me with strange mix of awe and unabashed longing. I wish I could bring her some needles and yarn, but five minutes isn't enough time for a lesson, and I'm not sure how to bridge that gap other than to smile and hope that maybe someday she'll be brave enough to sit closer.

At school, three other harried adjuncts wait for the copier. We're all guilty of not using the copy-center, so we try to avoid eye contact as much as possible. I dodge the awkward silence by knitting a few rows until my turn arrives. As he finishes his stack of forty copies of a ten page double-sided and stapled handout (big no-no), an older gentleman notices my knitting and shakes his head and sighs. I know he's probably bemoaning the quality of teachers being hired. If they let in the flaky knitters, what next? His own wait was marked with much sighing and toe-tapping.

He's probably right to be concerned. When I'm not living every waking moment in grading hell, I often knit in the few minutes before class time begins. "That's new," a student remarks as he opens up his paper. We share a bond of dying hobbies, and I love picturing this young man growing up to be an efficient business man, complete with Wall Street Journal and black coffee. "Is it for the baby?" he asks. I laugh. Knitting and pregnancy are inexorably linked in the American psyche. "No, it's a Mother's Day present," I explain. "Couldn't you just buy it?" he asks. Apparently, our bond is weaker than I thought.

However, later I run into a former student in the hall. She greets me with all the enthusiasm of someone seeing a familiar face after a long journey. I am captivated by her bubbly good nature. An implicit agreement passes between smiles--I will not mention the final she never turned in, and she won't mention the disappointing grade that resulted. Instead, she asks about the baby and tells me that she can't wait to see  me in another month when I"ll be "waddling from class to class." She makes this sound like a good thing, so I laugh. As I turn to go, she asks, "Hey, did you ever finish those socks?"

"Which pair?" There have been so many this year, as I struggle to meet Nana's need for socks. "The soft blue pair," she prompts me. I am transported back to the early days of this pregnancy, the second pair of socks for Nana, and a core group of early-morning students who watched me knit as their classmates raced the clock.

On the way home, I am forced to practice knitting Zen. Annoying driver = knit faster. Pregnant bladder protesting that 15 minutes is way too long to be away from a bathroom = knit way faster. I knit faster and avoid doing the squirmy must-go-now dance. If I drove in, I couldn't knit. My pee-dance might be dangerous to drivers.  The force my knitting propels me closer to sweet porcelain relief.   

My doctor has also seen me through several pairs of socks. Today, she is running behind and the waiting room is clogged. I stand and knit. "That's handy," a woman remarks. "You must like waiting." My impatience is legendary, and the knitting is the only thing keeping me from bugging the nurse. "This makes it tolerable," I say serenely. We talk about due dates and crafts, and I am rewarded by the universe when I am called first, while she thumbs through the slim pickings in the magazine rack. If I see her again at Childbirth class, we will have something to chat about.

Later, I take this good karma for a test-drive when I'm car hunting with Freak. The forklift required to get me out of the front seat of the Insight has hammered home the fact that the two-seater's days are numbered. During the long-wait for keys designed to make us more eager to buy right-that-minute, I knit. This is my answer to their little games. The salesman blanches and hurries the keys over. He can't have me advertising the game to the other buyers. On the test drive, I take out my knitting again. "Don't you want to test out the seat warmer?" he wheedles.

"She knits," Freak explains. "It's all about the knitting."  Indeed it is, and the moon roof is seriously screwing with my tension. This is not a good car for us. I snap the knitting into my purse, decision made.

11:20  p.m. Freak's spare computer (yes, he keeps a computer just for me in his office) is taking forever to load up my before-bed card game. Rather than curse his "linux is better" mantra, I knit a half-row. Right as I'm about to declare the hard-drive DOA, the game appears. Knitting is just that powerful. 

Okay This is Fun

Ignore my earlier whining. Because grading is just so . . . mindnumbing exciting, I stumbled across this site that predicts your birth experience (and gender). My other pregnant blogger friends (Day, Dish, Demented, et al), I'd love to see you try this too! And never mind all that boy intuition of mine, she's right on with the midwife (scroll down for my commentary):

Madame Zaritska, our resident clairvoyant, wants to help you prepare for the arrival of your child. Here she does her best to predict certain aspects of your labor and birth experience.

What she senses for you
The day you deliver, outside will be sunny. Your baby will arrive at night.

After a labor lasting approximately 10 hours, your child, a girl, will be born. Your baby will weigh about 6 pounds, 8 ounces, and will be 20 inches long. This child will have light brown eyes and dark hair.

But there is more. I sense that you are feeling some stress. This is very normal. However, I would like to suggest that you pamper yourself a bit.

********
I think I can handle the pampering bit. And only 10 hours of labor. I think I'll take the prediction, BUT both Freak and I have blue eyes, both of my parents have blue eyes, and I'm not sure there's anyway we're getting a brown eyed baby. Maybe hazel? And thank the jeebies above, she predicts a down right teeny baby! My girlie parts LOVE that prediction. I was 9 lbs +, both of my brothers were 10+, Freak's brothers were both 8 & 9 pounders (and we both have tiny mothers), all my cousins were big babies, so I've been planning on a big baby. Especially after the size of those feet! Freak himself though weighed in at exactly the Madame's prediction--but he was 2 weeks early. Perhaps she/he is also planning an early arrival for us?

Anyone else have fun predictors to try?

Sleeping Sickness

For a week now, I've been "under the weather." Which translates into basically "blah" or no appetite and sleeping more hours than I'm awake. Current theory: low blood pressure--better than high, but still annoying. This of course makes for scintillating  blogging material: the writing I'm not doing, the grading I'm behind on, the great weather I'm missing, whine, whine, whine, whine.

Today though, I've been sitting outside some, feet up, and grading. Perhaps the whining will end shortly and I'll have a real post for you.

(P.S. All was well at the 21 week Doctor's visit. Great heartbeat yet again. Midwife said (for the third visit in a row) that she really thinks girl. Nevertheless, I continue to have boy dreams.)