Welcome to the Club
If you have been there, you know that the days and weeks after your (first) loss are excruciating. You are sad. You are angry. You are empty.
The only people that understand, really understand, are those that have been there.
If you have been there, here is someone who is muddling through that awful time right now.
The Circle of Life
I held Baby S for the first time one year ago. I had a quick labor, about 5.5 hours from water-breaking to the three-push delivery. I lack the words to describe how much I love him. I am more proud of him than anything else I have done.
And yet, as I predicted, his birthday and that joy will always be tainted for me.
Yesterday was Father’s Day and I have no father. On 27 June 2008, my father committed suicide, five days after my son, his first grandchild, was born.
Sometimes Baby S looks like my dad when he smiles.
Another Example of When It is Not Good to Hear a Medical Professional Say “Wow”
Me to my CNM: “Uh, yeah, I was wondering if I could get a thyroid cascade done this week?”
CNM: “Are you symptomatic?”
Me: “Well, my carpal tunnel is acting up and I am tired, but I am mostly asking because I just got on the scale and I have gained almost 30 lbs. while breastfeeding.”
CNM: “Wow. . . . Yes, I will have the orders ready for you at the lab tomorrow morning.”
Frackity Frack
Baby S is 9 months, 2 weeks, and 6 days old. (We have a ticker on his blog; I am not actually that anal retentive).
I am still breastfeeding and plan to continue until he is at least a year.
It is my gift to him. As I mentioned before, the risk of developing colitis is cut by up to 75% if one is breastfed for 12 months. We are only nursing 3-4 times a day, so it is really not so bad anymore in terms of time commitment.
Except for one thing: the weight gain.
When Baby S was born I weighted 181 lbs. I got on the scale this week and weighed 209 lbs. HOLY FRACK!
I was never hungry when I was pregnant but breastfeeding makes me hungry all the time. I eat almost everything put in front of me, even my veggies. It is an even more intense hunger that when I was on Prednisone (steroids for treating colitis) and my CNM told me just to listen to my body as it is determined to make high-quality breastmilk. She also pointed out that I did not eat well at all while pregnant, so my body is just trying to replenish lost nutrients.
But almost 30 lbs of weight gain while breastfeeding?
I joined a gym this week because if the apetite is going to be like this, something else has got to change. I had to go out again and buy more “fat” clothes. I read somewhere — and I am too lazy to go find it again — that 22% of women gain more than 15 lbs. while breastfeeding. I was never told this. It would not stopped me from breastfeeding, but it would have made me feel like less of a freak.
Pump ‘N’ Bitch
The fucking wee yeasties are back.
Again.
For like the 5th or 6th time.
If you have never had yeast, it burns like someone is pouring battery acid on your nipple after you nurse. For me, it is more painful than mastitis.
So, I am back on the Diflucan. Double the regular dose for two weeks with two more months of refills. Baby S is on Nystatin for two weeks to make sure he stays clean. I have to go wash all my bras in hot water and vinegar and continue to boil everything that touches my nipples, i.e. all of my pumping stuff.
Baby S’s doctor and I decided that I will pump ‘n’ dump for a few days and give him formula. Since we have passed this infection back and forth while I was exclusively pumping, she is assuming that there is yeast in the breastmilk itself.
None of this sounds so bad, right? I mean, it doesn’t sound like fun, but the worst part is the actual feeding part. It nearly makes me cry to give him formula and dump breastmilk down the drain. I know it does not make rational sense but it just feels so very wrong. My breasts ache to nurse him and I realize now how emotionally invested I am in the nursing relationship.
Yet, on the other hand, it is strangely freeing. Knowing that he can eat whenever he wants, have as much as he wants, and be fed by anyone is oddly liberating. My goal is to make it to at least a year: 4.5 more months to go.
Other Shoe Perched Precariously on Ledge
It’s not bad news. It’s not good news, either, but I am trying (and mostly failing) to focus on the fact that it is not bad news.
Baby S had to go and see a pediatric neurologist today. At his 4-month check up, his pediatrician noticed that he had some shaking when he sat up. He thought they may have been mild seizures and requested an EEG and pulled some strings to forgo the usual 6-month wait to see the specialist.
The EEG was normal. He is not having seizures. The neurologist confirmed this today.
Mr. MC and I had both noticed the shakiness, or “trembling” as the doctor called it today, but we assumed it was just muscle fatigue. The trembling began when he started holding his head up and then moved into his shoulders and arms when he began to hold his torso up. It is worse when he is tired or has been sitting up for a while.
The neurologist said it was not muscle fatigue. He does not know what it is, exactly. The rest of his neurological exam was normal, so we are to come back in four months and by then it will either have resolved itself or other symptoms will have presented themselves and he will be better able to make a diagnosis.
I hate to wait. HATE IT. I waited so long for this baby, my beautiful baby boy, and now I have to wait to see if there is something wrong with him?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I want to cry. I want to hold him and never let go. I want the doctor to call back and tell me that Baby S will be fine and this is nothing to worry about. I want my baby to be fine and perfect and healthy.
Instead, I am going to take a shower and go teach a class. Baby S is with my mom, who is no doubt showering him with her usual love and affection. I really want to cancel class, but I think I need to get my mind off of this for a little while.
Fuck.
Yep, MC is Going to Bitch About Yeast Again
I thought it was gone. I am on my last day of Diflucan (oral medicine) and have religiously applied Monistat cream to my nipples for 7 days. I pumped exclusively and carefully washed all the pump parts with hot, soapy water while Baby S dined from bottles with sterilized nipples. My symptoms went away! I was optimistic! Then I started nursing again yesterday and, to quote the ever-annoying Emeril, BAM!, right back to the burning nipples today.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
I blame the stupid NP at the pediatrician’s office two weeks ago who told me Baby S did not need to be treated if he was asymptomatic. She was wrong. I knew she was wrong, but she is an NP with years of clinical experience and I followed what she recommended, which was not to treat Baby S for yeast. Did I mention I knew she was wrong? My midwife said she was wrong. The nurse I spoke to this morning said she was wrong. I should have not been so complacent and insisted on medicine for Baby S, too. (I just got a call back from the doctor: he says the NP was “not correct” about discontinuing the medication. So I will not be charged for that visit, right? She will be reprimanded? Told not to be such a smug beeyotch next time? Encouraged to research chronic yeast infections before opening her “I-Have-Years-of-Clinical-Experience-and-You-Don’t” mouth?)
Oh, and my hair is falling out. I had, according to Mr. MC and my hairstylist, thick, shiny, gorgeous hair during my pregnancy. At exactly 3 months post-partum, my hair started falling out. I knew this was normal, so initially I was not alarmed. Except that it kept on coming out. Like a LOT. Like ALL THE TIME. It is really thin now, especially around my face. I know my thyroid is okay, so here’s hoping the book is right and this resolves itself by 6 months, because I shudder to think how awful I would look bald.
Here is Baby S at 4.5 months, who somehow manages to make thin hair work.
Pain in the Boob (Updated)
The fucking yeast isn’t gone.
Now, just to add to the fun, I have the beginnings of mastitis.
Antibiotics can cause an overgrowth of yeast; yeast makes your nipples burn like hell; burning, yeast-infected nipples crack and split; nipples get infected; a course of antibiotics is given to stop the infection.
Does anyone else see a real problem with this?
I am taking both the anti-fungal and the anti-biotic simultaneously and swallowing as many pro-biotics as I can. I am also trying to cut out (or at least down on) sugar, as sugar feeds the nasty little wee-yeasties.
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Two years ago, I went in for my 10-week ultrasound and discovered I had a blighted ovum. Today, I am watching my son try to suck on his thumb and blogging about pains in my boobs. All things considered, life is good.
UPDATE: And now, due to the anti-biotic, the yeast is back with a vengeance, even though I am still taking the anti-fungal. Baby S and I are both now back on the topic anti-fungal. I can’t win, I swear.
More of the Same
The yeast is still here. It is better, but it still burns after I nurse and Baby S is still not himself. The Nystatin is not very powerful, but is the first anti-fungal that is used. Now, I think, it might be time to move onto something more powerful. Baby S continues to grow like a weed and, based on our crappy home scale, is about 16lbs (!!!!).
I am too tired to post much as I have to entertain relatives this weekend. Here are some update photos of Baby S for your viewing pleasure: 
It’s Not Just for Baking Bread!
I hate yeast.
Really, really, really.
I thought that I hated yeast in my bajingo, but it is nothing compared to yeast in my nipples and poor Baby S’s mouth. It burns like crazy and makes my poor little guy super gassy and fussy.
I have to smear anti-fungal goop all over my breasts after every feeding and swab Baby S’s mouth with the stuff several times a day. We also have to sterilize all his pacifiers and bottles, and I have to wash all my bras and then stick them out in the sun to kill any lingering yeast.
Oh, and did I mention it makes my nipples burn. like. hell ?
p.s. Mr. MC, as you can probably tell, was way more upset about Maggie’s comment than I was. As far as I am concerned, she can kiss my burning nipples ass.
“Natural Childbirth is as Rational as Natural Dentistry”
I don’t know who first said that, but they may be onto something.
I went to the dentist for what I thought was a cracked filling. It was not a cracked filling. It was a cracked tooth, split right down the middle. Cue the endodontist, the emergency root canal, and the Novocaine. I now know where the expression “… about as much fun as a root canal” comes from as root canals are not, it turns out, any fun.
Thanks to my colitis, I can not take ibuprofen, which is recommended as it is an anti-inflammatory, and Tylenol and swishing warm water (!?) were just not cutting it for the pain. I called back the next morning and they were apologetic that they had not given me anything stronger. I immediately got a prescription for Tylenol with codeine, but by this point, the pain was really out of control. I actually could feel my pulse in what was left of my tooth because it was so badly bruised from the procedure. I called back again and they wanted to see me in person as “something was amiss.” The nice young doctor, who I am sure just looked really, really young but was perfectly certified to be doing what he was doing, shaved off more of the tooth as it was hitting on my bite (I didn’t ask for more details, which seemed to disappoint him; I just wanted them to fix whatever the heck was wrong) and they gave me a few days worth of Vicodin to get me through the worst of the pain. (As an aside, you can nurse on these medicine, as long as you give your body enough time to metabolize the stuff. I would pump, wait four hours, and then nurse or pump again. After three hours, the narcotics are mostly gone.) I have another follow-up next week with the endodontist and then I have to go back to my regular dentist to have a crown put on.
Now, you ask, what the heck does this have to do with an epidural? I must sheepishly admit that I had been feeling, well, like kind of a major wimp for begging for getting an epidural. I really thought I would be able to do it naturally, but the pain proved too much for me to handle. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I felt like a failure, because after all I birthed a healthy baby, but I felt like a wuss. I read natural childbirth books, I watched “The Business of Being Born,” and I really did want to try and have a go at it, so I surprised myself at how quickly I gave in and asked for pain medicine when I was in active labor.
At my 6-week appointment with my midwife, it was still bothering me, so I asked her if all women experience labor the same. If everyone felt what I felt, I have no idea how they could make it. It was honestly like my body was being ripped apart, the contractions were just coming one on top of one another, I had to stay on my back, and I was only 3cm dilated, so I had hours and hours of this ahead of me. My midwife was very reassuring and told me two things that made me feel better. First, everyone experiences labor differently. It depends on your pelvic size, the size and position of your baby, how many nerve endings you have there, and your individual pain tolerance. Yes, it hurts, but how much it hurts can vary quite a bit. Second, in her opinion (and 25+ years of experience with laboring women), the single most important factor regarding how women tolerate labor is how much sleep they had the previous 72 hours. “MC,” she said, “we were gong to admit you that night because you had not slept for days due to the contractions. Anyone who has not slept has a markedly — and I mean markedly — decreased tolerance for pain.” That made me feel better and much less wussy-ish.
Still.
It wasn’t until I was writhing in pain waiting for the endodontist to work on my tooth that I stopped feeling weird about having an epidural. As soon as that Novocaine hit and he whipped out that drill, I said a silent thank-you to the universe for anesthesia. For Pete’s sake, this man drilled out the nerves in my tooth and I didn’t feel a bloody thing. The tooth, even though it needs a crown, was saved. If I had asked, I could have done it without anesthesia, but why? (The awful pain I felt afterward, in case you were wondering, was due to bruising in the surrounding tissue.)
Now, I am not going to argue that a shot of Novocaine is the same thing as an epidural. The risks are not the same and the administration for the Novocaine is a lot simpler. They are there, however, to take away the pain. Why is it socially acceptable to get Novocaine but somehow I felt like a complete wimp for getting an epidural? Yes, childbirth is “natural” but it still hurts like hell. I also get migraines, which are also “natural” and also hurt like hell. Why does taking away one kind of pain, be it from a migraine or a cracked tooth, seem the logical, rational thing to do and yet having epidural made me feel conflicted?
Women who give birth without pain medicine often say that they feel proud of themselves for doing what was best for their babies and themselves. Yet if I had asked for the root canal sans anesthesia, people would think I was insane. Why is there such a double standard?
(And why when I re-read this do I do it in the voice of a post-partum Carrie Bradshaw?)
Topsy Turvy
My boobs are lopsided. The right breast — Rochelle — is a real champion at milk production. She is cranking out 1.5 ounces every 2-3 hours. The left breast — Lucielle — is not keeping up. I thought it was the clogged duct but that has cleared and she is still underproducing, even after days of extra pumping time.
Is this normal? If you have pumped or breastfed, does one boob out-produce the other?
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Baby S was back to his birth weight in only 10 days, and is the picture of health.
I was also back to my pre-pregnancy weight a week after giving birth. As of today, I even managed to lose 2 pounds. It is easy to lose your pregnancy weight when you only gain 11 pounds, right? Not an ideal situation (I was worried sick about Baby S’s growth), but it sure is nice to have one less thing to worry about.
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Thank you for all of your kind comments regarding my father’s death. I am, all things considered, doing okay. Cuddling Baby S makes it easy to focus my priorities and not to dwell in my negative emotions. I appreciate everyone who stopped by and offered support.
In The End
My dad was released from the psychiatric ward on Tuesday (they said he was a “model patient” and “no danger to himself”) and successfully committed suicide last night/early this morning by once again overdosing on prescription medicine. He was found in his hotel room and pronounced dead on the scene today. I am coping by focusing on my beautiful baby boy and the immeasurable joy he has brought into my life. My father knew Baby S was born and never asked about him or even wanted to see a picture. I think, although this sounds cynical, that this was best for all. This drama, played out over the course of my thirty-three year life, is finally over. He got what he wanted in the end.
I am determined not to let this cloud my memories of this early weeks with my son. Even with a plugged duct, which is making breastfeeding difficult, and round-the-clock feedings, I am having the time of my life. He is so beautiful and I intend to fully celebrate the wonder of his life.
Lavender Bath Salts
When I was admitted on Friday to L&D, I got to preview first-hand the luxurious birthing rooms. I am sure if you are in active labor you probably would not be concerned with all of the aesthetic details, but the rooms really are very nice.
After they put a liter of IV fluid in you, even when you are dehydrated, you really have to pee, so I got to spend a lot of time going back and forth to the bathroom. The bathrooms have beautiful tile work, a large tub/shower filled with jets, a towel rack stocked with plush towels, and the sink was deep with lovely fixtures. They had luxury hand soaps, scented hand lotions, and a tube of lavender bath salts.
Even in the midst of everything, I had to laugh. Lavender bath salts? Really? Obviously they were intended for the tub, which is large enough to labor in but is not a delivery tub. Do they really think that in the midst of a natural labor, because you would not be lying in a warm tub (the “midwives’ epidural”) if you had an epidural, the lavender bath salts are going to contribute to your overall comfort? “Oh, these contractions are just AWFUL! PAINFUL! ARGHHHH!!! The warmth of the tub, however, is so very, very soothing. Wait, they have LAVENDER BATH SALTS? Sprinkle away! Why … I can barely feel the contractions now that I have used the LAVENDER BATH SALTS.”
In other non-toiletry news, my father is still alive. In fact, he has been extubated and is conscious. My brother will call with an update as soon as he talks more to my father’s nurse. That being said, I can not think any more about it because it causes me to either cry, feel nauseous/gag, have Braxton-Hicks contractions/cramping, or raises my blood pressure. None of these things are good for me or he-beastie, and so, per my midwife’s orders, I am only focusing on what I can control and my father, three states away in a who-knows-what kind of mental state, is far outside of my control.
Stupid Selfish Bastard
Thursday night, after my father met with his lawyer regarding the finalities of the divorce and realized that my mother (they live in a “no fault” state) would indeed get 50% of their estate, went back to his hotel room, took all the prescription medicine he had (8 bottles worth) and then sent my mother some of the most vitriolic, nastiest e-mails ever written. He wanted to make sure that a) she never got his life insurance policies (negated in cases of suicide, he thought); b) how much he hated her; c) how she ruined his life by daring to divorce him; d) all the material stuff he wanted my brother and I to get — he wanted her to get nothing except “blamed for this, so she can spend the rest of her life feeling guilty.”
This was 4 weeks to the day before his first grandchild was due. He left no notes, no sentiments, nothing for my brother and I.
My mom, because she is a decent human being, called the paramedics when she read the e-mails instead of just letting him die in his hotel room. The fucker is still alive, but barely, in critical condition in an ICU 3 states away from me. I would not visit him, even if I were allowed to travel. If he dies, we have decided there will be no funeral or memorial. If he lives, my son will never be allowed near him.
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Due to stress and emotions, I spent all of Thursday night trying to sleep and failing miserably. I had Braxton-Hicks contractions all night, and woke up in the morning with menstrual-like cramps. I already had an OB appointment, so they did an internal exam (no dilation yet) and then admitted me to L&D for monitoring. The contractions were probably due to dehydration as they slowed down once they gave me two IV bags of fluid. We got to listen to his little heartbeat on the monitor, which was very cool. He did not like either the contraction or the heart rate monitor straps and continually tried to kick them off, which made his heart rate go up, exactly as they wanted it to. I stayed for a few hours, took a nap, and then headed home.
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My mom actually went to the hospital yesterday to get updates on my father. He is on a ventilator, his pupils are still pinned (due to the copious amounts of narcotics that he took), his pressure is low but stable, but we do not know if he will live out the week or if he has done any irreparable long-term organ damage.
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He-beastie, however, is doing his usual mid-morning gymnastics. I can actually see knees, feet, and hips when he turns himself around or kicks hard enough. Sure, it kind of looks like there is an alien trapped in there, but I love it.
File Under Either: “Stupid Things That People Say” or “Wow, MC Has A Tremendous Amount of Self-Restraint”
I had to return some duplicate gifts to Tarzhay Boutique. The girl who was processing returns looked at my pregnant tummy and exclaimed, “WOW, I was told that being pregnant in the summer is like the WORST. THING. EVER!!”
What I wanted to say: “No, actually spending last summer bleeding heavily for several weeks after my second miscarriage was far worse.”
OR: “No, being pregnant in the summer is AWESOME compared to not being pregnant when you really want to be.”
OR: “Being hot, sweaty and pregnant is far, REALLY far, from the worst thing ever. In fact, it pretty much rocks compared to the WORST. THING. EVER. , whatever the heck that is (although I do have a few ideas).
Instead, I said: “Yes, a refund on a gift cards is just fine.”
What I really wanted to add: “You stupid naive idiot.”
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My father, in an e-mail (the only way we really communicate because he is deaf, and refuses to learn sign language or use the TTD device on the phone) told me yesterday: “I LOVE YOU AND MR. MC AND HE-BEASTIE AND LOOK FORWARD TO HAVING HIM IN OUR FAMILY BUT WHAT YOUR MOTHER HAS DONE TO ME HAS TAKEN MOST OF THE JOY OUT OF THIS.” (Yes, he apparently also yells loudly when he types not because he is deaf, because he hasn’t figured out that all caps = yelling).
What I wanted to reply: What mom has “done to you” is, after 37 years of being unhappily married, to finally leave after living with someone who is bi-polar who refuses to see a therapist or take any medicine for the condition. He still, even after smashing many a house-hold object in fits of rage, spending through a chunk of their retirement during a manic episodes, and spending Christmas and New Years in the psychiatric ward (my mom had him committed when he smashed the second flat-screen TV when she cut off his credit cards) with the official diagnosis of “severely depressed/bi-polar,” doesn’t think there is anything wrong with him.
I also wanted to add: How does your wife leaving you possibly diminish the joy for your first grandchild, unless you are just wallowing in self-pity and a completely selfish asshole.
What I realized: He is just wallowing in self-pity and a completely selfish asshole.
[What I am also fervently wishing: He-beastie did not get the bi-polar gene in my family. Let's hope that Mr. MC's genes either dilute it or cancel it out completely. ]
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But I didn’t say nasty things to either the little Tarzhay girl or my father, because apparently I have a tremendous amount of self-restraint even when I am hot, sweaty, and 8 months pregnant.
Yesterday, I was 8 months. I am today, officially, 9 months pregnant.
Best. Test. Ever.
I called Wednesday morning before I headed to the lab to confirm that I did not indeed need an appointment for my 3GTT. It turns out you do need an appointment for a 3GTT, but I was not scheduled for a 3GTT, I was scheduled for a 2-hour PP test. “A what? A PP test?” It is not a urine test; instead it stands for two-hour post prandial glucose test, which in my opion, is just about the mostest awesomest medical test ever.
I went in and had my blood drawn for my fasting glucose test, and then, IN ORDER TO COMPLY WITH THE NEXT PHASE, I was told to go and eat a large, sugary breakfast. I was atually told by a medical professional to go to IHOP and eat pancakes, orange juice, eggs, hashbrowns, etc…. For someone who has been eating almost no refined carbohydrates for a week, this was music to my ears. (I actually had to ask her to repeat herself, to make sure I wasn’t imagining things!). When I ate my last bite, I wrote the time down and showed up back at the lab to have my blood drawn exactly two hours later.
Pancakes! With Syrup! and Orange Juice! Oh My!
I don’t know the results yet, but if I can eat one of these breakfasts every few weeks in order to comply with medical diagnostic needs, I promise I will not complain about eating no refined carbohydrates in between.
Frack
I passed my 3-hour test, but only by one point. (AGAIN WITH THE ONE POINT!) They do four draws, and having high sugars for two out of the four warrants the dreaded “gestational diabetes” diagnosis. I had one high one, and one that was only “not high” by one point. That is way too close for comfort.
I am back on, irony of ironies, the South Beach Diet. Bring on the omlettes!
Edit: I am going to eat a very low-card diet for a few weeks and then repeat the 3-hour glucose test. Last time I had to lay down 30 minutes after drinking the orange-flavored, slightly carbonated syrup (OFSCS) so I didn’t throw up and/or pass out. The nice ladies at the lab let me sleep there for the rest of the test, only waking me when I needed my hourly sticks. It was not a fun test, but I want he-beastie to be healthy, so I am now back to pretending that sugar-free lime Jello is a delicious dessert. “Mmmmm…. delicious jelly donuts sugar-free lime Jello.”
I’m Baaaaaack
I have returned to the States after 10 days in Europe.
I am exhausted and jet lagged, but wee-beastie thoroughly enjoyed him/herself. Apparently air travel, sugar, caffeine, and stress hormones (like the kind you produce when your purse — including your passport, credit cards, and migaine medicine — is stolen the first day into your travels) make my kid perform an Irish jig. Me: HOLY ^%$, my purse was just stolen! Wee-beastie: Weeeeee!!!!
It turns out the phantom UTI was not a UTI (hence the negative cultures) but an allergic reaction in my lady parts to my new shower gel. I used it a second time, the symptoms all came back for a few days, so now it is banished forever. In other pee related news, I peed my pants yesterday when I sneezed. On my way to class, mind you. Me: HOLY @*&^, I just peed my pants! Wee-beastie: Weeeeee!!!!
I am 24 weeks tomorrow. HOLY ^$#%, I am almost 6 months pregnant! I also managed, in between the pain au chocolate and the creme brulee, to lose weight in Europe. My tummy is larger, so I assume it was just the copious amounts of walking we did. Walking, it seems, it the only thing that lulls wee-beastie to sleep. The second I sit down, it is back to business. Be careful what you wish for: I told wee-beastie, since I didn’t want to bring the doppler, that s/he could move as much as s/he wanted because mommy found it very reassuring.
Updates
In order of importance:
1) Wee-beastie is still alive and growing right on schedule — 8w6d today (2 days head of LMP calculations). The heart-rate is high — 182 bpm — but the physician’s assistant said that this is fine (she even used the word “perfect” again).
2) The Colace/fiber/increased fluid intake regimen worked. Finally.
3) My mother has decided not to leave my father. For now, at least. She still does not know I am pregnant, and I intend to keep it that way as long as possible.
