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.

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 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.     

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.

My mom called me at 9:00AM on the one day this week I can sleep in.

She is leaving my father. I am not sure that she has told him yet. I thought this would have happened when I was much, much younger, but she stayed for another 15+ years.

She does not know about this pregnancy, because the last two times she became more of a stress than a comfort. I elected not to tell her this time until I at least reach the second trimester.

She also wanted to know if she could move to the city where I live.

Usually, all this would really stress me out. Instead, I am actively letting it roll off of my back. I have bigger things to worry about right now. I also refuse to take sides.

Instead of worrying about the breakup of my parent’s thirty-five year marriage, I am trying to find the pee-stick I misplaced this morning so I can analyze it as part of The Plan. It sounds like avoidance; it is really compartmentalization.

I went to the dentist yesterday. The dentist as in the person who cleans and cares for your teeth. I thought I was safe from miscarriage/pregnancy/fertility talk. I was wrong.

I have one cavity, gingivitis and one cracked filling. “Golly jeepers,” I said to the hygienist, “how does one crack a filling?” “You,” she replied sternly, “are a clencher and a grinder.” This, in case you are wondering, is not a good thing to be. And for those of you with a dirty mind, she means my jaw.

I got the lecture about flossing (okay!), using Listerine twice a day (okay!), wearing a night guard (ew, but okay!), and getting my cavity filled (fuck! okay!). After the “YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON FOR LETTING YOUR MOUTH ROT LIKE THIS” lecture, she asked what happened to my previous mouthguard. I explained that I had lost it when we moved and last year I didn’t get another one made because I was pregnant and very, very gaggy. It just slipped out, I swear. “That’s okay, they now make new ones that only go over your front four teeth to cut down on the gagging,” she explained without missing a beat. I was relieved, not about the size of the stupid mouth guard, but that she didn’t ask about the pregnancy.

I thought I was done, that I would be able to get through a fucking dental appointment without being reminded that both my pregnancies have miserably failed, and then she did it. She smiled that smile that people smile when they are going to say something sentimental and sweet. “The nausea is all worth it, though, isn’t it? How old is your baby now?”

Fuck.

The hygienist, who knows my saga, quietly explained to the dentist that my uterus is a hospice for embryos (in that they only go there to die). It was obvious that they both felt awful. Well, good, because so did I.

I can’t schedule my filling appointment until I know if I am pregnant or not this cycle, because the procedure can be “risky” during the first trimester. Given my past, I do not need to add anything risky to the formula. Although I am tempting to get a t-shirt printed that says “MY DENTAL FILLINGS KILLED MY FETUS.” Either that or “BAJINGO DENTATA.”*

*If you are not fortunate enough to know what a bajingo dentata is, please click here for the non-MC version of the term.

I thought my ulcerative colitis was getting better, but now it is undeniably getting worse.

I have been taking the full retinue of my colitis medicine for two weeks, and usually it has started working by now. I even took 15mg of prednisone (the dreaded steroid) this evening — desperate times.

I am torn because I was having colitis issues right before my first pregnancy, and as soon as I was 2 weeks along, it threw me right into remission. Most doctors, however, do not recommend trying to conceive while actively in a flare because there is a chance that pregnancy can make it worse. It was only one month ago that my poop doctor actually advised me to get pregnant as soon as possible because my blood chemistry was so good.

I am on cycle day 3 so I have about a week to get this flare under control. Stress is not good for colitis, so I can not stress about getting this flare under control.

Merde.

I am completely off of caffeine for the short-term, though. It is bad for colitis and bad for fertility.

Part deux:

The absolute worst way to try and not to worry about something is to tell yourself that worrying about it will only make it worse. I feel quite awful, and I have so much work to do. This was supposed to be one of those productive weekends; instead I laid around in bed, except, of course, when I was in the bathroom.

The thought of having to wait another month before trying again makes me frantic and depressed. I feel like all I have done is wait. If it is grammatically possible to even say this, I am all waited out. I got my period after miscarriage #2 on July 10. It is now October 7th and for one reason or another, we only “tried” in August. It’s not that our excuses weren’t good — waiting for the thyroid medicine to kick in, hospitalization for a collapsed lung, etc… — but I just can not wait any longer. This is not even waiting for a healthy baby. This is waiting for the opportunity to try for something that has only a 1/5 chance of actually working, then waiting to see if it worked, then waiting to see if it sticks, then waiting to see if everything is okay so far — and that is only the first 6 weeks.

My therapist says that I believe in “magical thinking.” I feel that if I worry/obsess over something enough, I can effect the outcome; if I don’t, bad things will happen due to my lack of attention. It sounded weird when she said it, but I guess it is true. When I let my guard down, when I dare to be happy for a pregnancy or a long period of remission, bad things do happen, it seems. Perhaps it is more comforting to think that I did something to cause it instead of the reality that bad things just happen. Perhaps it gives me fleeting sense of control?

Mr. MC came home from the hospital on Wednesday afternoon. He is still in a lot of pain but happy to be home.

The cat and dog are doing much better, too.

I thought I ovulated the day after my positive OPK, but apparently my body did indeed register the stress. My temp went up a little making me think it was a done deal, but this morning it went back down. I took an OPK this evening because I am just very curious (still no sex this cycle) and it is not positive, but the second test line is very dark. It has to be the stress, right? Right? Right? RIGHT?? I just don’t want to be developing some sort of post-miscarriage #2 ovulation problem, and last month was already a little funky with the super-delayed temperature shift. I think I am going to up my dose of Vitex.

Can you tell I am a little anxious? I think it is a delayed reaction to everything from last week.

The hospital where my husband is an inpatient plays the opening measures of Brahm’s lullaby everytime a new baby is born. I assume this is to make people feel warm and fuzzy. If the rate of Brahm’s music is any indication, the town where I live is experiencing a population explosion.

What other people must think: “Awww… a new baby was just born” or “How sweet, another little person entered this world.”

What I hear: “Ha! Ha! Some drug addicted teen-age mother just gave birth to her third healthy child! Ha! Ha! You never got past 10 weeks! Ha! Ha! Both your embryos died in the first trimester.”

I hate Brahms.

I just spent $430 at the emergency vet because one of my cats was pooping blood. They did blood work, which will not come back until Tuesday, and X-rays, and they think she either has a nervous stomach or she just passed a big hairball.

I left the vet at 1:00 AM.

When I got home, I opened the door to the worst. smell. ever. My dog, probably due to anxiety, had diarrhea all over the dining room.

It is now 1:14AM and I have every candle I own and two sticks of incense burning. The front door is wide open. I can not go to bed with a house this stinky.

I now have to go give my cat her pill with a huge plunger so she doesn’t bite me, because she is really pissed.

My husband is still in the hospital.

And I have freakin’ ovulation pains so bad it hurts to stand up straight.

Update: The dog got me up every hour on the hour to go outside and poop. He had awful diarrhea all night. It finally settled down about 6AM, when he let me sleep for an hour and a half. At 7:30AM he woke me up by puking on the bed.

Second Update: Yeah, I am a little stressed out. Does my body register this? I guess not. I got the most positive OPK today that I have ever seen.

Third Update: Mr. MC still has a leak in his lung and may have sprung a new one. He is pretty miserable. He probably can’t come home until at least Thursday. Ugh.

Mr. MC had to have surgery today to fix his lung because it continued to “leak.” The operation was a success, but his oxygen stats did not improve to the recovery room nurse’s liking, so he is being very closely monitored overnight in the recovery room (there are not extra beds in the ICU). In the morning, they will decide if he needs to go to the ICU or if he can go back to a floor room.

Sunday they will try to take the chest-tube out and X-ray the lung again to ensure that it stays inflated. Best case scenario: he comes home by late Sunday or early Monday. Then he will be at home for at least a week while everything heals and he weans off the pain medicine. He had a spontaneous pneumorthorax, which is a congenital defect.

It turns out I have a “frayed nerve” (I can’t remember the medical term right now) because two of my neck vertebrae are pressing together or I have a bone spur or something fun like that. I found this out on Thursday and Mr. MC was already in the hospital, so I was only half-listening to the diagnosis. It really hurts. I just took a left-over Tylenol with codeine from miscarriage #2 that will hopefully allow me to sleep. I am just dealing because we can only handle one medical problem at a time and it is not my turn yet.

Oh, and I am “highly fertile” right now according to my Ovusoft. I think jumping my husband in the hospital while he is doped up on morphine is in very, very poor taste.

The trick to completely forget about miscarriage/pregnancy/infertility is to have your spouse develop a potentially life-threatening medical condition like, to pick a completely random example, a collapsed right lung.

Mr. MC went to our local urgent care thinking he had asthma, or at the very worst, pneumonia. He had a pneumothorax. They have reinflated it via a chest tube, but it continues to leak. If it has not completely healed by Friday, he will have surgery to manually repair it.

He has been an inpatient since about 3AM on Tuesday.

It is really awful to watch someone that you love suffer.