(TMI = Too Much Information)
So, as many of you have apparently noticed, I’ve been really slacking off in the blogging department lately. And I must say, I’m flattered so many of you thought I had catapulted right off the planet. I would love to see the missing persons report for Stitchy McYarnpants. If such a thing were to be required, please don’t settle for my last know photo, take some time and pick something where I look cute and thin and happy. Like this. Or this. C’mon, I’d do it for you. Do not, under any circumstances, allow my brother to make authorities use his favorite photo of me. The one where my eyes are rolling back into my head and there are strings of saucy spaghetti dangling out of my mouth. And no, you will get not link to that little gem.
Anyway, I’m going to do my best to explain why I’ve been flying under the radar. It’s not as though I feel I owe anyone an explanation (or a long list of excuses), but some things just sort of ask to be written about. Have blog, will journal. Know what I mean? I usually keep my personal life pretty personal. That’s mainly because my personal life is largely uninteresting. And while not as fascinating as being involved in a freaky, Oprah-couch-stomping, ass-of-oneself-making, squirmy love-fest with Tom Cruise, or wrestling a bunch of lions with just my bare hands and some Cambodian midgets, the past couple of months have been vaguely interesting.
See, it all started when Jon knocked me up sometime in April. After peeing on many a stick (can I say that I love peeing on those home pregnancy test sticks? It’s like I’m my own little chemistry set!), I had the blood test and yada yada, I was good and pregnant. Normally, this would either make someone very happy or very sad. All I could think was “Terrific, here we go again.” I guess my initial reaction was one of mild annoyance. This was my third pregnancy since last Christmas. The first two disappeared as quickly and stealthily as they’d shown up. Ninja pregnancies. They never implanted and were considered “chemical pregnancies” because they could only be detected chemically. By peeing on things. It turns about that approximately 50% of first pregnancies end this way, and most people don’t even realize they were ever pregnant. But if you’re trying to conceive, and you have the penchant for peeing on sticks, and you just can’t wait for anything ever, you can find out before your period is even due! Bad idea!
This time around, the little bugger stuck and Jon and I were pleased as punch, but we remained cautiously optimistic. Throughout the month of May, I felt like crap, just like a woman in my delicate condition should. Tired and nauseous and cranky with headaches and boobaches. Oprah made me weepy, Dr. Phil filled me with more rage than usual. It was the whole kit and caboodle. It was delightfully awful. The due date was to be January 8th, so obviously a lot of knitting would be required. This poor kid was going to be covered in piles of superwash wool. But I felt too crappy to even knit. Now THAT’S crappy.
We were all set to tell the parental units on Father’s Day. We were even allowing ourselves to get a little excited. Just a little.
Unfortnately, I discovered last week that I had a miscarriage. A missed miscarriage, to be exact. That means it stopped growing, there is no heartbeat, but the tissue is still hanging around in there and I’m still having mild symptoms. Neat! I was even starting to show a little. Part of what I was showing was a lack of self control, I’ll admit it. Bagel Bites, as it turns out, are the perfect food. I couldn’t help myself, I’m not made of stone! But it wasn’t all snack related, I was looking like I had the beginnings of a little bun in the oven. Well, as it turns out, my oven is stuffed full of fibroids (benign lumps of tissue, pretty common with women in their 30’s). Enough that they were actually pooching out! So I wasn’t eating for two, I was eating for 12. Or however many of them there are. The ultrasound technician stopped trying to count them. She seemed really impressed with my fibroid-making abilities. We all have our talents, people.
As it turns out, the first two pregnancies probably tried to implant, but ran headlong into a lumpy mass and got nowhere. This one managed to implant, but with all the extra delicious hormones, the fibies grew lightening quick, decreasing the blood supply to the lining of the uterus. Of course, this is all speculation, but it seems perfectly reasonable. All in all, I’m just not a very hospitable environment. In fact, I’d say I’m downright hostile in there. Well, not totally, I mean, the fibies are flourishing. But the joke’s on them. I’m not putting one cent towards their college tuition.
So I’m giving it another week for the tissue to pass on it’s own, because frankly, the fewer procedures (i.e. sharp, pokey things) I have in my nethers, the better. If it doesn’t do it’s own thing, I’ll have a D&C next week. Once this is all cleared up, I have to get the fibroids removed (more sharp, pokey things). That should be happening round about August. And in my own silly fashion, I’ve gone and anthropomorphized them already. I have a bad habit of doing that. Have you seen that awful Mentos commercial with the baby chicks tweeting in unison for a refreshing mint? Yeah, well, in my mind, that’s what they look like. All the fibroids are nestled together, chirping incessantly, forcing me to keep eating Bagel Bites. On the plus side, they like Sangria, too.
So, in some way, I feel betrayed by my body. Especially the pooching out part. Can you stand it?! Mother nature is a tricky bitch sometimes. But I know it’s all fairly common and easily (albeit unpleasantly) remedied. I felt a lot better after talking to the doctor because it all seems so logical. If my arm were to fall off, I’d be fine as long as someone had a solid medical explanation for it. And I feel confident in my ability to get pregnant seeing as how I’ve done it three times since December. Jon has good aim and determined boys. So I just need to get through the next couple of months of endless appointments and pokey things, and then we can get back to trying. That’s the fun part.
Jon and I really are feeling ok about the whole thing, we have amazing friends and family around us to lend support. Everyone who knows has been kind and respectful. We’re not dramatic people and these situations are often so awkward, but it’s such a common occurrence that to hush it up seems like ignoring an elephant in the room. It’s just one of those crazy things that happens sometimes. Whaddaya gonna do? And Charlene, I must say, is the uber friend. She has gone with me to most of my appointments, even the ultrasounds. She actually seemed to enjoy visiting the moonscape that is the inside of my uterus. AND, she blew her diet to go out for ice cream with me after the last appointment (and the one before that). That goes above and beyond a ride to the airport, and I wholly appreciate it.
All in all, when everything gets weighed out, I’m still a very lucky girl.