Three bowls of soup and a baby (well, not yet)

"The only way to expedite things is to have sex.  Oh, and nipple stimulation," my doctor said.  This is possibly the least sexy thing you can hear in an examination room with your doctor rummaging around your cervix.  (And a great opener to a simple soup blog post!)

For the past three weeks I've been dilated at a measly 2 cm, which means...nothing.  For the past two weeks I have been 70% effaced (effacement measures the thinning and softening of the cervix), which means...nothing (but you gives you a freaky mental image).  For the last four weeks the baby has been "fully engaged", meaning it's at 0 station, or as far down in the birth canal he or she may go, and is "lock and loaded".  Apparently this doesn't mean too much either.  The baby can come today, or weeks from now.  I am due in four days.  

Now, first babies being late is normal, but let's get something straight, here: exactly one week after my due date is Thanksgiving.  This bambino will NOT mess with my turkey dinner.  Nothing keeps me from my stuffing, damnit.  


Speaking of food, I've been doing less cooking but whipped up a simple Moroccan stew tonight.  I love soups and stews because they are 1) healthy, 2) inexpensive, and 3) yield enough for at least 2-3 dinners (aka cater to my lazy-ass-ness).  Of course, I make any stew less healthy serving it with baguettes (or tortilla chips if it's any sort of chili).  It's just the Kathryn way.


Moroccan Stew


Recipe courtesy of Allrecipes.com
****I doubled the spices, and didn't really measure anything.  But I guess that's the beauty of stews.  The original recipe is below.

INGREDIENTS:

1 cup French green lentils 3 bay leaves 2 whole garlic cloves 3 tablespoons olive oil 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme leaves 1 tablespoon minced garlic   1 tablespoon olive oil 1 teaspoon crushed hot chile flakes 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground cumin 1 teaspoon ground coriander 1 tablespoon minced garlic 1 cup chopped onions

1 cup chopped celery 1 cup chopped zucchini 1 red bell pepper, diced 1 yellow bell pepper, diced 1 butternut squash - peeled, seeded, and cut into 1-inch cubes 1 (8 ounce) can crushed tomatoes 1 (15 ounce) can chickpeas, drained 4 cups vegetable stock 1 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 1/2 cup plain yogurt (optional) 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint (optional) 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)

DIRECTIONS:

1.	Fill a large pot with water and bring to a boil over high heat. Stir in the lentils, bay leaves, and whole garlic cloves. Return to a boil, then reduce heat to low and simmer lentils until they are cooked but still firm, about 10 minutes. Drain well. Place lentils in a bowl; toss with olive oil, thyme, and 1 tablespoon chopped garlic. Remove bay leaves and whole garlic cloves; set aside.
2.	Heat 1 tablespoon olive in a large pot over medium heat. Stir in chili flakes, cinnamon, cumin, and coriander and cook until fragrant. Add garlic, onion, celery, zucchini, red and yellow peppers, and squash; cook 3 or 4 minutes.
3.	Mix in the lentils, tomatoes, chickpeas, and vegetable stock. Raise heat to medium-high until stew just begins to boil; reduce heat to low and cover. Simmer until squash is tender, about 20 minutes, stirring once or twice. Add the chopped parsley. Ladle into serving bowls and garnish with a dollop of yogurt, some chopped mint, and a pinch of cayenne pepper.

This stew is easy and inexpensive; lovely meatless wonder with the addition of the chickpeas!

I can't begin to describe the warm aromas when you add the spices (particularly the cinnamon).  Such a great one-pot Sunday supper.

Take me to Marrakesh, baby!

33 Weeks

I’ve come to the conclusion that people who fly must decide that airport bathrooms are entirely inferior to those on the plane, because nary three minutes into our flight (three!) a stream of pea-sized bladder passengers were making their way to the lavatory in the back of the Airbus-whatever-whatever.  I surely thought the flight attendants would say, “Get back in your seat and use Depends next time!” but no.  We had JUST TAKEN OFF and were rapidly ascending. 

I am a fearful flyer, particularly during take-off.  Once we reach cruising altitude color comes back in my face, I unclench my palms from the arm rests, and I get with the program.  I know it was early in the flight because immediately during and after take-off I put my fingers to my ears so I can only hear the low rumble of the engines (I don’t need to hear the wings moving, the landing gear retracting or any of that nonsense).  My fingers were still at my ears when these people started the trek to the restroom, totally oblivious Philadelphia was still below us.  I say this irked because I sit in the aisle seat, and their rumps are constantly butting into my face.  I also say this as a 33-week pregnant woman: if I can hold it, so can you.

So here I am, jetting from Philadelphia to Charlotte to Tallahassee for work.  The leg from Charlotte to Tallahassee is on a tiny plane, and by tiny, I mean medium-sized.  I mean, the thing’s no Cessna or anything, but ten rows doesn’t quite work for me.  My fear of flying has gradually increased with each passing year.  As a kid you’re too dumb to know any better, and as an adult I’m too dumb to understand the physics of how a plane can stay airborne.  Doesn’t it need to flap its wings or something?

Nearing the end of my pregnancy, I perhaps have a deeper sense of what can be lost in a tragedy.  As in, when did we start discussing how much life insurance we’ll need?  When did we hit the cusp of thirty years old?  And how the heck are the two of us dunces going to care for a newborn in less than two months?!

Everything is coming to a happy head: I feel overwhelmed and positively giddy, and dare I say, ready.  Last night Matt felt the baby for the first time: hard, seemingly petulant thumps on my left side. 

It was magic.

Third Trimester!

25 weeks!
Totally cheating with this fitted, black dress.  But that's how I work.

28 weeks!  Beginning of "big mamma".  Sob!
(This dress REALLY accentuates the belly...I swear I don't look exactly this big in person.  Now, not small, mind you, but this is some 36 week shiznizzle right here!)

Who doesn't take self-portraits in the work bathroom?

Today I chose a dress I only sometimes wear because it makes me look pregnant.  “Well now’s as good time as any,” I said as I examined my sloped mid-section in the morning mirror.  Thing looked PLUMP!  It’s amazing how clothes can accentuate or minimize a baby bump (I swear: on Saturday I wore a peasant top that made me look Kathryn circa 2010).  Today I’m full-on baby mama.  Case in my point from my co-worker this morning: “Kathryn – you POPPED!  You looked different last week!”  There’s something liberating about no longer being able to suck in a burgeoning gut. 

This week I am 28 weeks pregnant, which is the beginning of both the third trimester and the seventh month of pregnancy.  I am ecstatic and giddy.  Matt is panic-stricken and looking a bit nauseous. 

“You had a while to get used to this, you know,” I deadpanned last night as I showed him a changing table I was contemplating.  “I don’t think you can ever get used to this,” he replied, glassy-eyed.  He reassured me on how excited he is, but I also know, as my internal clock can’t go fast enough, his is ticking with a thud. 

On the weekends he is a flurry of activity as he looks at wood finishes in preparation to re-sanding the nursery’s shoddy hardwood floors.  On Saturday night, when I was out with friends, he painted the nursery a bright yellow appropriately called Sunbeam.  He put the last coat on after I returned home, ten minutes to midnight, in his underwear with classical music echoing throughout the house.  We discovered mold creeping across our basement yesterday, and I think the boy was positively going to cry at the thought of another house project. 

Not to say I feel sorry for him.  The way he thinks about housework is the way I think about work.  Period.  My last work trip is to Michigan and Colorado the first full week of October, and it can’t get here quickly enough.  After that it’s local events, but even that (Three hours at an evening networking event?  Five hours at a job fair?) still doesn’t pacify the alarmist in me.  Luckily, I feel great and I’m hedging my bets I’m going to have a seamless, uneventful last trimester.  Or at least willing the fact that it will easy.

Now, look – carrying this baby should be easier on me.  I’m big: 5’10”.  I’m no skinny ninny but thick and (I’d like to think), strong.  If I was waddling at this point there would be a problem.  A woman I know, pregnant as well and three weeks behind me in gestation, said, “Are you still fitting into your maternity clothes?  I had to go buy all new ones!”  This comment made my day because 1) I’m hardly wearing any maternity clothes as most of my wardrobe is already fashioned for a generous bajunk-a-junk stomach, and 2) of those I do wear they’re only starting to look appropriate, and 3) I’m really quite smug.  While my baby can grow up and down, hers (she stands about 5’3” or so) can only jut out.  I finally feel my height is to some advantage (other than intimidating people of course).

I still don’t identify fully with my pregnant peers.  I visit two “November 2011” baby forums.  Last night many of them were talking about their baby’s current position.  “Oh, he’s transverse” and “My little bugger keeps flipping around!” to “Mine’s been head-up since the beginning.”  This intrigues me because I cannot possibly induce how they know this because all I can tell is that it feels like I’ve got some heavy-duty gas in there.  The woman who is three weeks behind me in pregnancy?  She said her kid wakes her up in the middle of the night with their kicking.  Really?  Because I just feel like I ate a burrito that didn’t agree with me.

Now, I’ve got some cushioning if ya know what I mean, and apparently an anterior placenta, meaning that squishy blob is on top of the baby and softening his/her karate kicks, but lord almighty!  I’ve finally just come to the conclusion that these women are crazy and they gotta calm the heck down because they have a few more months of cookin’ to do (and uncomfortable incubating it sounds like to me).  They also post things like, “I feel so guilty; I had a Diet Coke today,” or “How long do I need to heat my cold cuts so they’re safe?”  I’m seriously reading this half the time with a soda in one hand and a turkey sandwich in the other, chompin’ and snortin’ (chompin’ and snortin’ is my most natural, relaxed – and common – state).

Then there is the ubiquitous post about the “coming home outfit”.  This is the outfit mothers spend no less than 22.6 hours choosing and what their new bundle of joy will be wearing when he or she is brought home from the hospital.  Other commenters “ooo” and “awww” over these get-ups, resplendent with frogs and ducks, princesses or monkeys.  I momentarily took a break from chompin’ and snortin’ to ruminate if I should buy a special outfit for this occasion.  The answer: no.  Back to the turkey sandwich.

This is not to say I’m not spectacularly excited, and often times, my snide commentary takes a back-seat to the belly pics, the “Is this safe?” questions, and even the posts about awful things their “DH” says.  For those not in the know, “DH” stands for “Dear Husband”.  These are sometimes my favorite posts, for DHs can say supremely clueless and tactless things, and it’s my job to read them all and sort out which of these Neanderthals are huge dicks.  From what I can tell there’s a lot of whale and “big as a house” commentary, frightened pointing at burgeoning stretch marks while DHs crinkle their eyes in horror and say, “What ARE those?!” (good thing I was practically born with the things) and not-so-gentle jabs at the quantity of food these soon-to-be mothers are consuming.  This all plays into my smugness really well, because Matt is a nice and quiet guy and wouldn’t dare utter these things.  He’s also scared of me, and I feel like I have to teach my preggo compatriots on how to put the fear of their wives (much worse than the fear of God) into their husbands. 

Last but not least on our baby odyssey are the baby classes!  Our first class was this past week on breastfeeding.  We were told to bring a baby doll for positioning and holding, but we brought a tie-dyed frog.  I surely thought we were already the class delinquents but I was happy to spot a teddy bear in the audience as well.  Most women in the class were eight months along and their husbands were dutiful (this is the Main Line, after all).  I thought I’d surely leave the class with some good commentary but there wasn’t much to work with in this Ann Taylor-clad crowd.  I was also hoping to the very end the free-spirited instructor would whip out her boob for a life-like reenactment, but no such luck.  I’m hoping the class we take in a few weeks brings me more fodder: it’s for clueless first-time parents so my hopes are high.

But somewhere in between all my inappropriate wisecracks, I’ve found myself crying for no inexplicable reason other than the fact that I’m going to HAVE A BABY.  That Matt and I are going to be responsible for this life that we’ve created (horribly cliched, I know, and the creation was in a lab, but still!).  This morning, on the train “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash came on and with my headphones on, and with Bryn Mawr and Ardmore flashing by, I cried out of total and complete happiness at the thought of the life Matt and I had built.  I thought of Matt painting late at night in his underwear to Chopin, our Saturday trips the last two weeks to the vet for Penny’s stubborn ear infection, and of all the baby furniture propped up in our living room waiting to be assembled.  I thought of early-morning weekend trips to the practice in New Jersey, our recent date nights to the city to enjoy each other before the baby, us cooking in the kitchen together (roasted chicken last night and Greek pitas today) or watching bad TV in bed and late-night back rubs.  I thought of him lounging on my hospital bed during my Crohn’s flare a couple years back and us watching movies with the volume low, or how he told me, “If this is as bad as it gets, then I have it pretty good” when we ran to the pharmacy late at night for medication our first year together.  I thought about the most mundane things: arguing over what brownie mix to buy in the grocery aisle or about what evening newscast to watch, what actor was in so-and-so movie and how no, he’s not going to go out there and attack the hornet nest nestled in our garage.

I thought about how much I love this man, and how I wouldn’t trade this life for any other.  And then I thought there’s nothing sweeter than being gifted with something you thought you may never have, and how so very good we have it.

Morning Drives

Having a child is not something I ever thought I'd do automatically, and I clearly remember in college spouting how much I "hated" (oh yes, hated) kids. Friends said I'd change my mind, and I said with piss and vinegar, "Watch me!"


So how did I end up with my legs spread in a doctor's office for the fourth time this week?

I've never been a baby person. Women in my office squeal and fuss when a baby makes an appearance. I generally hide at my desk until it's not socially acceptable and then I acknowledge the baby with an awkward, and very adult, "hello". (It's so forced I might as well offer a Victorian, "And I bid you a good day, Sir," after fluffing their peach-fuzz hair and returning to my desk.) But something shifted in the last five years. Although nonchalant (and still teetering on awkwardness) on the outside when I cross paths with a baby or small child, internally I'm flush with longing.

It's funny how things like this creep up on you.

Matt is wonderful with kids and always wanted them. I've been a slower adopter. Early in our relationship when he asked what my intentions were, and I nodded and said, "Well, sure, sometime in our mid-thirties or something." A year or two later that number changed to thirty (arbitrary but at the time it was a far-off date, with time only slowly ticking toward real adulthood). Somewhere between now and then, and between getting sick, we thought we might as well grab the bull by the horns, and have a go at it (interestingly enough, I was the one who pushed for the earlier date). That was over a year and a half ago; so much for grabbing the bull by the horns.

I've never been someone who said "things happen for a reason". That's a bunch of phooey nonsense and insulting when you think about all the pain in the world. But it's impossible not to think that, well, maybe I shouldn't be reproducing. Let's just say this: no one is going to be buyin' my eggs anytime soon. Those things are train wrecks laced with problematic genes. The only thing I can perhaps offer is a proclivity to sarcasm and a vocabulary that could guarantee a decent SAT score. Hell, that's even questionable.

So I was thinking about this - all of this - the other morning. Why are we doing all of this? On Monday at 6:30 pm it began raining hard. Big, fat drops that didn't stop until late the next morning as I drove 1.5 hours to the doctors and 1.5 hours to work. Many roads were flooded and closed, but I was determined to get to the doctor. It's quietly become the most important thing in my life. And lying naked from the waist down has become the position most synonymous with this longing.

Before and after ovulation I'm monitored almost daily. How is my follicle (egg) growing? What are my LH, FSH, Estradiol and Progesterone levels? Everyday I submit to these blood tests and every afternoon I receive a call with the results from a new nurse (there must be two dozen of them in the practice).

"You sure are a sluggish one," the latest nurse offered as I still didn't ovulate by Day 20. I'm still grappling with these terms, these numbers, and have been too tired to do the research. My numbers are too low, my FSH isn't surging, and I'm taking supplemental progesterone. But a very quick primer (all per Wikipedia):

LH (Luteinizing Hormone): A hormone produced by the anterior pituitary gland. In females, an acute rise of LH called the LH surge triggers ovulation [2] and development of the corpus luteum.

FSH (Follicle-Stimulating Hormone): FSH regulates the development, growth, pubertal maturation, and reproductive processes of the body. FSH and Luteinizing hormone (LH) act synergistically in reproduction.

Estradiol: A sex hormone. Estradiol is the predominant sex hormone present in females. It is also present in males, and at a higher level because it is being constantly produced. In females it is only produced 3 out of 30 days of the cycle. It represents the major estrogen in humans. Estradiol has not only a critical impact on reproductive and sexual functioning, but also affects other organs including the bones.

Progesterone: A C-21 steroid hormone involved in the female menstrual cycle, pregnancy (supports gestation) and embryogenesis of humans and other species. Progesterone belongs to a class of hormones called progestogens, and is the major naturally occurring human progestogen.

My foray into fertility has more shots and ultrasounds (In only two months! A mere fertility novice...) than I can write in this post: don't worry, it's more to gross you out with later. (Especially with an account of the post-coital test. Now that's when things start getting saucy!)

But through all the headache, heartache, the long drives to an affordable doctor, and impediment to work this is what we want - so very much. And that I can't explain or rationalize. It's a biological impulse that's taken me by surprise. A longing to love and nurture that I wasn't expecting. All from a girl who no more than 10 years ago hated children.

I have to chuckle: how's that for life taking you by surprise?

My Nether Regions Get A Lot of Action

I’m sick of being sick. Not anything like “woe is me” (although I have my moments), but I now have two conditions that involve the nether regions (if we’re including infertility), and by golly, there is nothing savory about that.

I am on progesterone supplements, or, as a woman of my standing likes to call: “vagina pills”. Classy. I insert them three times a day, one of the times in the mid-afternoon at work. Some people get coffee at 3 pm. I get down and dirty.

My latest ultrasound showed…nothing. No eggs (or, they call them follicles). Which makes me think: “Can a woman shoot blanks?”

It did show some scar tissue and small puddles of liquid from my Crohn’s. Now, instead of viewing my pelvic cavity as a desert, I tend to think swampland.

Due to my work trip, I missed a critical monitoring week, and have to start over again. This enraged me as my long cycles tend to transcend seasons, so at this rate we’ll figure what’s going on sometime near Thanksgiving.

Infertility is very easy for the guy – when did a guy ever bristle when he was told he needed to have sex? I’m sure even giving a semen sample is rather enjoyable. I hate men. They get higher salaries, more clout, and they can pee anywhere.

Oh well, I guess we get them in the end since we tend to live six years longer. Nevermind they can be lonely years in a body that doesn’t work too well. That’s what I cling to as I swagger to the bathroom with, yes, those vagina pills.

Patience Is Not My Strong Suit

I'm not really sure when the progression from playing house became full-blown adulthood. Living in our apartment Matt said being an adult is paying a mortgage, but three years ago when we acquired that monthly vestige of adulthood, he said no, no, it's definitely when you have kids. He had no answer for people who chose to rent, or chose not to have children.

But sitting in an office on Friday night, listening to a fertility doctor dictate a letter into his recorder about our case, I sat back, with my husband next to me, and thought, "So this is it; this is being an adult." At some point we crossed over: maybe it was then, or maybe it twelve months ago when we decided on having children.

I never, ever thought I'd be here. When I'd hear stories about failed IVF attempts, or women trying for years, I'd sympathize and think how lucky I was that woman trying wasn't me. But here we were, a year later, being told my ovaries were peculiarly small and Matt's situation wasn't looking too much better.

New words are entering my lexicon: progesterone supplements, FSH levels. IUI. I've been told so many times that "you'll be blessed with a child when the time is right" or "take a long weekend somewhere". These people invariably have children, and now, almost in a perverse way, I feel validated. No, it won't happen "when the time is right" or if we go away, and no, Godly intervention won't help either. Matt and I are pragmatists. We are not religious (although I've thought about praying but decided against it because if there is a God, he/she will surely realize what a selfish twit I am that I haven't prayed in 12 odd years, and all of the sudden decided only to smack my hands together for my own, baby-makin' good).

Above all, this is a medical matter. Ninety-three percent of couples our age conceive by the six month mark. Of those who don't, only 15% of those couples conceive in the next six months. Obviously, something is not right.

Our fertility visit was thorough. That really is the best way to describe it. We were there from 6:30 until 9:30 pm. Matt had his semen and urine tested, and I had an ultrasound, blood test, and an examination. We met with the doctor twice: before the tests, and after. I came with copies of my medical chart: details of when they first found the abscess deep in my gut, notes on my three months on Clomid, a write-up from my HSG. I told him about my Crohn's, about the scar tissue, about the surgery. When he said my ovaries were quite small for my age, and ruminated that perhaps scar tissue at one point had restricted their blood flow, I envisioned dried-up and hollow pea pods - a fertility wasteland.

We have many tests to do before determining next steps, and much medication to take. Writing about this now, I'm upset, but recounting it to a friend Friday night I laughed it off - of course we're sub-fertile, I mean, did I expect this to be easy?!

And sometimes I'm fine, it's all fine, and we'll make a go of it and trust ourselves to the shots, the blood tests, and all modern-day medicine has to offer. And other times I catch myself crying. A women I barely know had been struggling with having a second child for quite some time, and I saw her last week, but now with a swollen belly. It was at the gym, and my legs stopped swinging on my elliptical machine and I just watched her as she made her way to the locker room. And I felt betrayed.

I closed my eyes and told myself to just concentrate on Diane Sawyer on the television in front of me. To just watch her as she spoke about top kill, and the sheets of oil in the Gulf. I know that's a real tragedy, and not this.

But I couldn't help it, because infertility is a club swaddled in embarrassing emotion (jealousy, contempt, pity), and I was envious she was leaving, just as I was getting my bearings.

27 going on 60

I am the only person I know, who, in their late 20’s, gets short of breath (in the bad way) when thinking of retirement savings. I can’t help it.

My co-worker Courtney called me neurotic as I sat fidgeting in her office chair waxing poetic about long-lost private-sector pensions. I recently found out about how lush teachers’ pensions and benefits can be, and have been nursing a mean jealous streak ever since (and the urge to ditch it all and become a teacher). I tell Matt things like, “We need a Vanguard account!” (Note: I know nothing about mutual funds or Vanguard accounts…I just like to say it). Matt tells me to, essentially, shut-up. “We have 40 more years to figure this out,” he says. The thought of working 40 more years is almost as depressing as our bleak financial future. Sometimes he says, “You might not even be around 40 years from now, so quit worrying.” (Lovely.) He follows that up with, “We’re young – who do you know who puts money into their 401(k) like we do?!” to which I reply, “EVERYONE!” and bury my face in my pillow. In a moment of panic this week I upped my 401(k) contribution from 10 to 15% and demanded Matt do the same. I also like to say we need a Roth IRA. I have NO IDEA what a Roth IRA is but I heard Suze Orman talking about them, and I want one.

Two weeks ago I announced, over omlettes, that we needed a budget. “We need to control our spending!” I huffed. Mid-chomp, Matt said, “What spending? I don’t buy anything,” to which I replied, “Well, I do.” We then logged on to view my credit card statement and, after subtracting things like food and gas, I was left with what I spent on a skirt and dress and some odds and ends I picked up at Target. I replied that they were obviously necessities and they didn’t count, but the crux of my argument was that, “You’re a guy; you wouldn’t understand”, which I don’t think he bought. So much for our budget.

I wouldn’t call us particularly thrifty, and we’re definitely not spend thrifts. We’re just…normal. I will forever be a champion of economy cars and the thought of having a Coach bag just ticks me off, but I love going out to eat and furnishing our home (relatively cheaply, of course). And damnit, if that frilly skirt is $100 bucks but I swear, swear, swear I’ll wear it all the time and I love it and I won’t buy another thing that month, then YES, I’m buying it. Look, it’s all about balance. And a good skirt.

I bring this up because I also worry about medical expenses. For example, like many of my surgical Crohn’s brethren, I have to bear a monthly B12 shot for the rest of my life. The negotiated rate with my insurance carrier (I am on a high-deductible plan, so I essentially pay in-full until I meet my deductible, but all “in-full” prices are the negotiated and preferred cost through the carrier) is $156. One hundred and fifty-six dollars for a shot of …a vitamin. Per month. Negotiated rate. The “negotiated” rate for Pentasa, my maintenance drug, hovers slightly under $500 a month. So, yes, I worry about money. And insurance. I think I should.

It is a bad thing to have Crohn’s and be a neurotic worrier. Stress makes my symptoms worse. And duh, stress also inhibits your ability to conceive. Last month my ob/gyn told me I need to reduce my stress. This statement elevated my stress. Couldn’t she see that was futile? That I’m having trouble with work, with trying to had a kid, and by golly, with the fact we have no retirement savings and no solid plan in place?! I thought that but all I said was, “Okay.” That’s pretty much how it always goes.

Matt will often sit me down and say, “What can I do to help you relax?” The first answer is always food. Tortilla chips or chocolate are often involved – but that really goes without saying. After that, it gets a bit grey. I’d like to believe I’m the least high-strung member of my family – it’s in the genes. But I ask for impossible things. Past answers have been, “New intestines and/or immune system”, “my own dog hotel business” (no laughing!), “you making 200k a year or winning the lottery”, and “a 30 minute back rub” (trust me, the last one is impossible). He’ll respond with, “Well, what about one of those puddings in the fridge?” “With whipped cream on top?” I’ll ask. “Yes.” “Deal.”

Now if you’ll excuse me. I have to go study for a test I have tonight that I’m worried about.

PS: You may have noticed (well, probably not, who am I kidding?!) that my posts have been less frequent. I’m enrolled in a class that will hopefully prepare me for a professional certification exam I’m taking in May. It would be a lie to say I have no time to post, but I love to watch t.v. on my time off. I adore t.v. I am nothing but an uneducated commoner, what can I say?! Posts until the end of May might be less frequent, but don’t worry, they’ll still be filled of my complaining (about health care, money, oh, you name it!) and of course food (that’s a given!).

Fertility "fun"!

Venus of Willendorf, who I pray to every night. Just kidding!

Oh, I almost forgot to regale you all with my medical odyssey! I know, I know…you’ve been chomping at the bit, staring wide-eyed at your monitor fretting about my next update. Or you’ve been living your life and I this blog has not come into your consciousness for weeks. You know, either/or.

Again, and I feel like I need to reiterate this because I feel like a bit of a schmuck talking about my tubes, but I’m discussing this due to scar tissue left behind due to my Crohn’s. Oh, and the fact that I love to air all my dirty laundry. (In truth, I actually do not spill every detail and possess a tad bit of decorum – there’s no point in embarrassing me or Matt any further, and the poor lad puts up with enough.)

So here we go: I will be going on Clomid for three months. If that doesn’t work, I am turned over to a fertility specialist and they bring out the big guns (read: artificial insemination, IVF, ugh). Clomid is the first go-to for women dealing with possible infertility. It’s cheap, non-invasive, and has few side effects (deteriorates your uterine lining, can make cervical mucus a hostile environment for sperm, or you can form cysts, but hey, who’s counting?!). Clomid stimulates ovulation and will regulate my longer-than-long cycle. Women I know who were on Clomid said it made them extremely emotional, which I’m intrigued with, considering I already cry 4.5 times a week (I have not told Matt about this possible side effect as I think he’d be scared).

You take Clomid – which is in pill form – days five through nine of your cycle, then have sexy time days 10 through 18 (every other day). And when I say “sexy time” I mean, “Matt, get up here NOW! This is gonna be all wham bam thank you ma’am, and don’t try any funny stuff.” (There is nothing sexy about anxiously trying to procreate, peeing on sticks every day, and monitoring your ovulation. It’s very calculated and I just want to go to bed.)

Look, you gotta say it like it is. I don’t mince words, and “miracle of life” has been replaced with cold, hard science. People say, “Make it romantic. You’re creating a new life.” Well, been there, done that – eight months ago. Now, excuse me, I have to go urinate on a stick.

PS: So no one feels sorry for Matt and thinks I embarrass the lad, please know that before publishing this (okay, right after) I asked Matt to read this to see if it would be okay to post. His response? "Nah, I'm not embarrassed. But you misspelled schmuck: it's "schmuck" and not "smuck"."

We're gonna need some industrial strength Draino in here!

Note: I am delving into my journey (and I guess that’s what it will now be called) to have a child because my difficulties are, in part, related to my Crohn’s. No more, no less.

I’m going to try to avoid any further Draino references…but it’s hard. Yesterday I had my HSG. You know, the test where you the doc shoots some dye up through your cervix and down your fallopian tubes to ensure they are clear and an egg can travel down to (hopefully) be fertilized. First off, I would like to say the radiologist was beautiful in a “I’m a 2nd year resident and a little awkward but I’m tall and endearing” sort of way. He had me at “Hello, are you Ms. Hopkins?”, and if I were not married (oh, and trying to have a baby), I would have surely made sure to glance at his left hand to see if he was married. Secondly, my fabulous doctor asked if I’d mind if her med student watched the procedure. Maybe some women would balk at the thought of lying naked (from the waist down) on a table with your legs spread and a 24-year-old boy watching, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. But that is not me. “I have Crohn’s: there is no indignity I haven’t faced, so no problem, bring him in!” I said theatrically with a swish of my arm. So it was me spread eagle, a petite little radiology tech, my doctor, the goofy-looking (sorry, Brendan – that was his name) med student, and the gorgeous (in the nerdy way I like) radiologist. The more the merrier, I say. Of course, I immediately got down to business and asked the really important question: “Will this hurt?”

“You will have bad cramping – and you won’t like me for a bit – but it’s over in a minute,” my doctor replied. That would have been fine, but the woman lied. First they insert the speculum and then they wash your cervix. This is cold but no biggie, and women who have had children are probably thinking, “Get over yourself, sissy.” Fine, I deserve that. They then attach a big syringe-thing (I know, you’re like, “Where did this woman learn all this medical jargon?!”) into this long metal thing and insert it so the tip is through your cervix. Still no biggie. Then they say, “Okay, we’re starting” and start releasing dye into ye ol’ tubes. This is when I screeched, “You LIED!!” to my doctor, “This hurts!”. The rad tech was patting my shoulder and saying it was just another minute, and the radiologist had the x-ray machine above my pelvic area and was snapping photos. Everyone was looking at the screen and saying, “Oh, look at that, it filled beautifully” (thank you), but then, “I don’t see anything in her right tube”. Upon not seeing any dye they pumped more in and I am not lying: I have never felt worse abdominal cramping. My abdomen felt like it was expanding and contracting and it was very reminiscent of my severe Crohn’s episodes that sent me to the Percocet. I’ve heard this test is no big deal, it doesn’t really hurt, so I kept my mouth shut this time. After all, there was a cute radiologist in my presence – no need to make a scene. (Later in the day I read it is indeed painful if there is blockage, so I feel somewhat validated for my outburst.) In about a minute it was over – but the horrible cramping persisted for the next two hours or so – and I got my verdict: One of my tubes is clogged. I have a dud tube. (These are my words.)

The fallopian tube that wasn’t functioning is probably scarred and blocked by scar tissue, which may have been present long before my surgery, or not, due to the rampant inflammation in my pelvic area. I got off the table – blood trickling down my leg (“spotting” is normal after an HSG) – and got dressed. And this is the upshot: We are waiting for the results of my Day 3 (as in cycle) blood work – taken last week – and Matt’s, how do I put this?, oh, yes, semen analysis. If both are normal (I am indeed ovulating, and Matt’s sperm can indeed swim), I will be put up to three months of Clomid, which is a fertility drug, and if that doesn’t work, I will leave my ob/gyn’s care and go to a fertility specialist immediately. If any of these tests come back with a “hit”, we are going directly to the fertility specialist. She said if I do get pregnant on Clomid, I am a high-risk pregnancy because of the Crohn’s, but more particularly, because of this dummy of a tube (again, my words). Apparently, my chances of an ectopic pregnancy are much greater, so I will have to be closely monitored for the first few months. She said the fertility doctors may want to remove the clogged tube proactively due to the risk, or look into attempting to repair the tube – and remove the scar tissue – laparoscopically.

I got into my car and called Matt. Because he is Matt, he took this news as good news: “Hey, you have one good tube!” he said. We have dealt with so much disappointment, things like this aren’t wholly bad news, and in reality, it isn’t. One functioning tube is huge, and with fertility meds, can be as good as two. But I see it as the beginning of another round of tests and doctors (and possible surgery) and a whole new set of concerns. Hell, I’m frustrated. I'm sad. And very bitter than men do not have to go through this. I have also caught myself, with black mascara tears running down my face, saying, “I hope women who can easily have children realize how fortunate they are!” with rancor in my voice. This is when Matt tells me to calm down, and it will happen for us…eventually. He then asks if I want some chocolate or candy, because, like a child, I am pacified by sweets.

So now I’m just waiting for our other test results. I want to get a move on – get started on next steps, and get “Operation Baby” underway. Until then I suppose I’ll simply look in envious adoration at young families at the grocery store. With that said: someone please keep me away from Babies ‘R’ Us.

Another year, another issue (also known as "Intimacy with a speculum, part 2")

It's almost my blogiversary! I started this blog in January, late at night, crying, in pain, mad and a little defiant. Now it's morning on Christmas Eve, and I'm not in pain, but still a bit mad and defiant. Some things never change (like the fact I once again ate leftover truffles for breakfast....oh, Kathryn....).

The focus on the blog this past year was my deciding to have my first Crohn's surgery, the preparation for that surgery, and my recovery. Now it would be a sham to write about any pain: I'm feeling pretty terrific. I have my good and bad days, and skipping to the bathroom will be a forever indignity, but I am blissfully pain-free. Because of that, and knowing this wretched little disease has a nasty cyclical nature, Matt and I decided - with the encouragement of my GI, surgeon, and ob/gyn - to push our "let's have kids!" timeline up by a few years and start at the ripe old age of 27. I never once thought I'd want a baby in my 20's (the expense! the sleep deprivation! the utter exhaustion!), but once I make up my mind about something, there's little else I think about, so let's take a deep breath and get going, shall we?

Which brings us to now. For a girl who talks about defecation, her ass, and all the naughty bits in between, I still gave pause to writing about sex (yikes!) and procreation: poop is funny, but making a baby is something you do behind closed doors (well, I guess pooping is too, but come on now, it's still funny). But, because nothing is easy, and I possess little to no decorum, and Matt gave his blessing, and ah, yes, this is Crohn's related, some posts on this blog will now focus on the anticipatory song and dance of trying to conceive. Let me explain:

Yesterday Matt and I went to the ob/gyn. (Insert your own joke here.) I was ready to go into battle. I was ready to lay it all out on the table and say, due to my situation, we should "look into things" before the usual "one year of trying". As soon as I said "scar tissue", "six months", and currently "feel well", she was writing out four scripts. Suffice it to say, I love this doctor, plus we share the same first name, so extra kudo points for her. I also was feeling a bit hypocondraticy (I know that's not a word, ok?) but now feel validated. (Last year when I wasn't feeling well I ignored it for a month, while chugging OTC pain pills, and look where it got me. So now I run for the hills when I get a cold.)

First, Matt is going to get tested. Strangely, Matt was very excited about this, and immediately said to me, after the doc left, "I'm gonna ACE this test!" So basically they're going to test how many sperm he has and their mobility and all of that, so we can finally put to bed whether they're "lazy" or not. Matt said they have the speed and agility of Michael Phelps. I said only after he was caught smoking marijuana. So we'll see.

Next, I have two blood tests: pre and post ovulation. On top of that, I'm having an HSG done, also known as a Hysterosalpingogram. Say that ten times fast. Basically, in the hospital, they shoot dye up your yahoo and make sure it can easily flow through your tubes and scar tissue is not blocking the way. Because I've been told I have a lot of scar tissue down there, and my abscess was wedged on one of my Fallopian tubes, there is some cause for concern. If those babies are clogged, then we may look into surgery or IVF. The blood tests will confirm that everything is working properly and I'm ovulating. If things are functioning, then we might move to Clomid, which increases egg production. Basically, there are a lot of "if's": it's very reminiscent of last year.

A colleague, who has gone through all of this, told me to get ready to "be naked and have your everything out there for everyone to see" and that it "hurts". I told her she's obviously never been to a colo-rectal surgeon, and while some women fear their yearly pap smear, it's vacation-time for me (last year, we had a very nice conversation on Northern California's wine region during my exam, thank you very much). A speculum in your vagina is one thing, a speculum in your you-know-what is another ballgame entirely. I lost any sense of shame many years ago. Trust me on this one.

Although I joke (come on, how can you not?!), I don't take any of this lightly. First of all, it's sobering that I didn't have to talk my ob/gyn into taking investigative measures: she obviously sees that there can be a problem, here. Secondly, if there is a problem, the cost of fertility (and I'm talking in the most literal way) is mind-boggling and not covered by insurance. The same women who told me about the HSG also spent over $30,000 last year on fertility treatments...and has yet to conceive. So, "yahoo" jokes aside, no, I don't take this lightly.

I know I'm opening up myself for ridicule, but that's nothing new, but if I have a very typical case of Crohn's, then perhaps other women with the disease are having tough times conceiving, too. Heck, maybe I'm fine, and I'll get pregnant next month. I don't know, but I'll be sure to take you on the ride with me, speculums and all...

Thanks for reading.

It really would be easier if they came from a stork.

I got my period yesterday. I attribute my being upset to my want-it-now generation. The generation of text-messaging and the “Buy it Now” button on Amazon. Matt and I have been trying for six months. Six months is not very long, and terrifically short for a 27-year-old, but realizing you once again got your period, in your work bathroom, after no less than half a dozen friends or colleagues mentioned they got pregnant “without really trying”, is still a lonely experience.

And it’s not for a lack of trying. On our second month I bought a fancy ovulation machine and pee on sticks half the month. (It goes without saying how very sexy that is.) My GI said I sure do like to drain the romance out of the situation, and I had to smile sheepishly. I have gone back to the gym, and although I’m stronger, I’ve combating any weight loss progress with double helpings of curry when I return home. You know I’m getting serious when I put the serving spoon down. (Well, that part hasn’t happened yet, but I swear, on all that is holy and my reproductive system, I will stop eating leftover brownies for breakfast and eschew white rice, I swear it!) On a related note, why, oh why, must fertility be tied to weight?

People always say it happens when you’re not stressed, se la vie, go on a vacation and wham bam, it will happen! I know they mean the best, and I’m sure there is some science to it, but I notice it’s always people with kids who say that. Regardless, we went to update our passports three weeks ago. I’m thinking a cheap all-inclusive in the Caribbean, although Matt is stuck on Machu Picchu. I told him that altitude is not conducive to romance, but mainly I just want to get out of having to walk the arduous Incan Trail.

Even with my obsessive, worry-wart personality, there’s levity in the situation. First of all, it’s been six stinkin’ months! I mean, really, Kathryn, calm the hell down. Secondly, it has created a lot of off-color bedroom talk between Matt and I. Jokingly I’ll say it’s Matt’s fault, he must be sterile, and he’ll laugh and shoot back I’m barren. Or I’ll say his sperm are lazy and probably taking a smoke break, and he’ll say something about it being an epic journey for them and they’re heading for almost certain death, so I should be nice. Okay: maybe you have to be there.

I told my GI that my surgeon said I have knots of scar tissue flanking and circling my fallopian tubes, and you know what her response was? “I wouldn’t worry about that so much; I would be more concerned about that raging infection you had in your body.” Matt and I like to joke about that too. We know having, or not having, a biological child isn’t the end-all, be-all. We know we’d wouldn’t do rounds of in vitro if we do indeed have any issues: it is what it is. We’ve always talked about adoption (being a fertile Myrtle or not), but have brought it up even more so now. But I can’t deny it wouldn’t be, at least at first, disappointing to not see what our biological child would look like, or how he or she would behave, because obviously they would have a lot of panache, be blazingly witty, and be tall and oh-so-elegant.

Or, heck, maybe they would just be really hairy, like Matt. It’s on those days I hope for a boy.

Those little terrors

This, THIS, is why kids scare the bejesus outta me.

You know you have traveled via train too many times when you notice the same graffiti tag over and over, or the same Amtrak guy who punches your ticket (well, he’s hard not to miss: he has spectacular dreads), or hiss in mock anger when “your” parking spot in the Amtrak garage at 30th Street Station is taken by a Jeep (Lower Level 2 by the elevator).

I’ve traveled the hour and a half from Philadelphia to New York so many times over the last month for work I’ve developed my own set of creature comforts: if traveling during lunchtime I always get the Bombay Chicken Salad from Cosi. If coming home at dark I always listen to Ray LaMontagne – no exceptions – on my mp3 player (he is relaxing, and I am tired). When waiting at Penn Station to board I always buy a fruit cup. I go to the bathroom exactly 25 minutes before my train is scheduled to depart. While in there, I often change out of my hose and into flip-flops.

This past week I was at the train station by 5:30 am. Meaning, I was up at 4:00 am. Meaning, my Dunkin’ Donuts receipt read 5:55 am as I bought my tasty flatbread egg sandwich. Boy, I sure do like to complain. On these early mornings, Matt sleeps in the guest bedroom so he can snooze to his regular 8 am (I was at my destination by 8 am). I say goodbye to Penny in the dark as she stands at the top of the stairs, peering down at me as I’m fumbling with my bags and suit jacket, and hop into the car as BBC World News is still being broadcast.

Now, for the most part, my job is an 8:30 to 5:30ish provincial sort of gig. Autumn is busier, and it’s during these times I start to think: How do they do it? I’m talking about working mothers (and fathers). When I get home, I have enough energy to humor Penny for a minute and ask Matt if he got the mail. Even when I don’t travel, I’m out the door by 8:15 am and in again at 7 pm. Because babies are on the brain (and, no, Mom, I am not pregnant) I’ve started wondering how late day cares are really open, and doing the math on those day cares and diapers. It’s absolutely terrifying!

About a year ago I read Leslie’s Bennett’s A Feminine Mistake, which basically states it’s imperative that women continue in the workplace throughout motherhood to secure their, and their children’s, future. What if your husband left you, those slimy worms? Or dropped dead? Her argument wasn’t out of feminist ideals, but pure practicality (and okay, maybe a pinch of feminist ideals). Before I read that, I knew I was going to be a working mom. And yes, even if out of pure practicality. I don’t want to worry about paying the heating bill (which can peak at $400 a month in the winter, and that’s with closing off the vents in most rooms, keeping it at 64 degrees when it is on, and turning the heat completely off when we are not home). And, by golly, I definitely want to be able to buy the pricey Greek yogurt I love, or go out to dinner at someplace other than T.G.I. Fridays. Matt and I did the math: we could “manage” – however uncomfortably – on his income. But that’s today, without an expensive addition to the family. So I’m going to work, if only to afford going out for sushi or indulging and buying the name brand (notice how all my examples involve food).

So, getting back to the crux of the matter: how DO they do it? How do they get home, put the day’s attitudes and egos behind them, and start on job two? I really want to know, because this is quite discerning for someone who is so innately lazy. And lazy we are. When Matt and I moved into our house two and a half years ago, we took down a shelf in our living room that resulted in a 2 x 2 hole in the wall. Well, it’s still there and I’m certainly not going to repair it. When I wake up in the middle of the night having to use the bathroom, I will myself back to sleep so I don’t have to leave the covers. When I walk Penny I don’t go as long as I should and chalk it up to, “She’s a dog; she doesn’t know if we made it to Frank’s house or just Willie’s”. (And, yes, Frank and Willie are both dogs, and Willie is a wretched little white furball.) But see! My laziness is hurting my family. We can’t even properly care for a dog. Penny has been getting frustrated with her lacks of walks and has begun to sit at my feet, staring intensely. She then does what can only be described as dog snorting and sighing as she inches up to my knee, never breaking her stare. It’s equally heart-breaking and annoying.

Now, I know Penny is a dog, but Matt and I are already experienced parental guilt, so I figure we’re pretty much doomed. When I have a Crohn’s flare, I am exhausted and ornery. Scratch that: I’m always ornery. On the other hand, Matt is the happiest-go-lucky guy I know, so we get a point there. He also rarely gets mad, even if you continuously flick his ear, not that I have ever done such a thing. However, he’s not one for babies (he once said he dislikes them because “they don’t do anything,” which was a really astute observation on his part), but loves little kids and finds them humorous and full of life and wonder. I sort of think they’re obnoxious and loud. I’m hoping we even each other out.

One thing we can both agree is on is that raising a child, and the demands it entails, is absolutely, 100% terrifying. Matt goes about it like this: “Yeah, the first few years are going to be awful. We’ll be tired all the time and not happy, but I think after five or so years it gets better. And it will be good when we’re old”. That is the Tao according to Matt.

So, until then, I’m just going to ooo and aww at parents who do it. And this is all not to say we don't like kids or want to have the little munchkins. We like them (enough), and I think we'll make great parents. But, until then, I’m going to indulge in my child-free ways and enjoy these last few years before I have to baby-proof a damn thing.

Let them eat dirt!

I never understood why mothers made you put antibacterial stuff on your hands before handling their baby. Maybe I shouldn't comment -- I obviously don't have a baby. But I always thought it was counter-productive and sort of foolish- germs are good for kids! You have to build up the immune system while they're young! Again, maybe I should shut my mouth; my immune is totally out of whack since I have an autoimmune disorder, but I swear I was an incredibly gross and dirty child.

Check this out:

NYT

Babies Know: A Little Dirt Is Good for You
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The hygiene hypothesis suggests that organisms that enter the body along with “dirt” spur the development of a healthy immune system.