Taking care of the husband, the girl and the dog at the same time has broken me. It isn't that I couldn't do it. I just found myself fairly bitter, muttering under my breath, "This surgery better be worth it, husband." BLECH...to be fair, I did begin vomiting after dinner, baths and brushing teeth were administered, which was downright helpful. I sometimes receive cruel mockery for my organization skills, but you have to admit, they come in quite useful for planning hostile takeovers and surviving norovirus. So, I put the girl to bed and puked. By the time morning came around again, I was feeling, not perfect, but not actively puking. Just sort of in that liminal stage--nauseated, but not active.
Yesterday was a day of watching television, sipping water, eating toast, allowing all manner of naughtiness to ensue. Sam seems to be feeling less acute pain, because he snuggled with Beatrice for a while, and got up TWICE, which is exciting for me.
I slept for eight hours straight last night which is some kind of post-thirty week record for me. Though I did wake this morning to a dream that I was a bus driver in India who double parked my bus, ran into a public depot where I had to pay $1.19 to use the lav, and was just standing there waiting to pee. Someone cut in front of me. It was my elementary school bully. I was shifting from leg to leg wondering why the hell I became a bus driver in India to begin with.
Today I have an OB appointment. Technically, my 32-week appointment where we set up my twice a week NST schedule, and perhaps even an induction date. (Gulp.) Tomorrow, I go in for my 32-week growth scan. Fingers crossed. I admit I had some moments of sheer terror in the past 72 hours, as I battled the stomach flu, lay there moaning and sad, I was convinced that the baby was dead. Couldn't feel him moving. I even grimaced down a cup of orange juice to see if he would move, and those twinges, little flutters--were they baby? I counted them. That is what the OB said--anything baby-like. And he reached ten movements in twenty minutes. I was still unsure. That is the thing that is hard to describe about pregnancy after loss--you just doubt yourself. Well, I have. I have lost all faith in my body, my sensations. I thought Lucy moved, even after I saw her still heart in an ultrasound. There is enough counter-evidence within me to make even the most convincing of jabs suspect. He was a total wiggle worm, and obvious kicker for the past day, even this morning, I woke to his calisthenics routine. Yet, I still want to hear his heartbeat. Those moments of trying to figure out how I was going to birth this dead baby alone while my frantic husband cried with his foot elevated properly at home, are completely all-consuming, even if they are only moments.
I have taken some pictures of our recent follies for your enjoyment, they are all with my cell phone, so please ignore the quality, but you know, when you are stuck under a child for two days, you resort to all manner of amusement, not least of which is exploiting those you love for giggles.
Before Sam went under the knife, we moved our two couches parallel to each other on opposite ends of the room. The seven foot one holds the man, and the little red one has been housing Beatrice and me. So, this is from the red couch. Sam's position for the next two-three weeks. I cut out his lolling in a narcotic-hazed head, but there is his foot.
I then spun the camera phone around and took this one. This is from the time when we were in the shit. That is what I am calling Saturday, which has turned into my own private 'Nam. We have watched a lot of shitty toddler television. When you are nauseated and dizzy, do not, I repeat, do not watch Yo Gabba Gabba. Dj Lance and his pack of insane monsters do not stop dancing. Ever. Instant pukeage.
After I became sick and my mother left, it basically meant that our house became Lord of the Flies with one child dominating the entire island. This is what I walked in on after I went to do whatever I had to do. She arranged the cushions on the little red couch to set up her throne, and the television was set, much to my Olympic-loving husband's chagrin, to Ni Hao Kai Lan on infinite repeat. (Hey, I can relate since in 1992 I think I listened to four hours of infinite repeat of Bauhaus' Bela Lugosi's Dead before I realized it.) The Queen of Beriddadelphia.
And this last picture is purely Exhibit A for an earlier accusation I made against my sainted mother. She helped us so much. I would have imploded without her. She put herself in harm's way to help us. I am forever indebted, but still, I have to show y'all this one. So, on the way out, I was helping her with bags, and she said she had a little something something for me for Valentine's Day, so she pulls out a wrapped present. I walk in the house. (I still wasn't sick at this point.) And opened it. It was a box of candies. Classic Candies--candy corn, gummy jellies, jelly beans, delicious things. Things I love. I'm not a huge chocolate fan. I would much prefer a box of sour patch kids or whatever, so I was psyched. I open the box, pull out a orange slice jelly, and YUCK. I mean, hard as a rock, unpleasant, almost turpentine, flavor. I spit it into a bag and turned the box over to see this:
Expiration date: 11/17/07