The Third Pregnancy: Almost Done, Almost Done

You reach a point in pregnancy when you start to lose your mind and are willing to sacrifice things to the gods in order to get the damn show on the road. At least I do. It’s supposed to be that every day is joyous and filled with magic and the amazing prenatal bond of mother and baby that can never be broken.

But what really happens is that I eye the squirrels thinking, “Deities, if I sacrificed this tree rodent family for you, would you let me go into labor tonight? I’ll add in the robin on my back porch. Do we have a deal?”

There was a point in my pregnancy with Baby Woww that I was just DONE. And my friend Jamie’s preschooler grabbed my phone and took a great picture that captured it all. I love that post.

This time, our friends’ six-year-old took a wonderful shot for me. It’s more poetic, probably because he was truly tender behind the lens, wanting to capture the baby. Although I have a photo that’s more accurate–with a tampon up my nostril to stop a nosebleed and my pregnancy eczema raging–I really love this one. Thanks, Noah.

“Evelyn, You’re A Mess.”

I’ve been getting nosebleeds for the last couple weeks. This is a first. But a lot of things this pregnancy are firsts: nausea, international flights, girl child…

One morning, my husband had the kids in the car ready for me to drive them to school, and my nosebleed from the hour before started again. I grabbed a fistful of tissues, but as blood started dripping onto the garage floor it became clear that this scene from CSI really shouldn’t travel.

A nosebleed seems like a misdemeanor-level injury. You should be able to go about your business without too much interference. I mean, the nose is small, no bones are broken, a little bleeding should stop on its own.

Twenty-five minutes later, I was in bed still working on getting my nose to behave normally. You’re supposed to keep constant pressure with one hand, which makes it very easy to have a pity party, but strangely difficult to do any other activity. Like eat. Or get dressed.

At this point I went to ZoomCare.

Jenn, the physician’s assistant, stuck a light up my nose. “Your membranes look angry: Pregnancy gives you way more blood flow, you have allergies, the air’s been really dry. Apply pressure, use an icepack, buy tampons to stick up your nose… I don’t think we need to cauterize your capillaries yet, which is good news, because that’s painful.”

Great!

“Jenn, while I’m here, can you take a look at the scaly skin around my eyes and nose?”

“Sure! Exczema. Normally I would prescribe a steroid, but that’s not recommended during pregnancy. You’re a mess, huh?”

Jenn was not like the yo mama midwife. As she gamely told me what a wreck I was it felt like we were in on a little joke together. I know, I’m a disaster! And there’s no hope except to push this baby out in June. Until then we’ll watch as my body falls apart from the inside out! Ha ha ha ha ha!

As I was leaving, I picked up my purse, and Jenn saw the giant pound of strawberries sticking out in its grocery-store container. “I couldn’t eat breakfast, so I just shoved those in my purse,” I said.

“Evelyn, you’re a mess!” she laughed.

It’s nice to have an official diagnosis.

***

Epilogue:  Last night at dinner I got another nosebleed in spite of my precautionary work. It was a bad one, and I got really overwhelmed. Having blood spurt uncontrollably out of your nose and onto your clothes will do that to you.

“I should… have bought… tampons,” I sobbed to my husband, hoping he would run out to the store to brave the feminine products aisle so that his incredibly pregnant wife could shove tampons up her nose.

He would have, but we located a box at the back of my cabinet, and now we’ve stashed them around the house ready for my next nosebleed. So if you come over, that’s why three men and a pregnant lady are using tampons for home decor these days.

Will You Still Be My Friend?

I was that pregnant lady six years ago.

The glowing one. Easily knocked-up, easily growing, plenty of energy, cute and adorable in stretchy outfits. We should have done one of those baby bump photo shoots to memorialize the whole magical experience.

Did you know me then? Wasn’t I irritating?

I’m sorry about that. But don’t worry, karma is a bitch.

Back in October I was so worried about the baby and my health that I thought my anxiety was causing intense nausea. Luckily I have a therapist. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I think you have morning sickness.” I get it now. That sh*t sucks. I tried vitamin B6, Unisom, prescription meds, ginger pills, fresh ginger, ginger chews, sea bands, and a million naturopathic remedies. Nothing worked, except waging a war of attrition in which I was always losing.

There was a brief respite around twenty weeks when the nausea was gone and I had some energy. Now I’m just excruciatingly tired. I look at the dishes and think, I should let those rot and add paper plates to the grocery list.

You might have my phone number and wonder if I’ve changed it. No. I just don’t return your calls, or listen to your voicemails. There’s sort of a text-message-roulette thing I have going.

Am I supposed to send you a reply to something you asked me about a few weeks ago? Did you invite me to do something after 2 p.m.? It’s not happening.

Recently the boys and I came down with colds. Then my husband started to get a sore throat. I was irrationally angry: Who will take care of us now?

I need to rent a wife for the next few months. No sexual benefits, just chores and cooking. I’m working on making the description more appealing. “We provide room and board. You make food and tidy-up. Desired experience: Culinary Institute of America, U.N. peacekeeping forces, downstairs employment in British manor house.”

Until I hire my new wife, please forgive the way I seem to be stomping all over our friendship. I would love to stop alienating you, but I have to take a nap and then get ready for bed.

A New Kind of Wonderful

We recently got back from India.

As I type this in Oregon the rain is falling and another cold, damp day is about to dawn if the sun can find it’s way up—something the sun seems hesitant about on every Oregon winter day.

But for about three weeks we sat outside in thin summer clothes, shooing mosquitoes, watching giant fruit bats in steady traffic above our heads. At the family home where we were staying terns manically fed in a freshwater valley while herons and egrets patiently waited for prey and Brahminy kites in stunning white-headed, burnt-copper-bodies glided through.

We were in India to see family. Every day they spoiled us with fish moles, chicken stews, bowls of coconut beef, potato masalas, smashed yucca, and biriyani. It’s well known among our family that I love masala dosa. I must have had it ten or fifteen times. Once the crispy dosa were made over an outdoor fire in the traditional kitchen.

We started planning this trip a year ago. I had not planned on being pregnant. In early November before the trip, my morning sickness mounted, and with it my normal anxiety about flying. I used to be a carefree flyer, but so many things have changed since the days when I would cross continents by myself.

Boarding a plane to Asia with the precious cargo of my husband and two children, in the same year that two Malaysia Airlines planes went down, seemed brash. The only thing worse would have been traveling without them. I stockpiled herbal calming remedies, nausea medication, and melatonin in various forms.

My morning sickness started to fade the week before we left. At fourteen weeks pregnant, just out of the first trimester, I was supposed to be feeling better. Each day I was less nauseous for more hours. I could eat some salads, or chicken and rice. I discovered, however, that if anything will bring nausea roaring back, it’s twenty hours cramped in a dimly lit, vibrating space with brittle air and the threat of turbulence. By the time we were crossing the Arabian Sea heading to our final port, I was rocking back and forth with a giant garbage bag in front of me, hoping not to throw up.

K-Pants had already thrown up on our first flight. I anticipated this because he gets motion sick, so we were prepared with plastic bags, towels, and extra clothes. Baby Woww threw up in a car once we were in India, and my morning sickness got bad enough that we went to the doctor (which turned out to be a lovely experience).

Thinking back to travel in my mid-twenties, all this nausea and vomiting and the consequential changes in plans would have made an adventure like this harrowing. But the only word I can think of to describe the trip is wonderful.

This wonderful is equal parts hiccups and ease. It’s filled with the pride that comes from doing something overwhelming, because the rewards were greater than the simplicity of staying at home. We affirmed our core values of family connectedness and adventurous exploration.

And in the wild journey of this third pregnancy, I learned to lean on God even more, because there were so many times when I was not in control while we were gone, and yet everything was wonderful.