Friday, July 10, 2009

Just Passing the Time

Nothing much going on over here. Unless you count passing out in your boss's office, crawling in delusional fury to the conference room floor to sprawl out on my left side all the while my boss saying things like, "Should I call an ambulance? Do you want water? Do you want me to take you to the hospital?"

The answer to all of those was unsurprisingly, "No."

No, I do not want an ambulance screeching to a halt in front of the building, lights flashing, sirens blaring, announcing to the world "The pregnant chick feels woozy! What a wimp!"

No, I do not want water. In fact, I have to pee. Really bad. Right now. On this floor. My crawling and shuffling seems to have rearranged my organs so Cletus the Fetus is now lying completely on my bladder. To be honest, I don't have much control in this area. One sneeze and I can't promise you a thing.

No, I do not want YOU to take me to the hospital. Who wants to be taken to the hospital by their boss? How embarrassing!

As it turns out (after local EMTs were called to casually stroll into the building to nonchalantly take a peek at the whale beached on the conference room floor and a trip to the local emergency room was strongly suggested) I was wheeled - yes, wheeled - out to my boss's car and whisked ten minutes away to the nearest ER.

Let me tell you, if you need to go to the ER, the way to go is preggo! Staff responds so much more quickly. I didn't even have to wait. I did feel bad upon noticing at all the suffering waiting in those bland brown chairs, so I remembered to wave as I wheeled by.

Blood pressure. Tempurature. One hundred eighty six questions. Pee in a cup. (This was very welcome because remember, I'd been wanting to pee since I was on the floor. Needless to say, they got a very full cup.) Find the baby's heartbeat.

The Big V showed up right about then. He's very helpful in emergency situations. He can spin around on the doctor's little wheely-stool. Push off from the wall to see how fast he can race across the room. Get caught by the doctor....

The Doc was a cool guy. Very thorough. Ordered lots of tests - an echocardiogram, blood work, check for blood clots. He called my OB and conversed with her; I felt in very good hands.

V was impressed too, and not just because the doctor let him continue to sit on the little wheely-stool. V said, "I like him. He's Jewish, so you can tell he's smart - like the Amish." I looked at V like he was crazy but V didn't notice because he was busy trying to figure out what some machine on the wall was for. I asked him nicely to please stop pressing the buttons...

In the end I was told I had a "very big uterus" and that it seemed Cletus was pushing down and blocking the vena cava, which is a large vein that carries de-oxygenated blood back into the heart. Apparently you block the vein, you block the blood, and voilĂ ! Instant oh-my-god-I-need-to-sit-down-I'm-going-to-pass-out-I-can't-breathe. I was told some pregnant women are forced to just deal with this, and then he went on to describe some poor soul who literally passed out cold every two to three days during the latter part of her pregnancy. That was not nice.

Big V and my very big uterus were told to make a follow-up appointment with my OB and get out, because the ER was just alerted that the city next door was sending mass casualties and they were getting at least seven patients. I agreed it was a as good a time to leave as any.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

What might happen?

My imagination has been working overtime recently. I attribute this to the large amounts of hormones overtaking my normally calm, zen-like personality. Yeah, that was sarcasm. For those of you that know me (mainly my sister, who right now is running to the bathroom before she wets herself while yelling, "Zen-like?! As if!!") you probably know that I'm a little more, uh, high-strung when it comes to safety.

I have been known to caution my children with such advice as:

"Don't ever go out of the house without me - because a stranger could take you, throw you in the trunk of their car and kill you - then you'll die!"

"Don't ever touch a dead bird - they have really bad germs and you could get them and then you'll die!"

"Don't ever go swimming without an adult present - because you could get caught in a current and drown and then you'll die!"

(My sister, the child psychologist, seems to think these cautionary statements is what has caused the Bean to be scared shitless of life in general. What does she know? Masters Degrees are so overrated....)

But the onslaught of hormones has made my fears jump to an all-time high. I worry that bad men are lurking about the perimeter of our home, which has led to a task for Big V: Install lighting around the entire home. I worry that the guy in the parking lot sitting in his car is planning an attack, so I walk with Big V to return the cart - no way I'm left alone in the car like a sitting duck. I worry about strange bacteria working it's way into our systems so I've thrown out anything and everything in our house that has passed its expiration date: Mayonaise, aspirin, sour cream, cold medicine, coupons...

Dotter is in a cheerleading camp for the next 5 weeks, what if she falls and breaks her neck and becomes paralyzed? I've seriously considered taking her out of the camp. It's just not worth it.

Jelly Bean is taking some acedemic classes at the local public highschool - do they have security? What if some crazy kid comes in with a sawed-off shotgun? Maybe she should just wait until the regular school year to start earning credits....

I need to get a handle on these fears soon, before we're all left sitting in the living room staring at each other because I'm too afraid to let anyone actually do anything. Two more months of pregnancy hormones... will we make it?

And so this child shall remain nameless...

Swear to Jesus we'll be "those people" whose kid goes nameless for the first three years of it's life only to be forced to name it something, thus assigning it a number or the name "Baby."

Not knowing what the sex of the baby is we are forced to come up with boy names and girl names. (We can't keep calling the child 'Cletus the Fetus' - especially if it's a girl.)

The Big V and I cannot - honestly, cannot come up with any name we agree upon. I like different names, unique names - but not bizarre names. The two girls I currently have were named somewhat boy names.... but let's be honest, they were whimpy boy names. I like names that are recognizable yet will cause someone to comment that they've never heard that name and where did we come up with it. And so, I like names like "Elliette" (yep, just like Elliott for a boy) or Eisley or Tamsin or Aeslin. I like Tiernan and Henry (ok - that's after my grandfather, who, by the way, was the bomb-diggity of his time).

But the V? Does he like any of those? Oh, NO!

So what does he like?

Here is what he has suggested thus far:

For a girl: Blythe.

For a boy: Zanack. Or Zaynack. (It's a long "a" in the first syllable.) And Cage. Yes, that's right, CAGE. (Which, when compared to Zaynack doesn't seem to bad.)

And so, this child shall remain nameless...

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Rest In Peace, Michael Jackson

I try to stay away from the controversial headlines for the simple fact that I am well aware that I probably am not privvy to all the facts. I work in local government and am quoted in the local papers often. More times than not the article doesn't quite say what I said. Oftentimes the article is written in a way that sways the reader in one direction or another when I was always taught newspaper reporting should be "just the facts;" the concise answers to Who, What, Where, Why and How Much? That being said, I take what I read/see in any given media with a grain of salt.

Do I know if everything I read about Michael Jackson was true? Not at all. Does that mean he never did any of the things he was accused of? Again, not at all. I, personally, will never know. Do I have "feelings about" or "opinions on" - of course. But I'm not an expert and I don't claim to be all-knowing.

However, this is the one fact I do know: three little kids lost their father, the only parent they really ever knew.

If I were to die tomorrow there would be the (seemingly) obligatory custody dispute. My children have, without a doubt, spent way more time with me and my side of their family. I could have my sister & mother bring in boatloads of documentation that shows visits have been cancelled, ignored, disregarded, etc., but the bottom line decision will come from a judge. Presumably there will be a fiery attorney who will "prove" that the children are better off with their biological father they barely see for more than a couple hours a month than with the endless aunts, uncles, cousins and grandma & grandpa that have been an integral part of their lives since birth.

If I die, their world collapses.

If I die, everything they know as normal and (hopefully) comforting in small ways would more than likely disappear. They will be moved from the home they live in and sent to a home they have only spent limited time in. Impromptu phone calls inviting them to Starbucks with Nana, or to a sleepover slumber party with all the cousins at Grammy's house, will be replaced with court decisions over possible visitation dates and times - of which, most certainly, will not be enough.

If I die and am sent to my eternal home for peace, my children will begin an inner turmoil they could never begin to understand.

And so, I say this:
Whatever your opinion is of Michael Jackson, the fact remains this: Three young children lost the only parent they have ever known. The world of three young, innocent, didn't-ask-for-this children has collapsed, and their inner turmoil has begun. My heart absolutely breaks for them.