Wednesday, August 5, 2009


So with all the trouble I've been having trying to stay upright and alert in my impregnated condition, I've been told to relax, try to take it easy, and not get stressed out.

Last night I attempted to watch television while holding on to the right side of my bulging middle section and fighting back tears, convinced someone had shoved an invisible machete into my womb. Big V tried to get my mind off the excruciating pain by asking the world's stupidest questions of all time: "How do you feel?" "Are you ok?" "Do you want anything to eat?" When that wasn't proving to be effective he tried placating me by tuning the television to the Duggar Family show. Have you seen this? Smiling, pleasant, well-spoken mother of 18. Yes, EIGHTEEN! And she birthed every single one of them. And never has a negative word to say about anything, much less the blessing of pregnancy. This particular episode focused on the "Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth." Natural. As in no drugs whatsoever. Kudos to you, Mrs. Duggar, but I'll be ordering a double epidural straight up, with a tequila chaser. I've already packed my tip money.

Poor Dotter was nervous, you could tell because she kept running to get me things she thought would work, including an ice pack she insisted on holding directly to my stretched flesh. I tried everything: shifting positions, large glasses of water, the exercises Mrs. Duggar suggested, breathing techniques and a shower... the pain finally subsided around eleven o'clock.

At least I could finally try to get some much needed sleep. I have claimed six of the most fabulous pillows ever to be strategically placed around my body, under my abdomen, between my knees, against my back and holding my head. Big V has been left with the one flat joke of a pillow. (I really hope he can hold his head up straight again someday.) Once placed in my dreamy featherly fashion I fell fast asleep.... finally... I could r e l a x . . . .

Until Dotter came running in our room scared out her little mind at 3:30 in the morning... dog barking hysterically... I'm hitting V to "get up! get up!" (Like I'm going to go check out what has Satan sounding so flippin ferocious!) And I'm holding a shaking Dotter who happens to be squishing Cletus the Fetus which is making me feel like throwing up while V is staggering down the hall in his boxer shorts... and then I hear V talking - talking loud - and someone talking back to V and I'm all like, "Dude! It is not proper social ettiquette to come calling at this early hour!" But all I can seem to make myself do is reach over for my glasses so I can see who is about to murder me and my child.

Eventually V came back to the bedroom to check on our safety... ok, really he just stomped back into the room, muttering to himself, and flopped back down on his side of the bed.

"Uh... wanna tell me what that was all about?" I ventured.

"Damn police." And he's turning over pulling the sheet up to his chin....

"Uh, yeah, I'm going to need a little bit more than that."

Apparently, as V staggered down the hall to see what was upsetting the dog, he also noticed flashlights being shone through our windows from the yard... which is what Dotter saw when she woke up seconds earlier. Getting to the door he noticed figures dressed darkly walking around the house and in the driveway, the offending flashlights now directed into his eyes. It was our County Sheriff's Department attempting to serve an old warrant to someone who hasn't lived at this address in years.

Now, I'm not a police officer and certainly wouldn't want to offend anyone in such an honorable profession, but I can't help but wonder - coming from the side of logic and common sense: You have this person, this bad person, who used to live here, but then disappeared to a place that you don't know... all you have is this old address... but when you look at the address you see that a few years ago it was sold and this new guy bought it (and he happens to not have any outstanding warrants). The new guy not only bought it, but has been fixing it up, and has this truck that's registered in his name sitting in the driveway. Still, you wonder if maybe there's a chance that new guy might know bad person. Hmmmm.... maybe you should ask....

At what point does "let's descend on the home like some ballsy third world militia plotting to grab hostages in the black of the night" sound more logical than "perhaps we should stop by around 7 or 8pm when they're home and just ask?"

Sunday, August 2, 2009

You got something on your chin...

It's not everyone that can say they've completely blacked out in a church and vomitted all over themselves, resulting in being carried out of the church on a stretcher. But now I can say it! Been there, done that, people. What's next on my list?

Ok, ok, so you want details.... geesh, don't get so antsy.

Alright. At 33 weeks pregnant it's hard to find a nice dress suitable for a funeral, but I found one. A lovely black v-neck with a low key dark red design that just covered my knees. Threw on my black heels a second before I got out of the car and I was the epitome of "classy pregnant woman attends memorial." A few psalms, a few prayers, a few up and down moments and I was feeling the effect of lack of air conditioning. However, not wanting to draw attention to myself I decided that I should simply sit down and not attempt the long 'standing wait & walk through' of countless pews of communion.

A few minutes later I tugged on V's shirt sleeve to tell him I wasn't going to make it. I honestly assumed he'd say something along the lines of, "I was really looking forward to that wafer... can you hang on a few more minutes?" but he surprised me by taking one look at me and asking if I needed to go to the hospital. Perhaps he saw something I didn't. "I'm not going to make it," I whispered again.

Fast forward to what I remembered next and that would be me slouched over against some burly body in a church pew wondering why the color of V's shirt changed and wondering who the hell threw oatmeal all over my dress and what the heck was spewing out of my mouth.

It took me a second or two to realize the oatmeal was actually vomit that was still spilling out of my mouth. Oh, and vomit I did! Glancing down I quickly assessed I had at least a gallon of oatmeal looking gunk streaming from my left breast all the way down to my lap. Where it was pooling up. You know, like collecting. In a puddle. In my lap.

Thinking the best thing to do was get me out of the church pew the burly men (now recognized as local EMTs who were also in attendance) lugged me up and collectively hid/held the vomit from falling off my dress onto the carpet. That was very thoughtful, because who knew if there was a wedding planned for later that day? Can you imagine how ticked the bride would be walking down an aisle of stomach waste?

Sitting me down in a chair in the lobby the EMTs busied themselves with taking my blood pressure, looking in my eyes, pricking my finger in an attempt to squeeze out a drop of blood, all the while asking me important questions: Do you know where you are? Are you having trouble seeing? How many weeks along are you? Do you hurt anywhere? Do you feel the baby moving?

Important as all that was, there was a much more pressing matter on my mind: Communion was almost complete. The service was ending. Which meant any minute now a whole lot of people were about to walk by to gawk at me.

Lucky for me a bright orange, clunky stretcher arrived just in time! Now, if you ever find yourself being transported from a chair to a stretcher with a dress full of vomit, I suggest you nominate someone in charge of "Swear On Your Life You Will Not Let This Dress Go In Any Direction Which Would Possibly Show My Pregnant Thighs Or A Beaver Shot." I, unfortunately, had not nominated anyone. This led to a lot more stress and anxiety on my part as I tried to push down my dress and hold the oxygen mask while being shoved around and strapped down. In fact, as I was being wheeled out, I remember looking down and whining through my OxyMask, "my dress is crooked!" Because it is very important to maintain whatever is left of your dignity if at all possible.

The ride to the hospital was fun - although I feel somewhat cheated by the silent sirens. At least I got the flashing lights. There was also a tense moment when I thought no one was paying attention to the road and I about flew off the stretcher to grab the steering wheel myself (I was unaware there was a very quiet driver).

V sat next to me with the most scared looking expression on his face. I wanted to ease his fear a bit by reminding him that he couldn't possibly be a weenie in this situation since he spends the majority of his time watching scary movies. Please, a chic with some goopy stuff oozing out of her mouth was nothing compared to the happenings on Elm Street. But I just couldn't bring myself to be sarcastic to someone who looked so scared and had actual tears in his eyes. Looking at V it hit me that maybe this might not turn out so good after all. And that made me scared. Which made me decide that I didn't like that fearful, afraid look on his face and it won't be allowed when I actually give birth.

After attempting to strangle me with the oxygen hose... see, the EMTs forgot to disconnect the oxygen. This meant the hose and mask wrapped around my face and neck was still plugged into a nonmoveable connection in the squad. No matter how hard they tugged at the stretcher to get me out, my head could only go so far. They apologized, though, so it's all good. It's not like I started turning blue... except then they just left the hose dragging, so halfway down the hospital hallway it got all tangled up in the wheel of the stretcher, quickly forcing my head down and to the right at a sharp angle. After screaming that I was being choked - again - they fixed it.

In the end it was just treated as a simple, "You're pregnant, pregnant women get dizzy, this happens" diagnosis. Although I did make a mental note when the doctor explained "...when you lose consciousness it is quite common to also lose control of your bodily functions, causing you to vomit or have a bowel movement..." that vomitting was actually the better of the two possible outcomes.