I feel that something's come between us...

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week 27 astoria, ny

Aug 17:  Week 27.  Little Fetus Froo Froo is the size of a head of cauliflower.  Have you been int he produce section lately?  Check it out.  

As a normally cold-hands/cold-feet person, it is just plain strange that I throw off all the covers and turn the AC on.

Aug 18:  So grateful for every day in which I escape nausea.  When I was very sick during the first trimester, and staying at my parents' house, my mom was constantly monitoring my wellness.  Often I would simply report the last time I puked.  If I was dressed and on two feet, she was confident that I was okay and didn't have to ask.  Occasionally, I would be somewhere in between, without the words to describe how I felt.  --I hate to be without the right words.--  I felt too shaky to get out of bed (most days), and just on the verge of vomiting.  It feels like a small cloud of "queasy" stuck right in your craw... those are almost the right words, but not quite.  Eventually, I found the words for what that feels like, and I offer the phrase to you here, in hopes that you never have to use it.  The next time you might barf, but it's at least five minutes from happening, you can alert you loved ones by stating: "my gag is up."

Aug 19:  Midwife appointment #4.  That Glucose test can go to hell...

So, for those of you who don't know, pregnant women can develop --for no reason at all, other than that they are pregnant, oh, and advanced-age-maternals have higher likelihood, of course-- gestational diabetes.  To test for this condition, we pregnant people are given a Glucose Test.  It's pretty simple.  One must drink this very sugary beverage and then not eat or drink anything for an hour before having a little blood extracted to be tested.  Easy, right?  The midwives even gave me a little handout explaining how long to wait after eating before ingesting the test-drink, and when to show up at their office.  I read it twice the night before, and once again in the morning, because I cannot trust this pregnant brain.  I plan to drink the harmless orange drink by 10:45 AM so they can test my blood fifteen minutes into my 11:30 AM appointment.  Here's how it goes down:

I wake up at 8:00.

At 9:00 I have oatmeal and fruit.

At 10:00 I go for a light 20 minute jog.  (It's really like slow bouncy walking.  Yes, jogging is okay, as long as I don't body-check anyone along the way.)

At 10:25 I take a shower and get ready.

At 10:50 I drink the glucose concoction that reminds me of Gatorade + Sunny D + six or seven teaspoons of sugar mixed in.

At 10:55 I get in the passenger side of my car and Sheffield drives us from Queens to Manhattan (it's a 25 minute trip at this time of day, not bad.)

At 11:05, as we take the ramp onto the Queensboro Bridge, I admit that while the SunnyD-crack was not as disgusting as I expected, I do feel a little sick to my stomach.  (But after the first trimester I had, "a little" sick to my stomach is nothing.)  I even chuckle.

At 11:10 we are exiting the bridge and stopped at a light in Manhattan.  I suddenly get warm, and fan myself with a map of the northeast that I keep crammed inside the passenger seat door for those days when I just have to stop by Maryland or Delaware.

At 11:15 we are on FDR Drive and I start to really not feel good.  I know that it is not convenient to exit or "pull over," but I start squirming and express to my husband that my gag is up (See Aug. 18 log.)

At 11:17 I ask that we GET-ME-OUT-OF-THIS-CAR-AS-FAST-AS-POSSIBLE.  It is not possible.

Then I start seeing green like I've been staring at the sun and everything sounds far away.

At 11:20, I awake from what I think is a 30 minute nap in the car, except that Sheffield is supporting my head and saying loudly and firmly "Ginna, are you okay?  You passed out. You passed out cold."

My body is covered in sweat, but aside from that I actually feel much better.

At 11:25  We arrive at our destination and agree that I am okay enough to get out of the car and walk fifty paces into the Midwife Office while Sheffield parks the car.

Once inside, I tell the nurse staff my situation and they seem mildly surprised, but not alarmed.  I take a seat and gracefully thrust my head between my legs.

Twenty-five minutes later the nurse extracts my blood for the test... or tries to.  She evidently can't get any blood out of the vein on my left arm, so she tries the right.  Slowly, but surely, she gets enough blood that the test can be administered.  I compliment her on her blood-taking.  She smiles and says, "I wouldn't make you go through that test again."

They tell me that my fainting is not indicative of the test results, so we still have to wait for that.  If it is abnormal, I'll have to take a second test that requires me to wait three hours between drinking the poison and giving blood.  (I bet that's a fun three hours.)  The fainting was more likely the result of the light 20 minute jog I took, which probably dehydrated me enough that combined with the blood-sugar spike, I blitzed.

Really?  They didn't think to add "no exercise" on the handout?

Aug 20:  Yeah, you know, just enjoying that standard 11:00 AM second-breakfast of chips, salsa, and kosher dill pickle.

Aug 21: Another remembrance and a tip which I hope will never come in handy for you...

When my gag is up, (See Aug. 18 entry) there are two outcomes:  it subsides and goes down (good outcome) or it continues to rise and expels itself (bad outcome.)  The greatest offender of the up-gag during Tri-one was the smell of food.  Dear Nature, how does that help the baby, again?  The second greatest offender of the up-gag was the sight of food.  Watching TV became more and more difficult, because every seven minutes or so, my American Idol would be interrupted with images of juicy burgers and the like.  I think the worst was some chocolate spread made by Hershey's.  It was like spontaneous torture in every other ad.  My only way out was to distract myself with non-food thoughts.  I would squeeze my eyes shut and mutter like a Buddist chant:  "Hardwood floors.  Rain on leaves.  Rain.  Rain on sidewalk.  Grass.  Pavement.  Cars.  Cars with horns.  Horns.  Honking horns.  Loud honking horns.  Windows and window panes.  Glass.  Cut glass.  Stained glass.  Stained glass at church.  Buildings.  Buildings of brick.  Brick roads.  Wind.  Wind in trees.  Wind in my hair.  Driving on highways.  Radio.  Loud radio.  Pop songs.  Pop singers.  Popsicle.... Noooo!"   

(*Sigh*)  

"Rain.  Rain on trees..."

Aug 22: Sheffield has a new favorite joke.  Every time I present my belly to show him how big and round it's getting, he says the same thing.  "Ginna, I think you might be pregnant..."  Every.  Time.

Aug 23:  So, now, I have a new favorite joke.  Every time Sheffield and I hug, I pause, pull back ever so slightly and say, "I feel that something's come between us..."  Every.  Time.

Thank you for reading.
In closing, I leave you with a few images.  Here are "Before and After" shots of the naval piercing (Week 3 and Week 27):

And, back by popular demand, I dug around and found a now-vintage text between Sheffield and me from March eight when I had to retake my EPTs due to conflicting results: