It’s kinda bullshit.
I really, really, really, don’t have much to complain about, in the grand scheme of things. I am not in any outright pain, and I’m not enduring any sort of unbearable suffering.
I’m healthy and doing well, which is excellent. It’s lovely to be stopped in doctors’ offices to have nurses tell me how well I am doing, and how I look really good for being so far along with twins.
The babies are doing great so far. We are mere days away from being able to deliver at a regular hospital with my own OB, as opposed to having the babies at the high-risk hospital with the NICU.
They are keeping a very, very close eye on me. I’ve already written about a day of intense contractions, and a blood pressure spike that required extra tests and 24 hour urine collection. Which was awesome. I’m going in three times a week for various types of appointments. Non stress tests, OB visits, bio profile ultrasounds. So far, everything looks good. The days are ticking by.
In the meantime, I’m really fricken pregnant. It’s a production to sit down. It’s a production to stand up. It’s a wrestling match to get in or out of the car. I am sleeping okay, but I get up four times a night to pee. And when I wake up enough to realize “Oh, geez, I have to pee,” it’s a GODDAMNED EMERGENCY. I can’t just pop out of bed. I have to turn over, or use my arms, or swing my legs over the side of the bed as leverage. And I can’t really strain too much as I do any of this, because I will fricken WET MYSELF.
I have to run to the bathroom, which is really more like a limping, half-asleep emergency waddle, and I have to bend over at the waist because I have to pee so bad, it hurts. Baby A’s head is so way down in my business, my bladder is the size of a walnut right now.
Here’s everything else: Heartburn. It used to come just at night, but now it comes at night as well as any other time I eat more than small amount. Or any time I eat something spicy. And I like moderately spicy food, so heartburn is a bummer. I’ve been popping antacids before bed so I don’t wake up in the middle of the night puking fire.
I have weird skin issues. I guess it’s pretty common for women to have skin issues while pregnant. I’m just starting to get stretch marks on my upper thighs, which look more like bruises or broken blood vessels. I’ve gotten new moles and freckles in weird places. I am also getting skin tags and cherry angiomas. None of this shit goes away after pregnancy, so I’m wicked psyched. And since we are all friends here, allow me to inform you that I got a skin tag on one of my nipples. It’s like winning the super double preggo wacko lottery.
Contractions are now becoming a full body experience. They still don’t “hurt.” It’s just like the entire middle part of my body becomes rock hard and immobile. I can tell when I have a contraction coming on because I suddenly very urgently need to pee, and the whole top half of my belly feels like a 45 pound watermelon. If I press on the top of my belly, I can feel Baby A’s head pushing down on my lady innards. It sounds like bad science fiction. But I’m not making this up.
My hands and feet are wicked, super swollen. This, again, is a “minor” complaint in the grand scheme of things. But the swelling in my hands is now like arthritis. I can’t curl my fingers without significant pain. It goes away through the course of the day, but my fingers look like tasty, fat sausages.
Likewise, my feet feel like the day after Disneyland. I have crappy, weak feet and fallen arches to begin with. So now, the bottom of my feet feel like they have been beaten with hammers. And my ankles and legs are so, so, so swollen. They are like elephant ankles. I hobble. I hobble around the house. I hobble in public. I hobble at the store. I don’t even attempt to disguise my discomfort. I will point my belly and my elephant ankles and my pinched boo-boo face right at you. I’m not proud. But I also don’t give a fuck anymore.
Right now, I’m on “bedrest.” I asked my doctor how she defined “bedrest.” Because I already sit on my ass all day. My lifestyle is pretty bedresty to begin with. She said no shopping, no housework, no running around. I can get myself meals, and I can go use the restroom.
So, great. Being put on bedrest seems like a dream come true. I get to sit around and be lazy under doctor’s orders. Nothing I don’t already do, but now I can do it guilt-free.
Except. Except, it sucks. Now I’m fricken bored. I have stuff to do. I have things to go take care of. I have stuff we need to buy. I have errands to run. As soon as someone tells you not to do something, doesn’t it become the thing you want to do most? Goddamnit, I want to go to Costco! I want to go to Ikea! I want to go to the grocery store and come home and make a nice meal!
And no, I don’t want help. It seems like the perfect time to enlist all the offers to help that we have gotten. But I just want to get things done. I want to do it myself. Things will get done quicker if I just do it myself. And if I do it myself, I don’t have to make myself presentable (i.e. wear a bra), and I don’t have to be social. I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to worry about people worrying about me. I can just go out in public like a snarling, bloated walrus. I figure despite Portland being a small town, I’ll never see these people again.
Except. Except, of course, if someone else in Portland has a blog, or twitter, or a camera phone, and wishes to immortalize the preggo walrus with the elephant ankles and the sausage hands.
But nah. Who would do that? Beside me?