Thursday, November 29, 2007

The Call Nobody Wants.

So, I didn't intend to actually make this as a pregnancy blog, but it seems to be heading that way. Or at least, there is very little else going on to blog about...the usual is happening pretty much every day...you know, baby still cute, work still boring, yadda yadda.

But yesterday I get a call from the genetics department at my hospital. As you may recall, I hadn't seen my ultrasound results because the lab had not sent them to my OB in time for my last appointment, so I've been working a "no news is good news" basis. And then the call comes. They would like to review my ultrasound results with me and can I go directly to the genetics department at the hospital at 10 am tomorrow. "Its nothing really to worry about," said the woman on the phone, but the damage was already done. Genetics department? The next day? Yeesh. Obviously, there is SOMETHING to be concerned about.

So off we go this morning where at promptly 10 am, we are ushered into the office of a genetics counsellor. Her first words? "I guess the Genetics Department is the last place you want to get called to during your pregnancy, huh?" So far, not good.

She goes on to pull out my ultrasound results where, from what I can see, everything is checked off as normal. And then she starts talking about "genetic markers" and "soft signs of Down's Syndrome" and I know, obviously, she is going to tell us that I have one, or God forbid, more than one. But she says the ultrasound detected one called an "Intercardiac Echogenic Focus" and I interrupt her. "You mean, a bright spot on the heart?" Yes, she answers.

So, oddly enough, I had this exact same marker the last time. Apparently there are several "soft signs" which in and of themselves are essentially meaningless as long as all your blood work and other ultrasound checks were fine. But as soon as the words Down's Syndrome are mentioned in connection with YOUR baby you absolutely cannot help but be stressed. Last time when my OB mentioned this result off-handedly at my appointment and reassured me that it was highly unlikely that anything was wrong, I worried for a few weeks, regretted not getting the amnio, and then managed to put it out of my mind. And everything was just fine. So, this time, I still opted against the amnio and have decided to worry even less.

The counsellor agreed...based on the weakness of this marker and the fact that the rest of my test results were "perfect" and "fantastic" they do not recommend any further testing...so really, I'm left wondering...does it do any good at ALL to summon a pregnant woman to what seems very much like an emergency last minute appointment for this reason? I know, I know. They have little, if any, choice. It's the age of disclosure and if I had decided to go ahead with further testing - especially if one would consider termination based on the result - its better to do it sooner than later. It's just that nobody wants to get that phone call. And last time, the OB just told me in the office when I showed up for my appointment, so I'm just wishing they had done it that way again.

Oh, and another thing? We're not able to find out the gender. Every single box on the ultrasound report was ticked off as being "Fully Seen" except the box marked "Gender." So, I guess we'll find out the old fashioned way...in the delivery room.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Tales of the Long Waist

I'm just so tired. I'm not sure if its the pregnancy or if I'm still recovering from our extended long weekend in the US, but I'm dragging this week. I guess a weekend of stomping around American shopping malls will take its toll on anyone, but at 5 months pregnant, I felt like I wanted to saw my feet off at the end of the day. The worst part is that I could not partake in any post-shopping hot tub therapy.

Anyway, so apparently I'm FEELING pregnant. And I'm well into maternity clothes however, just like last time, nobody seems to be able to tell. I remember my last OB telling me that I would go my entire pregnancy with people telling me that I didn't look that pregnant because I am (get this) "long-waisted". Having reached my peak height of 5ft3 in high school I have never, ever been "long ANYTHING", but she was apparently right. Right up the end I never had a single stranger, well-meaning store clerk, or neighbour ask me when I was due. And I guess I'm on the same track this time.

This doesn't mean, of course, that I don't gain weight. I have gained over 10 pounds already and now that I'm feeling better there are many, many more pounds to come. But yet, I'm sure come March when I'm feeling like I'm going to burst, I'll be at the hair dresser again and she will not mention my huge stomach because apparently it looks more like I'm carrying an embarrassing ball of fat than a baby. I really hate that.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

So Much for THAT Idea

I conducted an unofficial experiment on the weekend...and what a spectacular failure it was. Due to a series of events too stupid to even blog about, I found myself without a prescription renewal for Diclectin - the sweet, sweet anti-nausea medicine that has more or less saved my sanity for the last 3 months. (And its funny I say that because even with the pills I've been violently ill most days, but I shudder to remember how bad I was without them.) However, the last few weeks I've been feeling much better overall, so when I realized I was without a prescription I thought I would try to see if I could go without the pills. HA! Needless to say after skipping my night dose, I woke up on Saturday morning and within minutes I was feeling so ill that I ended up having to skip the Parent and Tot swim class or else risk being the mother who throws up in the wading pool.

A few hours later, I'm talking to my mother, who has oddly been against the pills from the start - even though when the sickness set in and I was unable to keep even the tiniest amount of liquid down, she was actually considering cancelling their then-upcoming trip to Ireland out of concern for my well-being. Anyway, she seems to think that somehow my body has become dependent on the pills and that if I had never been on them to begin with, I'd be fine by now. I know she is wrong, but I decided to give her theory a try and skipped the pills that night too. Enter the spectacular failure - I will withhold the details, but it may be enough to say that after a short car ride I had to return home to change my clothes entirely - including my underwear. Needless to say, I went to the walk in clinic that afternoon to beg for a prescription renewal.

I guess I should have asked the doctor about my mother's theory, but ,while I'm sure she hasn't, I have thoroughly Googled the subject without reading any legitimately scary information. The Motherisk hotline thru Sick Kids Hospital is 100 per cent behind it, and my own doctor when she first gave me the prescription told me that no other drug has been tested as much as this and to, I quote, "not be a hero." But there is a kicker, according to Motherisk, the American equivalent of the drug was pulled from shelves 20 years ago due to a lawsuit claiming that takers of the drug had a high incidence of babies with get this...limb deformities. Sigh. However, it was later proven that the incidence was no higher than if you weren't on the drug. Still, the drug has never been reintroduced (although there is an American over the counter equivalent - a do-it-yourself concoction of Unisom and Vitamin B6).

So, while pregnant with Kieran I never so much as took an illegal aspirin and still he was born with 4 fingers missing, it leads me to an interesting thought...had i been this sick with him and been put on Diclectin (neither of which happened), I think I would have reacted quite differently to the news that the drug had been pulled in the States for limb deformities. I'm quite sure that I would have questioned the official diagnosis of the apparently totally random Amniotic Band Syndrome and instead blamed the pills which I so selfishly took at the expense of my poor defenseless baby. Or at the very least, have blamed the pills for causing the ABS. Even though I wasn't on any prescription medicine with Kieran I still question every cup of coffee, every time I stood needlessly in front of a microwave or even accidentally slept on my stomach during my pregnancy with him. I think any mother would. And I may well have hesitated to have another child, knowing that I might get that sick again and, as a result of my desperation, another child might pay the price. But I guess in pregnancy, just like in life, all we can say is that to varying degrees, sometimes the odds are on your side, sometimes they aren't.

In the meantime, I filled my prescription and am back to taking the pills because I'm quite sure that I, not to mention my unborn child, would not have survived the last few months without medical intervention. Fingers crossed though.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Frustration, Thy Name is Wedneday

What a week. I wouldn't go so far as to say its been BAD, just annoying. I know there so many things to actually be thankful for, but sometimes as we all know, you can't see the blessings for the stupid details.

You see, I was scheduled for my big Level II Ultrasound on Tuesday. This would be the one where they measure everything anatomical and make sure the baby has all the necessary parts...you know, things like fingers, which, as we now know, are NOT automatic. Due to an earlier mix-up at my doctor's office, I missed the deadline to make an appointment at the hospital for this ultrasound, so to get it done on schedule, I wound up at a private lab downtown. And this lab, as I discovered, refuses to tell you anything to do with the ultrasound results - good or bad...including the gender of the baby, which we desperately would like to know. Thwarted.

And then yesterday when I finally saw my regular OB, despite assuring me they would, the lab hadn't even sent over the results yet. So now I must wait 4 more weeks before I find out the gender. And I WILL wait....to hear back from the doctor now would mean something is wrong, so I'm content to wait 4 weeks if it means that all is otherwise well. I'm well aware that getting to know the sex is pure luxury, so I'm not going to rock the boat. But still, there I was, thwarted again.

After the OB appointment I had quite a bit of time before I had to pick the boy up from daycare, so I went across the street to the mall. I haven't bought myself a single stitch of maternity clothes yet, and cannot face another winter of wearing the same 5 things I wore with Kieran. I hesitated because we are heading to the States next week, but its so rare to have a chance to shop without a baby and stroller, I thought I would look. As it turns out, everything at the The Bay was on sale, which was exciting because, in general, maternity clothes are crazy overpriced. After trying on a million things, I narrowed my choices down to about 6, and brought them to the counter where the oh-so-sweet sales clerk informed me that everything scanned in at regular price...including the stuff THEY had already marked down on the price tag. And she just shrugged in the way that told me I was shit out of luck. So, in the back of my mind, knowing I'd probably find even better deals in the US, I walked away. But then, as I was walking away, I was increasingly pissed both because I had wasted all that time and then not bothered to ask for a manager as well as being pissed that I wasn't getting any new clothes.

Seething, I wandered back out of the mall and wound up at the tea shop where I ordered a cup of Earl Grey to make myself feel better. After I got the tea, I was still mad at my Bay fiasco so I decided to just leave and go get Kieran early. And what happens as I'm stepping outside? I walk out the door and promptly drop my entire untouched steaming beverage all over myself and the sidewalk...and then to add to my total humiliation? I start to cry. I can only blame my stupid frustrating day, stupid people and stupid hormones.

You see? Thwarted. And I went home.

Monday, November 12, 2007

The Weekend

We hit the Giant Toy Warehouse on Saturday. Discount toys in a temporary warehouse. They hand you large plastic bags when you walk in and you just go to it. In the book section, in addition to millions of kids books, they had some adult Christmas-themed books, one of which I threw in the stroller basket. We left, spending almost $200 on toys and gifts, and when we were walking to the car, I notice Eric laughing and shaking his head. My new recipe book, entitled "A Perfect Christmas" was still the bottom of the stroller, unpaid for. So I ask you...can you have a Perfect Christmas if your gifts have been shoplifted...even accidentally? (No, we did not go back and pay for it ...we're thieves not idiots.)

After the Warehouse, we stopped a the mall. No sooner are we inside than we notice that Kieran needs to be changed...quite urgently. Eric and I, as usual, play a little game of Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine who gets the privilege of the public poppy diaper change and I lose. So, off I truck to bathroom, where I quickly realize that I had removed the pack of wet wipes without putting them back in the diaper bag. Gack, I find some barely damp restaurant wet naps which barely sufficed. By the time I had located the Wet Naps though, Kieran was past his diaper change patience limit and was writhing to get away. Finally done, I stood him up, rammed on his pants fast as I could and left. As we are winding our way through the food court, I noticed people staring oddly at us. After one older couple could not keep their eyes off Kieran (and not in a good way) I happen to look down. I have crammed both his legs into the same pant leg rendering him completely immobile waist down. By the time I get to Eric, I'm almost hysterical and we had to pull Kieran's jeans off mid food court to fix him up. The kid never said a peep.

So....Saturday is Parent and Tot swimming lessons. This is our second go around...the first Kieran was very young - three months when we started - and just clutched to me in fear. Now that he's almost 18 months, he's much more comfortable in the water and runs to the bathroom at the mere word "bath"....and during class...he's clutched to me in fear. Now, instead of getting better in class he's getting worse. The Floaty Boats? He screams in fear. Life Preserver day? Screams in fear. The instructor takes him away from me to practice his back float? You guessed it. All this from a child who has never had a single problem leaving me anywhere else. Now in class while all the other babies sit happily in their floating starfish, Kieran is the only one wailing and pathetically reaching for me. "Is he ALWAYS like this?" the teenage instructor has asked me several time, but clearly doesn't believe me when I say no, almost never. In class, he's "That Kid" and he's mine.

Sunday we had our company kids Christmas party. It's a huge company and the party, somebody clearly should have warned me, is total chaos. It's held at an indoor amusement park thing, and there is a massive lineup for everything. And Kieran is at exactly the wrong age...he wants to ride the train, but doesn't get the concept of waiting his turn. So I have to hold him for 20 minutes while he squirms to get down where I know he will immediately attempt to run onto the tracks. So, I'm at the train while Eric holds our place in the long "Photo with Santa" lineup. By the time we get back, he's been at the front of the line for 15 minutes waving people past. Kieran doesn't know Santa at all, so is consequently not interested in sitting on his lap for love nor money, so our photo, naturally, is a write off. Thank God, for his new favourite food, the candy cane.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Poppy Guilt.

Traditionally, I have been a faithful poppy wearer. Jokingly, I have often referred to them as a scam because of their remarkable ability to disappear from my lapel forcing me to buy several more prior to Remembrance Day, but I admire the cause, and always have. (Thank you Canadian School System). As far as poppy loss goes though, this year was no exception, I got mine right away and it lasted 10 minutes - tops - before it was gone. When I got home from the grocery store where I purchased it was already nowhere to be found. And now, I haven't seen any poppy boxes since to replace it. Not a one. We used to have one at our reception desk in the office, but this year, that too was gone.

This leaves me a bit concerned about the current state of Remembrance Day. I know very few people who, after having left school, observe it in any way aside from wearing the poppy. But come November 1, the obligatory flowers pop up first on newscasters and then, presumably, across the general population. But this year, (or maybe its just the first year I've noticed) I see very, very few people wearing the poppy. I was on the train last night and the woman across from me had one on her jacket, but when I looked around at the rest of the passengers, of the 30-odd people whose lapels I could see, I saw 3 poppies. I'm sure the poor Veterans would think we were a sorry lot indeed.

So, here is the question...is it that people just don't really care anymore, or are they like me, serial poppy losers who are just between purchase and/or given up? Anyway, I guess its all beside the point, because in 3 days they will be gone again and I will have to wait another year to attempt to redeem myself. Or more likely, in 3 days my guilt will disappear just like the dozens of poppies that I have lost in my lifetime.

Sorry Veterans.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Parental Reality Check

My parents were in town this weekend. Considering how far away they live, they are relatively frequent visitors to our neck of the woods, and it's always nice to see them, as they are helpful and always willing to babysit (whoo hoo).

But, as with all good things, there's the downside...my mother can be very , how do I say this, difficult. She one of those people who does not know what is inappropriate to say to people - especially her own children. Prime example: apparently she was reading a study that linked cancer to weight and eating habits, which leads her to blurt out gems like this:

"Well, according to this study, you and Eric are going to get cancer for sure." She says this with such authority that you would think we had been named personally in said study.

This comment is just one example of the little gems she comes up with all the time, which after all my years on this planet, I should be used to, as she has done this all my life. But, it never fails to make my blood boil. She just says things that are downright mean and then justifies her words by saying like: "I says what's on my mind, and if you don't like it, too bad." As though this is a valid defense. And it doesn't have to been food related, it could be anything - housekeeping, child rearing, spending habits, nothing is sacred or off limits. Obviously, it her own mind, she is a regular Martha Stewart, without, of course the jail time or the tendency to gain weight.

I've often wondered why she has never learned to curb this tendency, as it always changes the tone of what was otherwise probably a perfectly pleasant conversation. But she is my mother, and in general, there is more good than bad that goes along with her visits. Thankfully, in this, (and in most respects) I'm nothing like her. I don't know anyone else who is. And that's a good, good thing.

Friday, November 2, 2007

Your Shoes, My Problem

I am a wearer of comfortable shoes. This is not meant as a euphemism for lesbian, I'm talking strictly about footwear. And now that I take the train home most nights I have time and again congratulated myself on the fact that I don't have a penchant for heels. I'm also apparently a slow walker and thusly, any type of uncomfortable footwear compounds my problem.

But last night, I'm running late and on Thursdays, I cannot miss the train. I just can't. So, I'm doing my extreme short-legged shuffle as best I can but I know I'm cutting it really close. As I enter the train station there is a relative labyrinth of stairs I need to maneuver to get to my platform. The first flight is down and there is a woman in front of me. A young woman. Hunched over at an angle that blocks the stairs, both hands on the rails, and inching down the stairway. Her heels rival anything I've seen recently on the Project Runway catwalk. Because I'm so late, I'm starting to lose my mind...but she's so wobbly that I don't actually have the heart to try to pass her for fear of taking her down completely. But, after what seems likes minutes, we finally get to the bottom and I fly past her thinking about making a comment about her poor choice of shoes causing me to miss my train but I flashed back to the Tim Horton's episode earlier this week and decide against it.

Then, it happens again, this time on the extremely long flight UP to the platform. Frak, Frak, Frackity Frak people. Different woman, slightly different shoe style, same painful, aggravating result.

So, no, I didn't miss my train. (Better story if I had) But I didn't get a seat. I had to stand in the aisle besides a hugely obese woman eating an ice cream cone. She shot me a challenging look but may have been surprised that I wasn't questioning her odd choice of commuter snack (Go Trainers are, almost without exception, apple-eaters. Maybe I'll cover that in a future blog-post). Anyway, I was actually looking at her shoes. Comfortable, practical. I'll be that woman, size be damned, could have covered some ground in those puppies. Is that too much to ask?