Barely promoted

Why I love my new obstetrician, Dr. Pippi-Poisson

She is Swedish, and thinks eating smoked fish is fine.

She wears (very hip) thick-rimmed glasses, and lots of mascara too.

She spews data like Dr. Data himself.

She talks all the time. ALL THE TIME. But she listens, too.

She said truer and more resonant things about my mother than anyone else so far. "You know, I think that people with mental illness very often die without anyone really knowing why. It is so hard for them to communicate their experience, and it can be very hard to treat them."

"This time coming up, this will be when you begin to miss your mother. Or perhaps you have already been missing her, when she was very sick this year, or perhaps you have been missing her for a long time already if her problems meant that she was not able to care for you. But what is coming is one of the true purposes of life, one of the real moments, and you will be very aware that she is not there and perhaps only then begin to understand."

And about other things, too: "You shouldn't worry too much about delivery. Start reading child-rearing books. That's the real adventure."

No ultrasound today (10w1d), but I got Dopplered and all was well. I giggled uncontrollably as she contrasted my heartbeat and the it's.

-----

I wish I had some time to relax and think. Walking back from lunch (yes, still by myself, damnit) I passed a flower shop and: I wanted to buy the irises, and the bright yellow gerberas, and the freesia. They were beautiful in the sun and I was happy.

But the program at the Institute is in especially high gear this week. Zillions of visitors, zillions of talks. There are grad students sleeping on my floor, and there will be other guests this weekend. Must keep up the momentum, must not allow problematic professional self-esteem to overwhelm me, must not hide. Must smile, and not just to myself.

Self-criticism

So: I've been out in Nirvana for a few weeks now. How'm I doing?

WORK: Above average, for me at least. I am going in to an office and sitting still and thinking for a good part of each day, and that's a big change relative to anything since, oh, mid-October. I am going to talks and learning new things—well, I've substantially been under a rock for the last six years, so almost anything anyone gets up to talk about is new to me. (And it's such a luxury that other people are getting up and talking, and I can just sit and listen!)

However, I'm still working on the creepily idiosyncratic little sorts of things I seem to work on. Not on anything at all like the flashier stuff my proposal to come here was about.

PLAYING WITH OTHERS: Very, very bad. I have not had lunch with other people even once since arriving. I creep in and steal croissants after everyone else has come and gone for elevenses in the lounge. Several of the organizers have greeted me warmly, and said we must talk sometime—but I haven't followed up. Also, I am terrified of all the little post-doc boys running around. And somehow just about everyone else is either an old, famous organizer or a little post-doc. (Of course, in professional terms, I'm probably about level with the post-docs, in cumulative output: it took me five years, and them negative two, but who's counting? Well, I am, and they are, actually.)

If I were to tell anyone what I'm working on, they'd snort, or roll their eyes, or tell me how that vein of ideas was completely mined out in the early 60s, or... so I just don't tell them.

COPING WITH LIFE: Medium rare. The hunger=nausea thing is sort of disorienting, but a fruit shake in the late morning works wonders in keeping me at my desk and awake a little longer. Overall I think I've been doing pretty well with the weird shifts in bodily needs. (Beaker gets a demerit, though, for suddenly gasping "There's something in there!" after, um, bumping my newly-positioned cervix during an intimate moment...)

However, there are a couple of little issues. The Internet service thing, for example. Not gonna really happen for another 2 weeks (not entirely my fault, but largely so). And the driving thing. Beaker busted his butt getting our lovely little car out here, and I'm afraid to drive it. Manual transmission, Ohindinois is so beautifully flat, the 900 vertical foot climb to our current aerie, etc., etc. It's been at least 3 weeks since I was behind the wheel, and I learned to drive late enough that it's entirely possible for me to forget how.

So not here yet

So, we're not connected to the Internets (any of them) at home yet, and I'm mostly way too paranoid to dare post from work, or even from friends' houses. In the meantime, though, I'm grabbing a tiny chance to let you know how poorly I'm adapting to my new environment.

Yesterday, the library steps were powerwashed. At the end of the day, when I emerged blinking into the sunlight (after a long afternoon of wrestling with archaic terminology and shelving systems whose arrangement owed more to seismic safety considerations than to intellectual coherence), I noticed the brick pavement was wet.

And I automatically twisted my heel against the surface, to check for ice.

Can we improve the script here?

Hey, you up there, in charge: today was overdone. Do I really need four officemates? Just two would suffice for future personality contrast humor, I think. Also, did I need to pass 25 sushi places, all off limits?

And, when I was trying to track down my landlady. C'mon. So, I didn't have the car I'd hoped to borrow, and I had to take the bus. And her phone was continually busy, so I couldn't find out which stop. So of course I got off at the wrong stop, and then I got her on the phone, but she was about to be picked up by her auto mechanic (!) to be brought down the hill to her freshly repaired car (!). So she couldn't come pick me up, and I had to wander over the hill by myself. Way, way too many obstacles: just the busy phone would have provided enough tension, don't you think?

But, the climactic scene. I'm walking disconsolately down a narrow road. No sidewalks, steep dropoff, map in front of me. I've just figured out that I'm nowhere near where I'd told my landlady I was when a beat-up black pickup passes me and I hear someone call, "Emma?" I look up the road, and there's a skinny blond woman in exquisite workout gear coming towards me. "Emma?"

Yes, the landlady (riding in her mechanic's truck) found me at the same moment as my nemesis from grad school, the one who married the hotshot and won a nice spousal appointment at his side, who now lives full-time the academic Nirvana I only get to visit. The landlady rapidly gave me keys and accurate directions and drove off, leaving me with Boopsie.

Cheap coincidence? Yet another small world ploy? Oh yeah. But there's more, oh dear, there's more.

Boopsie and I spoke of many useless little things. I hadn't seen her for four or five years (even though she's been steadily drifting towards my subfield). But eventually, I asked where she was walking.

"Oh, I'm on a big loop here. I'm only walking because my doctor told me not to run. [Pause.] Not for the next few months, anyway. [Pause.] Because in August, there will be some big changes coming." [Truly leaden pause.]

Director, up there, whoever you are, that was too damn much. Did you forget that I'm a hapless, sad-sack kind of heroine? Muddling my way through all things even remotely professional? I just wasn't capable of donning the necessary shit-eating grin and saying, "Me too!" I'm not that kind of girl.

So I told her quietly, "Congratulations!" And kicked myself, as I said my good-byes and finally found the damn house, 'cause at least I could have asked her who her OB is.

Here's to peaceful, ordinary events...

... like the ultrasound Monday afternoon. Singleton, measured 6w5d, visible heartbeat. (No rate counted that I heard about, but it was pinging along fast when Dr. Data magnified it enough for an amateur like me to see.) He was happy to hear about my mild but decidedly present versions of all known early pregnancy symptoms. I'm supposed to taper off the PIO this week and find myself an OB, pronto.

Into the void

I'm not sure when I'll be able to post again. But I need to rant.

We are deconstructing our lives for the move. Oh, and, have I mentioned? We're going to redo the back third of the house while we're away (and yes, we trust our contractor that much, actually, he's an old friend/neighbor/landlord/coworker), so that Beaker can avoid the dust. Changed layout, lots of windows, new kitchen, new bathroom, new heating system. So, in between the little clothing decisions, I've been taking everything out of the kitchen cabinets that are about to be destroyed. Oh, and the downstairs bathroom, which will also be demolished. Did I mention that the dishwasher is broken? And is starting to smell funny? And that this house, in which I've spent about 10 days since mid-November, doesn't feel at all like home, what with the massive piles of displaced crap and architectural salvage all over? And that Beaker and I and our dear friend the contractor all know full damn well that there's zero chance that the work will be done before we're back, but we all pretend anyway?

Let me go lie down for a bit. The queasiness, and the cramping I get if I'm a little too active. Plus it helps drain the phlegm back into my sinuses for a little while, so it doesn't just drip down my face. SNEEZE. Aaaaah.

I actually leave tomorrow. Ultrasound of potential doom the day after that (which will be 7w1d). Fly to California the day after that. Next Wednesday I get to: help feed and clothe the tiny children of the friend I'll be staying with, since her husband will be off on a ski trip. Then drive through two alien cities to the Institute. Then listen to a talk by, and have lunch with, an old friend who's having a rough time getting a real academic job: "You've been on lots of search committees, right, Emma? You'll be able to give me feedback." Then find my way into the hills to the sublet house, to pick up keys and learn which doors are locked and must NEVER EVER be opened, no matter what I hear coming from the other side (I think I'll move in next weekend; it'll be a pain to be up in the hills with no car, and there will be no car until Beaker braves the blizzards with ours). I'm not sure where the two-hour nap I need these days fits in, but I'm sure it will catch me at an inconvenient moment.

It's not clear when Beaker is leaving, since our plans for the house stuff are not in the shape they should be, and neither is the house. His mother called today to make clear that she'd be monitoring the Weather Channel for him as he drove, and callling to check that he was alive (and eating enough) every six hours or so. "I just worry about the same things as you do, Emma." Mmmmm-hmmm.

What strikes terror into my heart now (aside from the ultrasound): I'm going to California to do work. Remember work? I actually got into a bit of a groove, a few months ago, before the election, before the cycle, before my mother died. Was geting energized about some new projects. But that was a long time ago, and I haven't touched anything at all, except tragic departmental negotiations, since some desultory efforts mid-stim.

But I'm going to California to work, and I hope to hell I can manage to. I've often done badly when surrounded by too many brilliant famous people. I'm hoping that now, now that I have professional niche that can't be taken away, a niche that I'm comfortable in (even if some of those brilliant famous people won't have much respect for it—you try explaining what a liberal arts college is to a Russian), I can relax and: and work.

Packing in the dark

Should I bring the khakis? They don't fit now, even. Might they if I ever taper off the PIO shots? Probably not. But, if it all crashes into a wall at the ultrasound... but it probably won't... but it might, and I won't find out until long after this little black rolly-bag has left Ohindinois. If that crash occurs, then I'll sure be glad to have the khakis. Should I bring them?

What about the weddings I'm going to in April and May? Should I bring a pretty little silk slip dress or two? I even have one that stretches (although probably not enough, and it's awfully dark for lunchtime).

Actually, the second decision is much easier: shopping for a new spring dress, no matter how redundant, has far more therapeutic potential than mail-ordering new khakis.

Still here

Sorry for vanishing. I am burping and napping my way through life—and waking up at 5 in the morning, after vividly unpleasant dreams, and poking my new C-cups every 5 minutes to make sure they still hurt. I'm spending too much time reading bulletin boards written by women who have had awful things happen to them without warning early in pregnancy, and not enough time working or preparing to move.

Called the clinic to schedule my ultrasound today. They tried to put me off until the 13th, but after I had a hissy fit they were able to squeeze me in on the 10th. (The nurse was pleasantly surprised when she pulled the second number off the computer: "That did go up nicely!") The current plan is to fly to New York on the 9th, then straight to California on the 11th—I'll try to see Nanna one more time, too. The house (ah, the house! the view! the hints of long-buried academic gossip!) will become available on the 14th or so, so I'll stay with friends until then. Meanwhile Beaker will be driving our car and most of our stuff out, starting on the 9th and, I hope to God, arriving on the 16th or so.