The best day ever, the worst day ever, and the halfway point

INTRODUCTION. Dreaming in Keynote

I spent most of the week preparing my very first projected-from-a-laptop presentation. Thursday night my sweat-soaked teeth-grinding pregnant dreams featured little animations, keyboard shortcut errors, and a lot of swear words.

I. The chocolate factory

My college roommate F. flew out to visit. She's getting married in a few weeks. I blew off work on Friday and we toured a chocolate factory. Afterwards we sat in their cafe for hours and talked, well, like we used to, way back when, except about weddings and babies and so on. (I try not to scare friends who are setting out to get pregnant at thirty-six or so, but sometimes it's hard. Look: I only ever got to walk on the end of that road, folks, and I don't know much about the rest.)

We spent the afternoon cruising thrift shops for layette stuff (hellooooooo Petit Bateau onesies for $3.50!). In the evening, we met two other close college friends and assorted spouses for extreme tapas (crispy calamari with jalapeno-spiked batter, anyone?) Three quarters of my wedding party, folks. All in one place. All at interesting moments in our lives: weddings, newly arrived or impending babies, extensive house renovations.

II. "Turn, asshole, turn!"

After dinner, Beaker was drunk and F. was really jetlagged. I had to drive the car up the hill, people. The stick shift car. We've been here three months and this is only the fourth time I've done it. The light at the steepest intersection is on a sensor, and a car was stopped there already with its left turn signal on. The light changed as we got close, and there was no opposing traffic, but the car just sat still. "Turn, damnit, turn!" I shouted, and Beaker and F. laughed the raucous laughter of the intoxicated and the exhausted, respectively. The car finally moved, and I got through the intersection without having to hill start. It felt like a blessing.

III. "Kick, damnit, kick!"

Saturday I woke up at 6:30 to join a carpool down to the one-day conference. We arrived quite early. I found a bathroom immediately. Icky brownish mucous on the toilet paper, with little threads of red. OH MY GOD. I hadn't spotted at all since implantation. I drank two glasses of water and two little cups of orange juice and shook through the first talk. "Kick, damnit, kick!" I screamed deep inside. I was stuck two hours away from home, and the carpool wasn't going back until after the conference dinner. My cellphone was just about dead. It was six hours until my own talk. I didn't know what I should do. And then my doctoral advisor walked in, halfway through the lecture (cue scary music). Would he stay for my talk? Would I feel worse if he did, or if he didn't?

As my bladder filled, I felt a few kicks against it. At the second tea break, I asked the organizer if there was any place I could go to put my feet up during the lunch break: a lounge? a library? He shrugged: it's an urban campus, and they have a real problem with vagrants.

The morning talks by junior people were all sort of sucky, which made me feel better. But my advisor asked all the speakers abusive questions, which made me feel bad for them and anxious for myself.

After my fluid binge, I went to the bathroom during every single break. No more spotting.

IV. The homeless guys have good taste

During the breaks, people collected in cliques by school and age. I'm not local, and I'm awkwardly in between young and well-established. My advisor made eye contact once, smiled, and went to talk to the important people. By lunch I was a total basket case. I grabbed food, wolfed it down at a table of cheerful post-doc boys, and set off to find a couch.

The campus was nearly dead. It's a commuter school, and not much happens on weekends (I hear that attendees at other Saturday meetings there have been mugged in broad daylight). The student union was open, though, and there are padded benches along its hallways. On the upper and lower levels these were mostly occupied by sleeping homeless guys, but they were empty on the main floor. I hooked a wrist through my computer bag strap and lay down for a little while.

I shivered through the other afternoon talks. Almost fell asleep, too, so I had a few tablespoons of coffee before my own. Which went fine. It was snappier and better looking than most that day. My advisor stayed, asked one relatively harmless question, and disappeared during the applause. Afterwards four people came up and engaged me on the content—only one was a crackpot!

EPILOGUE. Still more excellent food

At the conference dinner, I somehow ended up seated by exactly the people I wanted to sit with. It was fun, especially as the eccentricity of the corporate sponsor rep to my left grew more obvious. The eager grad student to my right, either totally oblivious or exceedingly polite, recommended strenuous local hikes and hot yoga instructors (ambiguity intentional). The curries and pad thai were the best I've had out here. During the carpool back, full of other ergonomists working at the institute along with me, I admitted to being pregnant.

Sunday F. and Beaker and I had a panini brunch with one set of college friends, then wandered through some lovely gardens, and finally had dinner with another set of college friends. Their children were much more cheerful and engaging than usual. F. told stories and sang songs. We made the current Cook's Illustrated orange chicken and a raspberry tart; there were little cookies cut from the leftover pastry.

We left F. over there, since it's much closer to the airport. You know, I haven't met her fiance yet? But oh, I'm looking forward to that wedding.

Today is 20 weeks. There has been no more spotting, and the kicks have been steady and getting stronger. Neither feet nor hands are swollen. My level 2 ultrasound is Tuesday. I will see Dr. Pippi-Poisson Thursday. And, I promise, if anything else remote sketchy happens before then, I will call her immediately.

Comments

[Jody]

Um, you mention, the night before the bleeding, that Beaker was drunk. Um, so it seems like maybe you were, um, partying? And um, um, um maybe you partied some more together, at home, without (or with, what the hell, let's not be small-minded) your friend?

Because that's why most people bleed brownish mucous with little bits of red in it. From cervical irritation. Brought on by, um, partying a deux, and by vaginal U/S. Pretty typical.

Even without the partying a deux, actually. Damn cervixes, they're tempermental.

P.S. It occurs to me that you'd have to appreciate my utter lack of embarrassment discussing sex with any and all people in any and all situations to get the humor of this post. In real life, I would just say, "so, did you have sex any time lately?" In a really loud voice, in front of several of your colleagues. I'm not a safe person to have around.

[Emma Jane]

Ah, if only there had been that simple an explanation. We were up late, I got up early, and I was pretty dehydrated by the time I got the the meeting (dumb pregnant lady cut back on fluids at breakfast so as not to make the carpool pull over halfway), but there had been no nookie. And, if anything, less exercise than usual in the past 36 hours -- none of my usual mile-and-a-half long walks. (Damn inconvenient bus system 'round here.)

(F., by the way, shares your, um, awareness of the polyamory, and I suspect I'll meet some interesting people at the wedding -- but neither of us has, um, practiced it.)

[Jody]

Well, it's probably still nothing. But I bet you're pretty pleased to have the next appointment all lined up anyway. Because I bled for two weeks (11-13) and it Completely Messed Me Up.

I ended up with a cerclage at 19 weeks, 4 days, and there was no warning whatsoever. Definitely no bleeding. What you describe sounds EXACTLY like cervical irritation, not cervical funneling or effacing, but still....I bet you're really pleased to have that next appointment coming up.

Yeah, 20 weeks! Yeah, good conference! (Forgot to throw those in earlier. Must have been the sex distracting me.)

[bj]

re scaring people who are trying to get pregnant at 36. The problem is that everyone's own experience is so different. I started trying for the first time at 34, and had a daughter right after I was 35. I thought she was going to be the only one, but when she turned two (i.e. I'm 37), I though, huh, maybe we'll consider having another. We got pregnant a week after her second birthday. I guess people just have to know about all the stories.

bj

PS: I'm so so happy for you. And, a little jealous of the evening you seemed to have had, catching up with all your friends!