I was so anxious all day Thursday, due to my continued, though minimal, bleeding, that I couldn’t nap.  Thursday night, with the aid of Benedryl®, a sleep aid safe during pregnancy, I slept for about five hours.

When I woke up yesterday, Friday, morning, at 6 a.m., I found I hadn’t bled all night, so I was feeling very positive.  But, when I started bleeding heavily again at 9:15 a.m., my mood plummeted.  I was scared.  I was depressed.  I was lonely.  I cried twice, and I’m not a crier…

Every time my placenta bleeds, I worry about my baby’s health, whether his nutrition and/or oxygen will be reduced, making it imperative that he be delivered soon, when he’s only about 2 pounds—and my due date is April 23, more than three months from now. 

Every time my placenta bleeds, I know that I am stuck here, away from my family, for at least another 48 hours, because my team of high-risk pregnancy doctors is cautious and wants me monitored for at least two days post-bleeding to ensure that both my baby and I are healthy enough to on bed rest at home.

Every time my placenta bleeds, I feel out of control, because I can’t do anything to stop it.  I have placenta previa, and, yesterday Dr. E explained that low-lying placentas are very unstable.  She said bleeding can occur with any uterine contraction, which happens occasionally and spontaneously in every pregnancy; with any movement of the baby, who is a crazy kid who, according to the nurses trying every eight hours to monitor his heart rate, is literally doing flips to get away from the monitor pressing on top of him; and with the continued growth of my baby and my uterus.  Bottom line:  The placenta is attached to his belly, and every time he moves—whether because the uterus contracts, because he’s active, because he’s growing daily, so his body is expanding up into my chest cavity—he yanks it, and its edges are separating from my uterus, creating the bleeding. 

Last night, after the nurse on the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift finished monitoring my baby’s fetal heart tones at midnight, I took my Benadryl and slept for seven hours.  This morning, I felt well-rested, calm and able to cope.  Thankfully, I haven’t had any bleeding today, and that fact alone made me relax enough to take not only a morning, but also an afternoon nap. 

My levels of emotion scared me yesterday, because I’m pretty tough.  But, today I realized that my lack of perspective was tied to my lack of sleep.

And, the bleeding, of course.

And, the worry about having a 2-pound preemie with an 80% chance of survival.

And, being separated from my husband and almost-5-year-old son.

But, with the benefit of sleep, I’ve decided to address each crisis only when and if it comes. 

I haven’t bled since yesterday morning, so I may be released as early as tomorrow afternoon or Monday morning.  So, for now, I will hold on to that, unless circumstances change.  And, if they do, I’ll manage. 

As long as I have sleep.

I was first diagnosed with asthma/Reactive Airway Disease when I was pregnant with my son, now nearly 5.  Then, I only coughed and wheezed, and my symptoms immediately eased once I started using Flovent® and Albuteral® inhalers.

Five years ago, my doctor explained that pregnancy can exaggerate allergies, and I knew, simply from personal experience, that I am allergic to cats, but I love them so much that I had three.  I recognized that I was likely allergic to dust because I would become congested and become a serial sneezer every time I cleaned.  Yet, I have a high threshold for irritants:  I would just suffer for a month each time I adopted a new cat, until I was immune, and I would do the same, for a few hours, when I cleaned my condo.

It wasn’t until I was pregnant that my allergies became intolerable.

This time around, I have full knowledge of the myriad of “inescapables” to which I am allergic, and, where possible, I have eliminated the allergens.  I am officially allergic to cats, so, when each of my three passed on, I didn’t replace him or her.  I’m allergic to dust mites, so I have dust-mite covers on every mattress and pillow in the house.  I’m allergic to outdoor molds, so I keep our windows and doors closed at all times, regardless of the weather, to keep the molds where they belong.  I’m allergic to grasses and trees, which are omnipresent, yet having our house and cars closed off from the outside world helps shield me.

However, regardless of my new allergy knowledge and resulting protectants, my asthma is much more severe with this pregnancy.  I’m five years older, and I’m pregnant by my husband, rather than a sperm donor, this time around, but those differences might not be relevant.  It simply may be that the cliché, “Every pregnancy is different,” is a cliché for good reason:  It’s true.

I met with my allergist only yesterday, for his office was closed during the holiday season, the time period in which my asthma symptoms peaked.  The good news is that I am receiving enough oxygen, therefore my baby is too.  But, obviously, the chronic coughing, wheezing, and peeing—and occasional vomiting—aren’t acceptable.  Therefore, he prescribed Advair®, a twice-daily steroid inhaler that is safe for me to take, now that I’m almost in my 25^th week of pregnancy, plus told me to continue with the Ventolin® inhaler every four to six hours as needed.  He said that it may take three to four days for the Advair to kick in, but I can handle a few more days.

And, after hearing about hemorrhoids from several friends, I feel grateful.  Sure, my asthma symptoms are miserable, but life is all about perspective, and my suffering is mild compared to the horror of having hemorrhoids.  Thank you, thank you, thank you God, for not giving me hemorrhoids…

During the past seven days, I’ve entertained my three sons—my stepsons, ages 15 and 13, and my son, age 4 ¾—by taking them on two downtown-Chicago adventures because my husband needed to work.  A non-cook, I made a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, complete with a turkey my husband called “perfect” and other homemade fixings.  I’ve completed a great deal of Christmas shopping.  I’ve been washing and reorganizing the contents of each and every drawer and cabinet in my kitchen.  I’ve been designing gemstone bead necklaces, bracelets and earrings, then pricing my more than 140 pieces, for my at-home jewelry show next Tuesday.   I’ve drafted this week’s e-newsletter for my son’s preschool.  I’ve completed Room Parent duties, once again for my son’s preschool.  I’ve paid bills.  I’ve done laundry and cooked and cleaned.

I overextended myself because I am thrilled to finally have so much energy, now that I’m in my 19^th week of pregnancy, but also because, when I was pregnant with my son five years ago, I was either restricted or on bed rest from my 27^th week of pregnancy on. 

Because I was experiencing premature dilation, I was initially put on bed rest, in which I was only permitted to be mobile to urinate and take one shower per day.  As my pregnancy progressed, bed rest was lifted, but I was told not to drive, shop, cook, clean, do laundry, walk up or down stairs, lift more than five pounds and so on.    

Knowing that I may have only two more months in which I am able-bodied and out of bed, I feel pressured to accomplish as much as physically possible—and to accomplish it now.

Today, even though I barely slept last night, I got up early to wake up my 13-year-old stepson, who spends most Monday nights with us.  I showered, made him his gluten-free breakfast, made him his gluten-free lunch, then woke up my 4-year-old, because we needed to drive my stepson to school. 

After dropping my stepson off, my son and I went to Target, which conveniently opens at 8 a.m., to do some Christmas shopping, grocery shopping and to buy gift bags and boxes for my upcoming jewelry show.

When my son and I got home, we ate a late breakfast, after which we played with Play-Doh.  Then, my son, who currently wants to be a paleontologist, and I worked for the next hour and a half, “as a team,” to excavate a pretend Pterosaur dinosaur fossil from plaster. 

I was so beyond-tired that, starting around 11:30 a.m., I started to look at the clock, wishing it would be 12:45 p.m., the time that, on Tuesdays, my son gets picked up for his preschool carpool, so I could take a nap.  I am so blessed to have my son, so I felt guilty that I was too exhausted to enjoy him, that I was literally counting the minutes until he was out the door.

But, when he left for school, I didn’t have time to take a nap:  I had to work on the preschool e-newsletter, so I could e-mail it off for approval, because I distribute it tomorrow.

It wasn’t until 2:30 p.m. that I was able to nap, setting my alarm for 3:30 p.m., so I’d be up by the time my son is dropped off after school.  I was so dead-asleep when my alarm blared that I reset it for 3:45 p.m., giving me just enough time to make it downstairs to greet my son.

When he got home, we talked about his afternoon at school; about how he worked on Map 2 today, but didn’t focus on Greenland; about who was nice; about who didn’t want to play tag on the playground; about the girl he thinks is the coolest because she has two ponytails.  We played with his army men, a game in which he graciously said we could be shooting bouncy balls, instead of bullets, because he knows that I hate guns.  After a major bouncy-ball battle, we watched a movie, ate dinner, and then I gave him a bath.

When he was in the tub, playing for a few minutes after I’d washed him, I started to feel evil.  I didn’t want to him to “play for a few minutes,” his normal routine, because I just wanted to go to bed.  But, I let him. 

After he got out of the tub, I decided that I needed to take a bath too, that hopefully it would make me feel better.  When he asked me to help him put on his pajamas, I refused.  He dresses himself every day, so he knows how to put on his pajamas too, but I was curt, and, being tired too, he cried as a result.

I apologized for my tone, telling him that I am just so tired that I feel sick.  I took a bath, which did make me feel better.  I read my son just one book, not the multiple ones that we read every night.  I lay down next to him because he’s afraid of the dark, and he was asleep within minutes. 

But, of course, by then, 8:20 p.m., I’d waited so long to sleep that I was wired.  My husband had a business dinner tonight, so I decided to sit up in bed to write this post while waiting for him to come home.  He just did, and he was so tired that he said hi, then crawled into bed, asking me to type elsewhere.

Now downstairs on the couch, I’m going to post this, climb into bed myself, and hopefully sleep all night long.  And, tomorrow, I’ll scale back on what I try to accomplish.  I don’t want to waste another day, not able to enjoy my son, because all I can think about is sleep.

My temperature is consistently low:  It was 98.1 degrees at last Tuesday’s appointment with my high-risk pregnancy practice and 97.4 today.  And, my doctors are unconcerned unless my temperature reaches 100, so I’m on my own.

I have severe headaches, congestion, and all-day and all-night coughing.  After initially trying to tough it out medication-free, I started taking Sudafed® and Robitussin® (without alcohol), which are safe during pregnancy.  However, they have had little impact because I don’t get enough sleep.

Last Monday, my grandmother passed away, so I spent any free time the rest of the week preparing for my son’s and my trip to Long Island for her wake and funeral.  My son, ever-growing, had not one item of appropriate clothing that still fit, and I, pregnant and ever-growing, had to sort through boxes and bags of borrowed maternity clothes, trying to determine what would work, before spending money on any other necessary items.  I spent ample time at discount retailer Marshalls® before having to resort to Macy’s®, where, with its 40%-off sale and my 20%-off coupon, I bought my son a winter dress coat for $25.  Even when exhausted and sick, bargain shopping invigorates me.

From Saturday through Monday, my son and I were on Long Island, going from morning ‘til night, visiting with my relatives; attending the wake, the funeral, and after-funeral luncheon; then traveling home.

For the three days we’ve been back, I’ve been living every-day life—caring for my son, driving four 4- and 5-year-old boys to and from preschool, serving as a room parent for my son’s class, writing my blog posts, doing the laundry, shopping, sorting through paperwork, babysitting for 4-year-old twins for 2 ½ hours this morning (I took them bowling), spending a few minutes of quality time with my husband on the nights he’s home, having nightmares, waking up in the middle of the night and struggling for hours to fall back asleep, and so on. 

Even being so busy, I can’t keep up because I’m not at 100%.  I’m not even at 50%.  I have piles of paperwork to read, file or respond to.  I have mounds of maternity clothes, loaned to me by friends, to try on.  I have three closets to organize.  I want to be spending more time writing my book.  I want to be making bead jewelry for a pre-holiday show at my house.   I want to get together with my friends.  I want to get more sleep.

If I just spent my nightly hours of insomnia dealing with my to-do list, I’d be better off.  I’d still be overtired, but my life would be in order.  But, I’m not at my best at 3 a.m. 

My sweet 4-year-old son does let me sleep in every morning, as long as he can watch a TV show.  He’ll come into my bedroom between 6:30 and 7 a.m., announce, “Mama, it’s morning,” then state with authority, “I know that you need to sleep more, because of the baby in your belly, so you can sleep next to me, while I watch a show.”

Of course, it’s difficult to sleep when the TV is on, but I’m desperate, so I’m learning to adapt.  Hopefully, by getting a few extra minutes of sleep in the mornings, thanks to my compassionate son, I’ll kick this sinus infection ASAP.  Hopefully.

Everyone dressed up, which was fantastic, and I found I could playfully contemplate insights about each person based on his or her costume choices.  How creative were their costumes?  How risqué?  How much did their Halloween personas depart from their personality norms?

In this case, none of the women were dressed super-sexily.  Most of us are suburban moms, and we look the part, even in costume.  We’re not showing off our bras or thongs or curves to the masses these days.

But two men were dressed as flashers, complete with visible penises—one an actual light-blue dildo, and another a three-foot-long length of panty hose stuffed with something I didn’t venture close enough to figure out.  Hmmm…

My husband and I went with what we found at the costume store, outfits that would complement each other, with my 30-pound weight gain accommodated by a tent-like, one-size-fits-all sack.  We were Roman Centurion and wife, and I was just happy to be costumed and comfortable.

Besides the costumes, the karaoke portion of the party was very enlightening. 

One friend’s voice is so incredible I asked her why she isn’t professional; she insisted she’s not good enough.

People with terrible voices would get up and perform solo to songs they’d sing from memory—along with accompanying dramatic dance moves.  The otherwise-shy ones who did this shocked me. 

Others would only be brave enough to go up in a group, and that included my husband and me, neither of us singers.  We’re both horrific singers, to be honest, but we sang group songs, and we had fun.

But, some wouldn’t venture up at all.

Then there was the dancing—conservative, wild, not at all…

Sober, surrounded by costumed, alcohol-consuming, karaoke-singing, dancing-in-the-living-room partiers, I wondered if the combination of alcohol and Halloween costumes made people take on different personas.  Because some of my neighbors seemed to be acting very out of character. 

Some were still exactly themselves, simply dressed up and boozed up.  But, others were bizarre.

Then yesterday, Halloween night, my son, in costume, said, “Mama, Mr. Murphy is a vampire.”

“Yes, he is.  Are you scared of him?”

“No, because I’m Darth Vader, and I can kick his ass.”

So, my son confirmed for me that, whether adult or four years old, donning a costume can give us confidence we wouldn’t ordinarily have. 

For my son, as Darth Vader he felt he could take on the neighborhood, vampire-costumed dad.

For my flasher-costumed neighbors, having light-blue and stuffed-panty-hose penises gave them the balls to sing solo karaoke song after solo karaoke song.  I’m not sure if they’re proud or mortified, so here they’ll remain nameless to protect their law-abiding, suburban-dad reputations.

Me?  I was sober, but only because I’m pregnant.  I wore a completely unrevealing sack dress because I’m pregnant.  I sang only in a group because I have a terrible singing voice.  But, I did dance, so long that my feet and knees still hurt.

And, because I stayed late and danced, my friend Kristy said, “You’re like me.  When you’re pregnant, you just want to have fun.”  And, costumed or not, pregnant or not, drinking or not, that is in character for me.

I haven’t been myself for the past six months, due to feeling emotionally and/or physically down because of two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles, the first unsuccessful; the exhaustion and mood swings resulting from the IVF medications; first-trimester tiredness and nausea; the stress of a high-risk pregnancy; the loss of one of my twins; insomnia; and so on. 

Friday night was my husband’s and my first night out in as long as I can remember.  Even in costume, I just wanted to feel like myself again.  And, I did.  I had so much fun.

“Brain Dead” Example 1

Sunday, my husband and I took our 4-year-old son to the Chicago Botanical Gardens’ Hallowfest.  I registered for the event online last week, then received a confirmation letter that would serve as our proof-of-purchase when we arrived. 

Knowing that my short-term memory is shot, I put the confirmation letter in my wallet, ensuring that I’d have it to gain admittance.  However, on the drive to the Botanical Gardens, my husband asked me what activities were taking place, and, when I opened my wallet to read from the confirmation letter, it was missing.  I looked again and again, incredulous, knowing that I had placed the letter in my wallet just that morning.  I then dumped my entire purse onto the car floor.  But the letter was gone.

I had no memory of removing it.  But I realized that I must have taken it out to read again, perhaps confirming the event’s 3 p.m. start time.

We drove back home to get the letter.  And, it was right on the dining-room table, right where my purse had been before I’d picked it up to leave for Hallowfest.

But, even after finding it, I have no memory of removing it from my wallet—and that scares me.

“Brain Dead” Example 2

Yesterday morning, my son and I went grocery shopping.  Because I’m having such difficulty with my memory, I created a detailed grocery list.  But, two aisles in, I could no longer ignore my overactive bladder, so I placed my grocery list and pen in my purse, then pushed the cart, complete with my son inside it, into the restroom.  After crossing the store back to aisle 3, I realized that, while my pen was at the top of my purse, exactly where I’d placed it, my list was nowhere.  Once again, I looked through my entire purse, thinking maybe it had slipped down inside, but it had vanished.  So, I had to do my grocery shopping from memory and, with my hormone-affected, sleep-deprived brain, didn’t purchase several needed items. 

“Brain Dead” Example 3

This morning was the worst example of how much I’ve degenerated.  I didn’t sleep well again last night, so I didn’t wake up until 8 a.m.  While my son and I were eating breakfast, I looked at the microwave clock and panicked because it was 8:35 a.m., I hadn’t yet showered, my son was still in his pajamas, and we needed to leave at 9 a.m. for his gymnastics class.

We rushed around, leaving 10 minutes late, only to walk in to our local recreation center and see my friend whose son is in the class before my son’s. 

She looked at us, surprised, and asked, “Are you just here really early?”

I looked at my watch. 

9:20.

And, only then did it register.  My son’s class is at 10:15.

We have the same schedule every week.  It’s written in my calendar, but I know the schedule so well that I have it committed to memory.  Or at least I used to have it committed to memory.

Now, I have no memory. 

I have gone from sharp to ditsy, flighty, disorganized.  And, even my attempts to overcome my problem are backfiring. 

This must be what it feels like when Alzheimer’s first hits—memory loss and confusion, followed by periods of full cognition in which you recognize how your brain is failing you.  Thankfully, pregnancy isn’t a lifelong condition, so my “pregnancy brain” will recover. 

Until then, my psychiatrist, whom I regaled with these stories today, said I have to get more sleep—lots more sleep.

P.S. My son and I just finished doing a dinosaur puzzle, and he announced, “I’m smarter than you.  I am.  Because you have ‘the pregnancy brain.’”

Take this round of trying to have a baby, for example.  I’ve gained 14.6 pounds since March, when I was convinced that I had gotten pregnant naturally because of numerous symptoms, but was frustrated by negative pregnancy test after negative pregnancy test.  (I’m now convinced my egg was fertilized, but didn’t implant, my problem of the past.)  Well, to be honest, I gained that nearly 15 pounds not since March, but in March, and simply haven’t lost it since, because I’m an emotional eater who copes with anxiety with food intake.  Last night, for example, I ordered a deep-pizza to help me kick-off in vitro fertilization (IVF) Cycle #2, and, you know what?  It did help.

But when I’m experiencing stress, I don’t just overeat; I also suffer from severe insomnia.  I can routinely be up for four or five hours in the middle of the night, night after night after night.  I have heavy-duty sleep medication prescribed for me, because nothing else works.  I’ve tried every medication-free solution, from not drinking caffeine after 12 noon to deep-breathing exercises, with no success.  Tylenol® PM will put me to sleep for a few hours only.  Ambien® led to a crazy episode in which I tried to make a patch for my cat’s infected eye—out of band-aids, as if they’d stick on his hair.  I thought I’d dreamed it, until I saw dozens of band-aids strewn across my bed.  Embarrassing… 

So, my doc prescribed 100mg of Trazodone, which she described as a medication that was originally used for depression, but, because it made patients zombies, was changed to a sleep aid.  It is very effective, but it’s strong, and I want my body to be as medication-free as possible in case I get pregnant, so I’m not taking it.  So, I have to live with the insomnia. 

This morning, I woke up at 12:45 a.m. and couldn’t fall back to sleep, so I got up and started doing laundry, picking up toys, reading the papers I hadn’t gotten to yet.  I have no control over whether or not I get pregnant, so I try to gain some minimal amount of control through these small accomplishments—the folded clothes in the laundry basket, the clean family room floor, the now-read newspapers in the recycling bin.  Because the Gonal-f® and Menopur® make me tired, my insomnia only lasted three hours and 15 minutes, until 4 a.m., when I was able to crawl back into bed and fall immediately to sleep.

Today, I’m already going against my vow to forego caffeine, because I am too tired to function—with my combo of infertility meds and insomnia—without my regular Coke®.  So, today, I promised myself that I will not drink caffeine starting the day of my embryo transfer, because only then would caffeine do any harm to my baby.  Making myself quit in advance was unnecessary overachievement.

What I find most difficult right now is that I am very self-aware, yet can’t turn that into progress.  I have full knowledge of all of my issues.  I have read everything printed (for the general public) about eating disorders, anxiety, insomnia, infertility and its emotional impact, and so on.  Yet I still am subject to the way my body is hard-wired, and it’s hard-wired to be Type-A, to be perfectionistic, to be “anxiety-full” in the face of significant stressors, rather than anxiety-free. 

When my husband and I were first dating five years ago, he was amazed at how Zen I was.  And, I was Zen because, after six unsuccessful donor-insemination attempts, I was finally pregnant.  And, although my pregnancy was high-risk, although my doctor originally told me that I could miscarry at any time, although I was dilated and hospitalized at 27 weeks (of the normal 40-week pregnancy), although I was hospitalized again at 31 weeks because I was further dilated and having contractions, although I was on and off of bed rest, I was at peace as long as my baby was still inside of me. 

So, I just need to hold on through this period in which I’m unable to manage my anxiety and its repercussions, because I will hopefully be pregnant soon, and then Type-A, Generalized-Anxiety-Disorder Me will become Zen Me.

Feel free to say prayers, send good wishes, and keep your fingers crossed for me…