I don't know what's going on. But I'm in a mood. A deep, intractable, immobile, dark mood.
Part of it is pain. I am running out of places to stick myself with progesterone in my haunches that don't hurt. Sitting down hurts. Walking hurts. Sticking myself hurts.
Part of it is boredom. I am preoccupied with my body, and how it feels, and how it is changing, and managing the parts of it that don't feel well - my nausea, my fatigue, my soreness. These things crowd into my brain and crowd out everything else, like creativity, curiosity, attention. And then I soon grow bored with myself. I can no longer stand how tedious the inside of my mind has become, which is to say a catalogue of symptoms instead of a person, or a collection of ideas.
And then, because I feel like I am losing a part of myself that matters, I grow despondent.
And I worry this is who I am going to be now. A suffering body instead of a mind.
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
Thursday, March 28, 2019
10 Weeks
A brain. Little waving arms. And two itty bitty stub feet. A beating heart.
Crazy.
I can't believe three months ago I was just doing this for the myth of closure.
Waving arms. Waving!
Crazy.
I can't believe three months ago I was just doing this for the myth of closure.
Waving arms. Waving!
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
Freakout
My tummy is sticking out. Just a little bit. It looks like I had a really big meal, or I'm really constipated, and I hate it.
"You don't look fat," L tried to reassure me. "You're pregnant."
"I hate it!" I wailed to him. "Everything hurts. My tits hurt. My ass hurts. I hate feeling tired, and sick. I nicked my nerve with the PIO shot this morning and now my entire left leg hurts, even my knee. And if I hate it this much now, how much am I going to hate it later?"
He urged me to stay home, and it just made it worse. "I want to go to work! I want to use my brain! The answer is not to lock me up in this tiny apartment!"
Poor L. I have tried to assure him that just because I hate being pregnant doesn't mean I regret doing all this. I tell myself that this will actually be over pretty quickly, all things considered, and I never have to do it again. And when it's over I'll forget about it.
But I knew I would hate it. I hate being out of control. My mother hated it, too. She said the only other time she felt so out of control was when she had cancer. That's not exactly a ringing endorsement.
People keep telling me it's different in the second trimester. I hope so. But I have my doubts.
"You don't look fat," L tried to reassure me. "You're pregnant."
"I hate it!" I wailed to him. "Everything hurts. My tits hurt. My ass hurts. I hate feeling tired, and sick. I nicked my nerve with the PIO shot this morning and now my entire left leg hurts, even my knee. And if I hate it this much now, how much am I going to hate it later?"
He urged me to stay home, and it just made it worse. "I want to go to work! I want to use my brain! The answer is not to lock me up in this tiny apartment!"
Poor L. I have tried to assure him that just because I hate being pregnant doesn't mean I regret doing all this. I tell myself that this will actually be over pretty quickly, all things considered, and I never have to do it again. And when it's over I'll forget about it.
But I knew I would hate it. I hate being out of control. My mother hated it, too. She said the only other time she felt so out of control was when she had cancer. That's not exactly a ringing endorsement.
People keep telling me it's different in the second trimester. I hope so. But I have my doubts.
Monday, March 18, 2019
8 1/2 Weeks
Which makes me think of "9 1/2 Weeks," the erotic thriller starring Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke back when he was still hot, and that taught a generation of Boomers that they should consider smearing food all over each other erotic. Spoiler alert: it's just sticky.
Succotash looks "perfect." Heart beating, little fish body, floating around in there. It's very mysterious, because though my breasts have outgrown their bras, and I have had persistent nausea, I haven't gained any weight nor appreciably changed shape. It's hard to believe he's really in there, drifting about on the tides of my body.
I read somewhere that our body is the same percentage salt water as the face of the earth. I wonder if that's true. I like thinking about it, so I hope that it is. It speaks to a pre-Scientific Revolution understanding of how the world is put together - suggesting that there is some kind of divine proportion between the heavens, the earth, our bodies, our souls. It's alchemical thinking, is what it is, and feels true even when it isn't. Then again, maybe we give science too much credit.
"I think this happened just because I challenged you to beat Dr. Big Guns," I said to Dr. Small Guns.
She smirked, pleased with herself. "They get those reputations, at Fancy Ivy League Research Hospital," she said. She dropped her voice and added "But they aren't any better."
Dr. Small Guns has the good magic. She understands the tides that we are now drifting on, together.
Succotash looks "perfect." Heart beating, little fish body, floating around in there. It's very mysterious, because though my breasts have outgrown their bras, and I have had persistent nausea, I haven't gained any weight nor appreciably changed shape. It's hard to believe he's really in there, drifting about on the tides of my body.
I read somewhere that our body is the same percentage salt water as the face of the earth. I wonder if that's true. I like thinking about it, so I hope that it is. It speaks to a pre-Scientific Revolution understanding of how the world is put together - suggesting that there is some kind of divine proportion between the heavens, the earth, our bodies, our souls. It's alchemical thinking, is what it is, and feels true even when it isn't. Then again, maybe we give science too much credit.
"I think this happened just because I challenged you to beat Dr. Big Guns," I said to Dr. Small Guns.
She smirked, pleased with herself. "They get those reputations, at Fancy Ivy League Research Hospital," she said. She dropped her voice and added "But they aren't any better."
Dr. Small Guns has the good magic. She understands the tides that we are now drifting on, together.
Thursday, March 7, 2019
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Our First Difference of Opinion
Me: I'm going to order fancy and delicious udon noodle soup with lots of fresh veggies and maybe a couple of pot stickers from that place that is so good and delicious.
Succotash: I want chilaquiles.
Me: Who said that?
Succotash: Me. I want chilaquiles!
Me: You don't even know what chilaquiles are.
Succotash: Yeah but you do, and you are looking at a new Mexican delivery place, and it's got a coupon and they do chilaquiles all day. Get us chilaquiles!
Me: But....
Succotash: And guacamole.
Me: But.....
Succotash: The large one.
Me: Okay.
Succotash: I want chilaquiles.
Me: Who said that?
Succotash: Me. I want chilaquiles!
Me: You don't even know what chilaquiles are.
Succotash: Yeah but you do, and you are looking at a new Mexican delivery place, and it's got a coupon and they do chilaquiles all day. Get us chilaquiles!
Me: But....
Succotash: And guacamole.
Me: But.....
Succotash: The large one.
Me: Okay.
Thursday, February 28, 2019
Shock
I spent so much time worrying over our appointment today that now that it's over, and all is well, and everything looks wonderful, and there's a yolk sac and even a faint faint heartbeat (whaaaaat?), I now am unable to process how I feel.
Relief, certainly. Also, shock that this process actually seems to have worked. Also, anxiety over logistics.
When I am stressed I typically turn my mind immediately to logistics.
Right now, I am sitting in a ball on the sofa, numb.
Moments of excitement burst through, but they are too much to process, so when I feel them, I shut down again.
"I need to crate myself," I told L. Who, incidentally, started to cry at the end of the appointment.
"I know that," he said. "You know why?"
"Because you've lived with me for twenty years?" I guessed.
Probably.
Holy crap, Succotash.
In between all this storm of unimaginable emotion, I have time to wonder who you are. What kind of person might you be, stewing in there. Tenacious, in that you didn't let being graded only b/c quality stop you. I admire that. I like to think that you, like me, don't like being told the odds on things. That you might be the kind of person who says, who are you, to grade me, and think that means anything? You don't know. Just you wait and see.
Relief, certainly. Also, shock that this process actually seems to have worked. Also, anxiety over logistics.
When I am stressed I typically turn my mind immediately to logistics.
Right now, I am sitting in a ball on the sofa, numb.
Moments of excitement burst through, but they are too much to process, so when I feel them, I shut down again.
"I need to crate myself," I told L. Who, incidentally, started to cry at the end of the appointment.
"I know that," he said. "You know why?"
"Because you've lived with me for twenty years?" I guessed.
Probably.
Holy crap, Succotash.
In between all this storm of unimaginable emotion, I have time to wonder who you are. What kind of person might you be, stewing in there. Tenacious, in that you didn't let being graded only b/c quality stop you. I admire that. I like to think that you, like me, don't like being told the odds on things. That you might be the kind of person who says, who are you, to grade me, and think that means anything? You don't know. Just you wait and see.
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