I Don’t Belong in this Shell

Here I am all in my head, like always, but it’s getting worse again. Ever since I quit my job, I’ve been in my head. Over and over on repeat, the grim reaper is back in full throttle. Like I’ve been before, agonizing over my eventual death. How can this be? You may ask, why would a normally healthy 39 year old woman even be thinking of those things? Because I am broken, that’s why. These are the things that haunt me in the quiet, things that if I’m not busy, or with people, creep into my thoughts and plague me. I’ve been thinking of talking to someone, someone who can talk me off the ledge so to speak, and then I got in the shower today, and as I ran my hands over my body, to clean it, I thought to myself how I don’t belong in this shell, this is not the vision I have of myself. My 150 pounds OVER the weight I should be self. I don’t belong with these layers of rolling fat, and a neck that I can’t even recognize myself from the side. I thought about how I need to get back to the gym, for so many reasons, but mainly to feel better about myself.

The problem is partly I don’t have the time, because I am constantly needed for something at the house and partly because I just am not ready to stop eating junk. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s easy and it tastes good. But the main problem is I NEED to stop. I need to stop now. The last time I weighed myself was months ago and I was overweight by 120 lbs. I see myself in the mirror and I don’t see someone that big. But I took sideways pics of myself going through the drive through the other day and I didn’t even recognize myself.

Now I come to my health, I am freaking out about every little ache and pain I get. Joe has said I have become a hypochondriac, but I really have. I worry everything is cancer. What if it is? I have to come to peace with dying. It will happen one day. I have to find a way to find peace in it. It is such a sad, scary concept to me, I cannot process it in a common sense way. I have pain in my back, and people told me to see a chiropractor. He cracks my neck, and now I’m having all kinds of weird pain in my throat/neck region. Is it related? My back still hurts, and I don’t feel like its magical in any way shape or form. But the massages are nice, and I will continue to take that aspect.

But why do I automatically go to the worst case scenario? Why am I so doom and gloom? Can’t I get it together and have some sanity for once? I feel like my fears seep into my relationship and they make me a paranoid crazy person. He feels it, the kids feel it, I feel it. I’ve had the doctor test me for various ailments and they all come back fine. How can it be in my head if I truly feel the physical pain? How can the physical pain somehow go away when the doctor tells me I’m fine? I don’t feel crazy. I don’t feel like I’m making it up. It’s like the boy who cried wolf. I’m constantly complaining of some ailment that Joe has become immune to it, and either doesn’t care, or thinks I’m being a lunatic and overreacting. So, when I tell him something I’m scared about, he tells me I’m being irrational and blows me off. So, I can’t talk to him about it anymore. Which leads me full circle back to having to work out. Not only will it mentally make me feel better, but my waistline will start shrinking…and, I need that.

When you’re not good enough…for even yourself

It sucks when you’ve figured out that you’re not good enough. You were flying high for a moment, thinking all was good in the world, thinking you weren’t alone, that you had life under control. Then, something happens, and it turns it upside down. All those inferior thoughts come creeping back into your brain, inch by inch, you can feel them painfully make their way through your veins.

I feel so discouraged, after having a fourth child, I feel underwater, buried alive, unable to breath. I’ve started and stopped a healthy eating plan and work out routine a dozen times and now, I’m left, feeling defeated and fat. I sit here in my bathrobe, covered completely because I feel so completely vulnerable. I don’t want an inch of my skin showing. This coming from someone who freely prances around the house naked as the day I was born, and lay in bed, legs wide open, not a care in the world. But here I am, self conscious, feeling my droopy fat hang off my body in the most disgusting of ways. Knowing when I sit a certain way, my neck creates a chin that is so large, it rivals Fat Bastard from Austin Powers. I told my husband I felt like he didn’t want to have sex with me, and his response was, do you want to have sex with me? To which I replied, well, yeah. And in that moment, I felt degraded and humiliated. Obviously, the answer was no, no he doesn’t want to have sex with me. How could he? I mean, I have fat literally hanging off of my every inch, scars all over my body. I had a breast reduction and the scars it left me with cover my entire chest, including 6 inches into each of my sides. This extra scarring, left these horrendous gapping skin, that just folds over onto my body. I was humiliated at the doctor when I wasn’t able to see my surgeon and the doctor I saw told me I was just fat, if I lost some weight, that wouldn’t do that. That was 130 lbs (lighter) ago. Left more than physical scars. When I responded to my husbands question, I felt like Fat Monica from friends, giddy, knowing she was fat, but the joke is on her. Some days I feel pretty, because my hair and make up are done really nice, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in a window reflection or someone gets a picture of me and I’m reminded of how obese I am. I don’t feel obese in my head, I feel skinny. I walk around the house naked and act like I love my body, but my body hates me. I can feel every tinge of hate when it runs stabbing pain down my legs, flickering lightning strike pains into my feet and knees. When I was putting mascara on, I leaned over the vanity sink and my flappy stomach sort of rested on top of the counter. Mortifying. But a simple realization occurred. The stress and strain it took off my back having that literal weight lifted off of me was amazing. Suffering from chronic back pain my entire life, I’m no stranger to the effects of a bad back. I’ve done physical therapy, therapeutic massage, ibuprofen, everything. Massage at least lets me escape for a little while and makes me feel wonderful. It makes me rejuvenated. My husband keeps telling me to go to the doctor about it, but there really is nothing they can do. He tells me he doesn’t want me ending up in a wheelchair someday because of my bad back. Wake up call? Maybe, but again, how to start? One day, one bite, one step at a time. Sure…easier said than done…especially when I’m stressed, overwhelmed and made to feel like a failure.

After this discussion led to other things, my husband then proceeded to tell me how all of his friends basically hate me, because I’m such an overbearing bitch. Well, isn’t that nice? Now I feel worthless physically and emotionally. How am I supposed to ever look at them again? Thinking they think this of me? On top of thoughts of why in the hell is he still with me? If I’m that terrible, why? If I’m so fat, why? I took the one thing he loved about my body, and hacked it all to pieces. I’ve gained and lost over 200 lbs or more over the course of our relationship. In fact, I was married before him and that marriage ended because I got on the fat rollercoaster and never got off. And he was only 130 lbs and he couldn’t stand it. Even told me I disgusted him. I literally felt like I could break him in half and thought I might sometime.

I am falling apart. I have this fat hanging off me, scars everywhere, being obese, I’m put in a category with a higher incidence of getting cancer. I have to have a mole removed that looks suspicious. Just add that to the list of scars on my body, hoping it isn’t cancer at this point. At one time I thought about getting my first tattoo about scars and how they’re beautiful, but they aren’t. At all. They suck, they make me feel un-pretty. They make me feel gross and they make me self conscious. Some days I like the reminder that the scars have a story and the story is beautiful, but other days I look at them and stare at them in horror. What happened to my body? Where did it go? My husband tells me I had children and to give myself a break. But I don’t. I can’t.

My husband had the excuse of not having sex, being that I’m always sick. Like I have control over that. After I had our last baby, I had high blood pressure, which almost landed me back in the hospital, then I had major baby blues, where I was crying all the time. Then our baby had colic, which made me super depressed. Then I was afraid of getting a UTI, because the last time we had a baby I got a UTI that lasted for 5 months. So I waiting one month after the 6 week check up to make sure my pill was good and we didn’t need any other protection. Well, guess the fuck what? I got a UTI. No way! What the hell. another month later and I think it’s gone, but he’s right, it’s been a shit show. But like any of it was pleasant and like any of it I wanted to happen.

He brought up how damaging it was for him to undergo the IVF with me. Poking me all the time, all the appointments, everything he did, FOR ME. He has to point that out all the time. It was for me, he was fine with three kids, but I HAD TO HAVE ANOTHER ONE. Shame on me. I realize it was hard on him, not even a percentage of how hard it was on me, both emotionally and physically, but I get it. Why he’s waited until this moment a year later to tell me that baffles me.

I get in this dark space after we have a come to Jesus talk like that. My body hurts and I begin to tell myself all the things I won’t do anymore. I won’t call him, I won’t answer the phone or text him (because it sure seems he’s doing those things out of obligation, even though he claims he isn’t, actions speak louder than words), I won’t be naked in front of him, I will for real lose weight, I will not talk to him and bug him, or nag him or have really any contact with him at all. One word answers and a hollow shell. He asked what I was thinking and I told him I felt like retreating into my shell, and he snidely says, oh, like you already do anyways. Wow. How low I feel, and then I’m emotionally kicked down again. I’m struggling with everything. He has no idea. He makes rude comments about the house looking like shit, when I get the feeling he expects me to do it while I’m home, even though I’m busy with a fucking 4 month old baby. Like, sure, let me go ahead and scrub the floors and let her cry in the back ground. Not to mention the sheer amount of shit we have in our house, that doubles and triples every single day when our kids come home from school. Like what the hell am I supposed to do with it all. I sell it, I throw it away. It’s not a secret I like to buy stuff, especially right now, it makes me feel good. I wish I could adopt the one thing in, one thing out, rule, but it’s hard. Part of me wants another baby, because I don’t want to be done, but we are drowning now with four and with my health and age, going through the whole thing again, frankly scares the crap out of me. But because of that, I am trying to sell baby things as we are done with them, but some clothes and things, I don’t want to. My husband has declared he is done. He adamantly states he is done, he refuses to acknowledge anything else. It pisses me off.

Just today, I told my husband I wanted to take some time to take pictures of clothes to photograph to sell, and I was up in the baby’s room about 38 minutes before all hell broke lose downstairs, I hear screaming and yelling that I need to stop doing it and help out. I can’t even take care of business when I need to. I’m currently on maternity leave, and while the plan my job offers is incredibly generous, I now am in the range of pay where my pay is about a 1/4 what it was before. That is hard. I’m struggling. I’m trying to figure out where the money is going to come from to pay simple bills, like my student loans. That is why I’m selling this stuff. To pay for living right now. For those wondering, my husband and I keep our finances separate. It’s just easier. I don’t expect him to pay my student loans. But right now, things are rough. I go back to work in a month from today and while I’m dreading every single second of it, I’m looking forward to having money again.

The screaming and madness in our household right now has me embarrassed and ashamed. We don’t scream at each other, but we scream at the kids. They are terrible. We have lost control. 100%. I feel it in the neighbors short conversations with us, they can hear us yelling. Our houses are about 25 feet away. And with thin walls, no doubt they hear us. We are horrible parents sometimes. I am losing my mind with three boys. I don’t want to yell at them, I want to snuggle with them. The problem is, when they have exhausted us completely, that’s when they ask for snuggles and I am too fucking tired to do it. I feel like a horrible mom. My 7 year old has decided he wants to learn multiplication even though they don’t teach it until the next grade and my husband gives him the third degree grilling him as to why he wants to learn it. Why the hell does it matter? He wants to learn it and he’s excited about it. Keep his spark alive, don’t douse it in water. We are having legit behavioral issues in my two littlest boys, and one might be diagnosed with ADHD, they really all seem to fit the bill for that…does that mean they are just boys being boys or do they really have a problem. I’m lost.

I’m going to bed. Hopefully I’ll feel better about myself tomorrow morning.

 

I’ll Start Tomorrow…I mean…Today

I was so fit before I got pregnant. I worked my body to a state I never had before, I was strong and felt good and had energy. I got myself to the goal I had set for myself, that the doctor told me was a good place to be at for IVF to work. I lost 55 lbs in order to do that. It was torture at first, I hated depriving myself of food to maintain a certain calorie count every day. I hated the energy I had to put forth to burn calories. But over time, as I saw results, I felt great, and it got more and more fun. To the point I began wanting to do more and looking forward to it. I even got into the gym for an early morning workout the day of my embryo transfer, man did it feel good, mentally and physically. But then I had the transfer and I was on bed rest for 4 days. I didn’t want to move, fearful I would shake the baby embryo out of me. I was cautious with every step, not bouncing or walking too fast. Not wanting to bend over in case it caused my stomach muscles to expel her out of me. I know, it’s pure ridiculousness, but so much goes into it, your soul feels like it’s at stake. Once I got the positive pregnancy test I became even more sloth-like, refusing to do any physical work at my job. Not doing anything physical at home, all based on fears of losing my precious cargo. I noticed aches and pains coming back, and I noticed my lack of concern for what I was eating. Every time I would go to the doctor, you know, they make you step on the scale, to make you feel like an extra-large fry. I always preface my hopping up there with a quick, ‘please don’t tell me how much I weigh, I prefer not to know until the end of my pregnancy, so I don’t get depressed’ followed with a nervous laugh and that was that. Of course it was hard to move or get up, I mean, you have what can only be described as a soccer ball hanging out under many layers of added insulation for little peanut. Making sitting, laying, standing, or even squatting/kneeling or just living, difficult. So trying to hide under the guise of pregnancy only goes so far when your ass seems to be on an echo delay every time you walk. But, as promised, I stepped on the scale the morning of my c-section and I just about fell off the scale. Not only did I gain the most weight I have ever gained in a pregnancy, BUT, I gained almost 100 lbs!!! I was a whopping 93.5 lbs heavier than when I started. Holy shit. It was in that moment all I could think was ‘what the hell have I done?’.

Long road ahead seems contrite knowing the pathway back and having done it a million times before. But after baby got here and my blood pressure leveled out, I gave myself 6 weeks of postpartum bliss in eating whatever my heart desires, I mean, I did just have a baby after all, I deserve it, right? Well, I did lose weight, subsequently, with the baby NOT being on the inside anymore, hahahahaha. But not much. I lost 30 lbs without even trying the first 4 weeks of coming home from the hospital. But that slowly crept back up and down for the remaining weeks. After 6 weeks, I began eating better but wasn’t really ready to get back to working out. Week 7, I fell off. ‘I’ll start up again on Monday’ I told myself, as we all do, like broken records of the dieting world. Week 8, I was gung-ho and ready to take this diet by the horns. I was solid and even went back to the pool to swim laps like I love doing so much. Until a small tragedy occurred at the pool. I’ll start from the beginning, because, everyone loves a good mini-series….

When I go to the pool, which I have been doing for most of my adult life to swim laps, I wear goggles. I get myself into my bathing suit, spritz some anti-fog into my goggles and let it sit while I finish getting ready to get into the pool. Then, as I’m walking out to the deck, I dry them with my towel. Dive into the deep end of the pool and do a quick rinse of the goggles and press them into my face and get moving. Never.ever.had.one.issue. Until I switched the routine. So this time, week 8 postpartum, I got into my suit, I spritzed the anti-fog into my goggles, without spritzing any crusties off first (since I hadn’t swam in almost 1 year). I dried them off, like always, and I hopped in the shower. I know, I know, you are always supposed to shower (with soap) before you get into the pool, but I never did. I’m guilty of that. But, now, I know the pool staff are being crazy strict about it and making you go back and shower if you aren’t wet when you enter the pool area. So, since my face was already wet from my shower, I just went right ahead and put my goggles directly on my face, without rinsing them out, because the suction was okay from my wet face. About two laps into my swim, I noticed stinging in my right eye, but figured chlorine somehow got into my goggle and I was going to have to deal with it. I pushed through the pain, even though it stung and my eyesight was fuzzy. It took me longer than I hoped to finish a mile, and at 55 minutes, I was relieved to take off my goggles and rinse off my eye. Only to be in excruciating pain and have complete loss of vision in my right eye. I had no idea what had happened, but I had to get help. I staggered back to the locker room and thought I should sit in the sauna for a minute to regroup. Maybe I just needed to sit and let my vision come back, but that was a no go. It just got worse, and now I feel like I’m going to vomit because my equilibrium is all off. I stumbled to my locker in a complete panic, hoping no one is noticing my craziness. I put my sunglasses on grasping my right eye (after I’m all dressed, of course, lol) and lose no time while running to my van. I called Joe to tell him I’m in distress and he tells me not to drive. But I’m in so much pain I can’t wait. I begin driving home, in what I can describe as a drive that had to be led by my guardian angel, because I was screaming in pain the entire way and prying my right eye open with my right hand, because my eye was twitching and my eyelid was having muscle spasms forcing me to close me eyes. Not good while driving 80 mph on the freeway. I think I made record breaking time getting home in 15 minutes, when it’s normally a 25 minute drive. I was in the shower screaming in pain all night…no sleep for me. Until morning came and I forced Joe to take me to the emergency room. They determined I got a mild chemical burn on my cornea, and the discomfort led to me rubbing so vigorously I inadvertently tore my cornea in the process…directly in the center field of vision, which is why I lost vision in that eye. It was worse pain than my c-section and I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone. They actually gave me some pretty hard narcotics at the ER, and I swear to God, those little heavenly pills didn’t even touch the pain. Not even a little bit.

So, there’s where week 8 became derailed. And the train has wanted to leave the station again, but without the motivation, it seems impossible. I couldn’t actually get in the pool and swim laps again until my eye completely healed. And it took weeks, I mean, literally, blurry vision for 5 weeks after that. And then I begin the torture of telling myself, I’ll start on Monday. No, really, this Monday for sure….and then a donut magically hops into my mouth, and then, because I just ruined it with the donut, a pizza won’t hurt either. And then it’s gone. Dead and gone.

But then my mom called me and offered to watch the baby while I go swim. I can’t say no. I mean, this is what I WANTED to do. But, it’s not Monday. I guess I’m starting today. Well, you gotta start sometime right? I dread every second getting to the gym. Not wanting to get undressed and put on my bathing suit (that is toooooooo tight I might add), not wanting to tempt fate with that stupid anti-fog and the goggles, not wanting to be cold and get wet, and really not wanting to work, or be hungry today. But it’s time. It’s time to shed the 93.5 lbs this pregnancy gave me the excuse to gain.

As I was walking into the gym, I couldn’t help but notice a woman in her 60’s probably, walking with a walker. I thought to myself, as I sped past her, on my able-bodied legs and feet, how much that will be me if I don’t shed this weight now. I’m already struggling with major pains in my feet, knees, back and all my joints. I can’t be 40 years old and struggling to bend over, like I am now. It kept me motivated to keep going, knowing how good I will feel when I lose some weight. I felt great after my swim, and went to Subway to have a sub by myself, and it felt good to be able to say I’m back in, even it I did start on a Tuesday.

The Dark Side of Having a Newborn

Having a new baby is a glorious time. It’s also the time when you are poised on the brink of insanity and dangled like a chew toy for the family dog. And it begins the moment when they hold a crying newborn in front of you, while you are trying to not vomit, while being splayed open like a blonde scream queen in the latest horror flick, all during your cesarean. The thoughts running through your mind run the gamut from euphoria for seeing this beautiful child you created, to fear for having said child, to pain and discomfort having just gone through bringing that baby into this world.

For me, I had so many fantasies for what the hospital stay was going to look like. I brought my comfy clothes, and my big girl camera, and my make up bag. I planned out all the photos I was going to take of my new sweet baby girl and planned on looking pretty for photos my husband was going to take of me holding the baby. Being that this was our FOURTH child, I knew what to expect, I knew what the room was going to look like, I was (kind of) excited for the hospital food, because it’s good damnit! But what I got was far from my fantasy. The baby never left our room, not once, and she cried out of starvation 24/7. My husband and myself were arguing most of the time with very little love being passed around the room. I could breathe in his resentment for me wanting this baby like thick smoke at a bonfire. I was awake the first night, the entire night, begging him to help me, with only attitude being thrown back at me. Infuriated, I stayed awake with her, trying to attempt to figure this new little being out, without being able to get up or move at all, because I was on some heavy pain killers (ones that make you so sleepy you can’t hold your eyelids open if you try) and I still had a catheter attached and my legs were stuck in this blood-clot-reducing blow-up toy. I felt helpless. Completely helpless. This is where it began, this is the beginning of the darkness. My husband didn’t take one picture of me holding the baby, not one. I didn’t get my big girl camera out once. I didn’t put make-up on. I barely brushed my hair or teeth the entire time there. I did however enjoy the food, that is, after the first night, when I unexpectedly threw up in a plastic bag while sitting on the toilet for the first time. Sigh.

Battling the baby blues, which I expected because with every child I had it. Not full-on postpartum depression, but a mild form. The space where you are weepy and cry at the drop of a hat, that kind. It is very difficult to maintain your sanity when you are crying all the time and not sleeping much. Not knowing why you’re crying, but it’s happening anyway, is what will drag you into the darkness.

We brought baby girl home and thought it was going well, until about week 4, when all she did was cry. She cried all day long, with no end in sight, just crying, and screaming and making my anxiety rise. This lasted 6-7 weeks after that point. I went into a dark place. I began to hate her. I had imagined what my time off with her was going to be like and this was nothing like it. I began wishing my days with her away. Those thoughts just made me cry harder. How could I do that? I wanted her so bad, and here she is and all I can do is dream of going to sleep so I could get some peace for a few hours? What a horrible mother I felt like.

Then there’s my house. I had my house completely clean from top to bottom before the baby got here. It was even repainted and dirt scrubbed off the walls (by me, of course). The attention to detail was amazing. I was proud and ready to have people come over to visit. Well, that didn’t last, because our house quickly fell apart, with toys EVERYWHERE, stuff EVERYWHERE, clothes EVERYWHERE, trash EVERYWHERE, dirty dishes overflowing in the sink, even fruit flies taking over our kitchen from the mess. And I was feeling like I couldn’t even keep my head above water with the baby, much less the house. I was getting zero help with any of it. I would clean something and it would take me forever, and the older kids would come home and they would trash it and I would crumble. I knew I had to do something. I just didn’t have the time to invest in the house with a baby that wouldn’t let me put her down for a minute. Forget the baby carriers, what a back breaker. For someone with chronic back pain, those are torture devices, not to mention how bad my back was getting, carrying her around all the time and having just had her. I felt like I was dying. And I couldn’t even get in to see my massage therapist.

So here I am, carrying the burden of the baby, the household, the bills, the cleaning, the scheduling and I’m a ticking time bomb. No one is visiting me like I thought they would, and I’m alone. I’m home by myself, afraid to leave the house, because when I do and she starts crying, I panic, and sweat through all my clothes because of my anxiety. I feel like I’m trapped and I resent her for crying so much and I feel like I’m a failure at everything related to motherhood. I have my older children talking back to me, not respecting me. I have a house falling apart, and a credit card bill that’s rising due to my late night pick-me-up, online shopping. I was feeling out of control. Very out of control. I stopped taking pictures of her every day because all she did was cry and I was going insane. After a few weeks of this I told my husband and my parents I was going crazy. I told them I couldn’t do it anymore and I needed help. Neither one had any idea I was feeling that way. They tried to help, offering suggestions for things I already tried, both completely forgetting my anxiety and not having an understanding for what that actually means. It means my heart races all the time, but beats out of my chest when she cries. My body tightens and gets tense at the thought of her crying. My IBS acts up and I am using the bathroom all the time. I begin to sweat and get so hot it’s hard to breathe. I get tightness in my chest that feels like a panic attack and there’s nothing I can do about it, it just happens. And unless you have gone through it, you don’t know, and unfortunately that is why I’m misunderstood. They suggested I take her to the park, but she cried every time I strapped her in her car seat. They suggested I take her for a drive, but she just screamed the entire time. It wasn’t until the whole family was over and everyone tried everything and all she did was cry, for 4 straight hours, being held, being loved, being bopped around to relieve gas. Nothing worked. For anyone. Then they understood. All of them did. I began getting out of the house when my husband came home from work. I would run an errand or two. Meandering down every aisle at Target to get away and get some quiet me time.

Struggling to heal myself, and get myself emotionally stable was hard. I feel like I’ve pulled myself out of the darkness, and I’m beginning to see the light. It’s a new day and I’m getting the house in control, the kids in control, my body and my mind in control, and the baby is turning a corner into a happier state of being, as she coos and smiles and chills for a little longer. And at this point, after 10.5 weeks of her being on the outside, I’ll take all I can get.

Happy Birth Day Little Miss

The day has come and gone and I am still here on this earth, living and breathing and enjoying my newborn baby girl, despite my number of fears. Going back to the day though, feels no less scary as it did in that moment.

The night before, I was wide awake, midnight came and went, 1am, 2 am, 3 am, still awake. Finding things to busy myself, whipping out the sewing machine and sewing a pillow cover I had sold that week. Cleaning the master bedroom, and packing all the stuff for the hospital. I finally decided I should get some shred of sleep for the big day and I laid down and fell asleep. Only to wake a few hours later to get ready and leave.

We pulled up to the hospital, me only thinking the worst, fears in high alert now. Fighting back tears telling my husband my wishes for certain things, like not to bury me with my wedding ring, to keep it for the kids. I could barely speak at this point, tears welling in my eyes like water balloons ready to explode. My husband asked me if I wanted him to drop me off at the door, and I told him I wanted to walk, so we parked and walked inside. I felt like dead man walking, quiet as a mouse, just thinking and being totally up in my head. A moment of complete excitement and all I could do was be afraid.

We went up the elevator and checked in at the desk, a moment later a nurse came and got me and we walked the loooonnnnnggggg corridor to the triage area for surgery prep. My surgery was scheduled for 10:15am. We got there at 8:15 am just like they asked. Immediately the nurse began asking a bunch of questions to find out medical history and started an IV. IV’s suck for me because my veins are horrible to find, but she found it right away without having to poke me twice. Thank God. So we sat there, me on this very hard, very uncomfortable exam bed, in a gown, IV attached and ready to go. And with the two hour prep window before surgery, I laid there all up in my head. My phone there to distract me, battery slowly dying as the minutes tick on. And we come up to my surgery time, when they inform me an emergency took precedence and my time slot was bumped back a bit. No time estimate was given and I am just laying there, scared to death, anxious beyond belief that now I am prolonging the inevitable. When I met the anesthesiologist and nurse anesthetist I told them how I get really sick with the spinal and I would like to not be puking through the whole thing. I told them that my last c-section went really well because I told them my issues and they gave me something to combat it. They told me they could see what they could do, but with my high blood pressure it would have to be a wait and see kind of thing. When my doctor came in, I cheered, literally raising my arms in touchdown fashion, and audibly blurting out ‘You’re here!!!!!!!!!!’. She and the nurses were talking about how it was pushed back and she chuckled and said, ‘this is probably the worst person that could’ve happened to’ (talking about me and all my fears) and the nurse said ‘yeah, she’s been getting pretty worked up, but she’s okay now’. Because I had been crying off and on the entire time, thinking about what could go wrong. The nurse was talking at one point about the interns that were going to be watching and she said she’s had to talk them out of starting in Labor/Delivery, because it’s not always roses and sunshine, they can see a lot of bad things happen and it’s not a good place to want to start after medical school. While that may be true, it did nothing to ease any of my million-and-one fears.

So, it was time, they had me drink this sour substance that I’m no stranger to now, and as I was drinking it, something happened I can only explain as a reflex, because a bunch of it got spit out in an over-the-top comedic type of way. Then I walked into the operating room, a different one than I had been in previously. It was cold, sterile, smelled crisp like oxygen. They had me sit on the edge of the table and I held my doctors hand and rested my head on her shoulder, scared of the spinal. I squeezed her tight as they just went for it. Of course, they did the rundown of my stats, who I am, why I’m there, and any issues they may come across. They did their medical check that seems like a distant memory to me now, and when I was holding my doctor, she began asking me things to get my mind on other things, a tricky little deception whenever they are about to inflict pain. I felt this sheet of sticky material placed on my lower back and I felt fingers poking around, he told me he was just feeling to see where things were, and I thought there was more time before the poke, but there wasn’t. That’s when he just went for it. I felt a few pokes and a ‘filling’ sensation into my body, then a wave of strange came over me and they had me lay down. I felt like a mountain crumbling onto this tiny little table. Immediately I felt strange, I felt my legs sort of going numb, but I asked how they know I’m completely numb. They told me they will pinch me and they don’t tell me when they do it, and he told me if I don’t say anything, they proceed, they also asked me if I felt anything, after they did it and I said I didn’t think so, and he said, oh, you would know with how hard they pinch. And with that, the feeling in my lower body was gone.

Might I add that two weeks prior, I had a cold that left me with a lingering cough, that sucked to say the least. I was coughing the entire time, which was mildly annoying. At this point they brought my husband in to sit beside me. As I was laying there, I told the NA that was wasn’t feeling good, that I felt like I was going to throw up and there was nothing he could do at that point except get me a container to throw up in. Anyone who has thrown up during a cesarian knows how terrible it is. You have no feeling beyond your breasts and heaving into something with your arms strapped to a table, while being on your back, half able bodied and attached to a million monitors, is about the least fun experience ever. Basically vomit just pours out of your mouth into this container he holds up, sliding down your cheek in utter embarrassment. And it just keeps coming, over and over. While it did make me feel better to throw up, it just sucked. At one point I looked over and saw my stats on the monitor, and I saw my blood pressure dropped to 60/40, and that is why I was sick. Which is also why they couldn’t give me anything until they knew what my blood pressure was going to do. Every time it dipped and I got sick, they gave me something to help it go back up so I would feel better.

At this point I am feeling a lot of tugging, a lot of pressure. I am smelling the cauterized flesh that is my own, and I am trying to remain calm. I’m still alive up to this point, which I find reassuring. I ask a lot of questions through the sheet hanging directly in my face. Any time they said anything I didn’t know what it was, I asked what it meant, which wasn’t that much, but it kept my mind on simple things. I kept looking at my husband, and he kept looking in the reflection of this glass cabinet in the OR to catch a glimpse of something. It was a swift point of a lot of pressure, pressure that takes your breath away, and the NA asked my husband if he wanted to see his daughter being born, and he told him to stand up, and he did. At that exact moment of immense pressure there was a peaceful release, and then I heard the cries of my daughter. They brought her over to show me what she looked like and she was covered in the slick white stuff. They took her to clean her off and my husband went over to look at her and take pictures. I told the hospital staff I wanted to do skin-to-skin immediately and they brought her to me and placed her on my breasts. Because I only had one available arm/hand since the other arm was strapped down, the nurse holds baby to secure her while I can semi-hold her, but she is on me. It was magical. All I could do was cry. She was here, in my arms. I looked at her in awe and knew everything was worth it. They sewed me up, and it took a great amount of time, they tell me because of all the scar tissue. But having her on my chest helped pass the time. When it was ready to go to recovery, they all moved me over to the gurney. Nothing makes a girl feel fatter than having 7 (not actually sure how many people there were, but there were more than 3) people struggle to move your fat ass from one bed to another. And as they wheeled me to recovery I thanked my doctor and exclaimed ‘I’m alive still!’ to which she told the nurses of my fears of death.

The sensation of telling your toes to move and not being able to move them is a very weird one. But as the spinal wore off, I kept trying to move my toes, it wasn’t until we got to our room, my toes began to feel normal.

Going into it, I had a gut feeling I wanted her name to be Savannah Grace, but I didn’t want to make any decisions until I laid my eyes on her. Well, the minute they put her on my chest, I knew. That was her name. My sweet Savannah. When we got to the recovery area they immediately put her on me again to try to establish a latch and it really didn’t work, but she laid there, happy in my arms, happy on my skin, happy hearing my heartbeat. And we laid like that, the entire time. I couldn’t be happier.

Her stats:

Savannah Grace

7lbs 8oz

Born: 12:37 pm, June 11, 2018

19″ long

 

 

Riddled with Fear, Is it Genetic?

I am now 35.5 weeks pregnant with our special IVF baby girl, and I am riddled with fear, crippling fear that sometimes hurts every part of my body, and brings me to tears. This is not something that is new for me, I’ve struggled with fears this debilitating most of my life.

Remembering date nights when I was a child, I would sit at the window watching cars pass my house crying because I was afraid my parents would be in a car accident and never come home. This was every single Friday. I would wait until I saw the car from afar that slowed down with a blinking turn signal, and hold my breath waiting until I saw the flickering car headlights through the row of trees lining my street. When it would turn in the driveway, I’d stop crying and relax, a heavy weight off my shoulders. It didn’t stop as a silly, normal kid thing, it got worse.

I became completely engulfed in the news around 9/11 and manifested fears of flying, and fears of terrorism that were non-existent prior. I was up all night, afraid. This morphed into unhealthy fears of being murdered, which was directly linked to things I was watching on t.v. Talk shows, news channels, crime shows. It became imperative for me to turn the t.v. off of those things because it was doing far more harm than good. My fears didn’t subside, but they relaxed enough for me to function. I never liked going anywhere alone because of these fears and I was too afraid to tell anyone about them, and it became hard when friends would wonder why I seemed stunted in mental growth, and I didn’t want to verbalize my fears and tell them what was running through my mind all the time. It’s become my silent battle. I told my massage therapist, who I trust with these types of things, and she did open my chakras at one point, which opened the flood gates of tears for 48 hours until she closed them back up. She told me I had to cut the news off, and never watch it again.

Not only was I afraid of the physical part of life, but also the emotional part as well. The man I began dating when I was 18, I fell in love with and right after our 1 year anniversary, he wanted to break up. I remember being so afraid to lose him and fighting for us, and he was so impressed (and I think scared), he decided to give it another try. The initial sting of him not wanting me stayed with me, and haunted me. It wasn’t until I was in Italy on a trip with friends and I called him to say hello and he basically broke up with me over the phone, I realized how devastated I was. I threw up and it ruined part of the trip. Why anyone would be so callous to end a 2+ year relationship over the phone while one party was in another country showed how weak and cowardly he was. When I got back to the states, I won him back again, and fast forward more years, we ended up getting married. I loved him with everything I had. The problem wasn’t my love for him…it was always his love for me. I was always afraid he was going to leave me. I was afraid if we didn’t talk before walking down the aisle, he would leave me there alone, I was afraid I would get too fat and he’d leave. Which is a real fear, because as I gained weight, he didn’t hesitate to let me know he didn’t find me attractive anymore. He was unable to give me the love I needed. My fears were realized when I decided I didn’t love him like I thought I did, and I left.

Leaving him freed me in a way I didn’t think was possible. I was carefree and fearless for the short time I was single without him. My fears started creeping back in when my high began fading.

But, the fears never left. I know every time I get on a plane, I cry at take off, thinking the plane is going to explode and I’ll die. I grip the seat armrests so hard the color drains from my entire hand. And, clearly, we land and I live. But I always think, what if? What if I’m on the plane that a terrorist is on, or a problem with the plane occurs. I try and tell myself that if something happened, it would probably be quick and I wouldn’t know what happened anyways, but that’s little comfort in the midst of fear.

This brings me full circle to my deep fear of my upcoming c-section. I’ve become so afraid I will die during the procedure and every time I voice my fears, I cry. And, sadly, it’s a real fear, that people can’t really squash and say ‘oh, it won’t happen’, because it does happen, and can happen. I know in my heart it probably won’t. I know that I have a greater chance of being involved in a car accident than that happening, but it doesn’t get rid if the fear. There is more at stake now, I have three children, and this special baby girl, who we’ve worked so hard for, my fear of not meeting her and holding her is real. I know many women go into a c-section with normal fears, mainly stemming from the fact you are awake the entire time. Being aware and being out of control of your own body is naturally frightening.

I’ve tried to meditate, and I told my massage therapist yet again of my fears and she did some light therapy on me. I have no idea what it was like or what she did. I know I felt like I saw a lighthouse in the distance with a rolling light going around and around. It calmed me down that day and I felt good, but my fears crept right back in the next day.

I got the mail and in the mail was a document on how to prepare for your surgery, and it said to bring a living will to the procedure. Well, isn’t that a way for my fears to be even more scary? Now, I don’t have a living will, nor do I even know what I want. Do I want to be cremated or buried? Do I want to be around  so my family can always visit me, or do I want to be thrown away some day when you are grandkids in and no one knows who you were anymore. I know I don’t want to die. That’s all I know. So, here I am 13 days away from this surgery and meeting my darling daughter I’ve been waiting a lifetime to meet and I’m scared.

Her room isn’t 100% done yet and the house is a disaster and I’m just wanting some sense of calm. I feel like I need to relax and I know it’ll be over before I know it. I think it takes like an hour total, between prep and getting baby out and sewing back up. I’ll be in recovery before lunchtime. I know thinking positive is good, and once it starts there’s no time to be scared, but I can’t stop the tears now.

There are my fears about me, right out there on a platter, but then there is the day to day, minute by minute fear of the baby remaining alive. Every day when she is sleeping or there is low fetal movement I go to the worst and fear she will be stillborn. If I feel her moving a ton then my fears go away. But until she’s here breathing oxygen and I am safe and stable, I feel like I can’t get excited. I am riddled too far in with fears and it hurts my body, my soul. It literally causes aching in my body. I can’t wait to hold her, and bring her home, and for the boys to meet her, I get so happy thinking about it, then the fear creeps in and I become afraid I won’t get that, it will be ripped from me. Joe says, God hasn’t brought us this far to let us fall. I have to repeat it, like a mantra. We have come so far in this journey, we’ve done it. It will work, we will be ok. I have to believe that though, and that is the hardest part.

I have to wonder, is being afraid a genetic thing? My dad is naturally a worrywart and my grandmother was as well…is it evolution that has made me afraid and paranoid? I did see a hypnotherapist around the 9/11 timeframe and with no knowledge of what would happen or how it worked, I went into it blind. I was immediately catapulted back into past lives and traumatic experiences. I was conscious and aware of what I was seeing and saying, and it blew me away. I was hysterical and although it was interesting, it was a horrible experience and I was too afraid to go back. But that just makes me wonder, where does unnecessary fear come from? Why am I afraid of these number of tragic what ifs? How do they go away? How can I relax?

To Tell or Not to Tell…

Here I am, sitting on the brink of 33 weeks pregnant, and I’ve found myself in one of those situations again. Which many IVF mom’s know all too well. Do I act surprised and overwhelmed with joy that my fourth child ‘turned out’ to be a girl?!?!

I find myself to be a rather open book anyways, in all aspects of my life. I disclose too much at times, to a fault, but that is just my nature. I am the person who would shout from the rooftops that I did IVF and I got my girl!, however, it’s not really a subject matter you shout from the rooftops. And I’m found in that predicament of telling a stranger we did it, or not telling them. And strangely…while pregnant, in what seems like the longest 10 months of your life, this topic comes up more times than I actually gave any thought to until I had to field the question in my mind all the time.

At ultrasounds…do you know the sex of the baby? Yes, it’s a girl. Then baby girl pops up on the screen and theres the situation presented, yet again. The ultrasound technician says, yep, it’s a girl, here’s confirmation. Now, here, this is the point in which I have to make a decision…do I pretend I’m relieved because they could have made a mistake at the last ultrasound? Or do I tell this perfect stranger, there was no doubt it was a girl, because we went through IVF to get said girl? I’ve done both, and both give me a weird feeling inside. This last time I decided to pretend, and I said something like, oh thank god, since her room is already pink. And the tech said oooohhhh, are you just so excited to have a girl?!?! There it is right there…that question….’oh how lucky you are to have three boys and now have your girl’ or ‘how excited were you when they told you it was a girl?’…crickets…I play along, fake smile and mutter something about being SO excited…but it feels wrong. I’m lying. I’m excited, yes. I was excited, yes. But, I knew. I did it with purpose, intention. Faking that is exhausting. And that is with complete strangers…people I will more than likely never see again.

Then there’s the flip side to that…divulging too much info and making people feel uncomfortable or making yourself uncomfortable. Same instance, a medical professional is asking you a question and somehow it gets around to the gender of the baby and when they ask that very same question, that’s been asked 100 times before, I don’t lie. I tell them I did IVF to get a girl and yada yada yada. Some shake it off like you said nothing at all, and move on to the next thing…some say they had no idea you could do that, and others say how great it is. For whatever reason, this makes me feel weird too. I’m legit shocked how many people in the medical field know nothing about IVF, especially OB’s, and women’s health providers. Just yesterday I got an earful from a nurse who told me how great she thinks IVF is and how she doesn’t understand why people look down on it and all that goes with that topic, and I nod my head in agreement but feel strange inside. Should I have opened pandoras box with this stranger and told her that? Who do you tell? Who don’t you tell? I think it’s an age old question that only mothers of IVF treatments will understand.

I’m still left to try to dodge the awkward feeling and discomfort I feel when someone says those things to me. Maybe the age old question for me will never be answered. I’ll just have to wait until she’s born to start answering the question all over again when strangers see our family of 6, majority boys, with a little baby girl in the mix….and ask the very same thing.

My dreams will become a reality

For some people, things may come easy. For others, challenges and putting in the work make things happen. Joe and I made the decision almost 3 years ago, we were going to attempt a different way of creating life than we had before.

That’s when the planning and saving began. We forwent two years of family vacations and we saved and saved…annnnd saved in order to allow us to pay for this. I lost over 50 lbs in preparation for the mental and physical demands I would have to go through, and to get my mind in a ‘Rocky’ like state of mind; to feel like a warrior.  And that was what I told myself every single day during this process. Every poke, 170 of them to be exact. Every blood test, every surgery, every scary thought, every tear, “You are a warrior! You got this!” I found a new passion, working out, in the process…which has become pretty hard at the moment, but my desire and plans to continue where I left off, keep me excited.

Joe decided to take the journey with me and it was nothing short of amazing that I found a partner in life so willing to do anything to help my dreams come true. When I say anything, I mean, walking hand in hand with me, giving me every single shot, (sometimes up to 3 a day), listening to my fears, hearing me cry, going to my many procedures and holding my hand during the entire process. Watching me in pain probably wasn’t a walk in the park for him. But he did it, despite that. Building me up the whole time, telling me how great I’m doing. It hasn’t been easy. He’s had the faith everything would be fine, and I worry a bit too much, to a fault. But that strength is what helps keep me high, instead of falling too low.

Knowing how taboo the subject matter is, and how people really don’t talk about it, left me sometimes feeling very alone. I shared what was going on with a circle of people who helped build me up and give me the encouragement I needed. They were there to share in the excitement (and some got to hear my fears…a lot) along my journey. Those friends and family have been so supportive in our journey and so loving and non-judgmental. Most didn’t know anything about the process or what I went through and it was a learning for everyone. I also blogged the entire experience, so that I could help other people going through the same thing. It’s been cathartic for me, as a release to this rollercoaster journey, since the ups and downs aren’t easy. About half way through the process, I was inspired to keep everything to photograph it, so this is only about half of what was used…and it barely fit in the vase.

18 Weeks along and it feels like forever

Well, here I am, on the eve of the brink of my 18th week. It’s been quite the journey now, since I’ve been sick with some sort of illness ever since my egg transfer. First a cough that gave tuberculosis a run for it’s money, then a runny nose, a sore throat, the stomach flu, a urinary infection, a yeast infection and topping it all off with what I thought was the scary flu, with full on fever. How in the world does one person manage to get that sick in merely 18 weeks you may ask? I’m thinking the exact same thing. To add to that, I’m still on this rollercoaster of pregnancy. Feeling scared at any given moment for anything really. My doctor did say that because of the IVF, this pregnancy is going to feel like it’s a year long. And when I stopped to think about it, it will be a year since we started the journey when we deliver and almost a year from when we started the shots. Crazy!

The plus side of being so sick is that I’ve been going to my doctor once a week and I get to hear her magnificent heartbeat. Which in itself can be daunting, because of my low hanging abdominal wall (or what I affectionately call “my ledge”) (c-section moms know what the ledge is, lol). The doctors, bless their hearts, try hearing the heartbeat on my ledge and that is fat, people!…like a flap of fat!…there’s no heartbeat in there!…so they move it around and try a different spot, that is still on the ledge, and…nothing. Now I’m tense, even though this has happened at least three times now. Then, as horrifying as it is, I lift the ledge up, mortified, and they move it directly over my c-section scar, and there it is, clear as day, a strong beautiful heartbeat. 145 bpm. Lovely.

I’m tired, a lot, and my hopes and ambitions leave more desire in my dreams than in real life. Baby girl’s room is going to be what is currently my art studio. It is packed to the brim with stuff. My stuff, my plans for selling toys, everything is in here since it has turned into somewhat of a junk room. I try selling toys every time I get a chance, but some things just aren’t moving, leaving an array of crap in this space. What I decided to do was install a closet system in our master closet, in a space we didn’t use, so my husband ripped down the old shelf and clothes rail and patched and painted the wall. I installed the system last night and began transferring things from my studio to this system. I feel like a poured a thimble of water on an out of control fire. But, little by little, I know it will get done.

My middle child had major surgery a few days ago and it is challenging with him being so needy. He has casts on both of his legs and has to be in a wheelchair for about 6 weeks. I am trying to get so much done around the house while I’m home this week with him but it’s a challenge.

Work has been rough, because my job, which can be pretty physical, has been changing lately. And now, my boss is requiring my team to help do receiving in the mornings if they need help. Which is basically a lot of bending, twisting, lifting heavy things to stock the shelves. I helped the first day and I tweaked my back, it hurt bad ever since. Like so bad that I would get home from work and lay flat in bed because it hurt to breath. I finally got to see my massage therapist and she helped me tremendously, I also asked my husband to help massage the knots out and he did a pretty good job. Nonetheless, my back is still hurting a lot. One of the things they don’t tell you about IVF is that I have been experiencing nerve damage in my lower back from all the shots. It causes twinges and twitches that run down my legs uncontrollably, it causes spasms directly on those spots that are reminiscent of those dozens and dozens of prickly pokes. I feel like those are things that will never go away, things that seem permanent. The two-inch circles plotted on my backside are tender and painful to touch. When will that go away? I can’t imagine women who go through multiple rounds of IVF, poking and poking the exact spots constantly. Warriors, I tell you, warriors.

Every time I go to the doctor they ask if I’ve felt the baby yet…they say since I’ve been pregnant, usually I would notice it sooner than new moms. Well, nothing. Not one flutter, not one kick. Until a couple days ago. When I’m pretty sure I felt something. A little something, small but something. I wish it would have been sooner, but, I’ll take it.

So, here I am, listening to my middle child act belligerent because he’s on narcotics and I’m trying to get some sort of peace to complete this evening. Lord help me.

Today was graduation day and I graduated!

Well, the build up for this day was bigger than it was and I have a slew of mixed emotions about it. I knew today was going to be my last visit with the IVF doctor, since I ended my meds last Sunday, but I didn’t know I’d feel funny about it.

Last Thursday I got to half my meds, so 1ml of progesterone per day, 2 estrogen pills a day, no more estrogen patch. It was exciting. My husband kept prompting, ‘isn’t is exciting babe? You only have a few more days of being poked!’. While that part was exciting, there is so much more to be fearful of. My body will be left on it’s own to see if it can handle baby girl without meds. I had no idea what was going to happen. So, that’s what we did, we halved the meds, then Sunday came rolling around, and the last dose of everything, last shot, last pills, and it felt surreal. I mean, I’ve been following this routine for 10 weeks now. Strange how something becomes such a part of you. In all, said and done, I was poked 170 times. Including, blood tests, blood test vein misses, IV’s, and of course, the dreaded shots. When it was all over, I didn’t actually feel any different. Still had nausea every day, still have issues with gagging every time I cough. I felt fearful for the future and read some things on line about still borns in IVF patients and it made my fears grow wider. I called the doctor because I couldn’t get it out of my head and the nurse told me she’d never heard of that. It wasn’t the nurse I trust, so I put it out of my head, but knew I was going to ask the doctor when I saw him again.

Mid-way thru the week, I noticed a yeast infection going on in the nether regions, and might I add I noticed something odd about 7 weeks ago, but didn’t know what it was and never had the typical symptoms, so I brushed it off as nothing. Now I know for sure it’s a yeast infection and man is it gross. I’ve only ever had two of these in my life and not so fun. So, I didn’t know who I should call, my OB/GYN or my IVF doc…so I waited to see my IVF doc today and he told me to just get something over the counter…that wouldn’t harm baby. At least I feel better knowing that’ll be taken care of soon.

So, today…my last day seeing that office, seeing those receptionists, seeing those nurses, seeing that doctor. It’s bittersweet. I’ve spent so much time there, gotten to know the staff. I’ve talked to them, heard their stories, one is newly pregnant as well. So many have gone through IVF and can offer sympathy because they know. I went in the room and asked my onslaught of questions for my doctor and he answered each and every one. Then the ultrasound, seeing baby girl dance around in there is the best. I really wish I could watch it all day long. We got a good view of her wiggling back and forth and a nice profile of her face. She looks like the man in the moon currently, here’s to hoping she gets a little better looking in there…lol. She was moving so much my doctor couldn’t get a good read on her measurement, so hoping she’s still on target.

He told me my placenta is anterior and it’s partially covering the cervix. I got a bit freaked out about that and asked the nurse for more info when it was just her and I. She told me it’s barely touching and as my uterus grows, the placenta will most likely move up with it, not only moving away from the cervix, but also freeing up the space near where my c-section will be. I was kind of bummed to hear my placenta was in the front because it softens the blows when baby moves, which was the most amazing part of my last pregnancy, getting to see the backflips and front flips baby does in there.

After all that, I sat up and my doctor gave me a hug. After I talked with the nurse at length, I gave her a hug and said goodbye. It was a bittersweet moment, happy to graduate, but sad to not have the constant care and reassurance I was getting. So, come Monday, I will be calling my OB/GYN and getting my appointment in there as soon as possible. I know how excited she’ll be to see me again. I’ve had the same OB/GYN since I was 20 years old, so for 17 years now. She’s seen me through a marriage, a divorce, a remarriage, a miscarriage, three pregnancies, and she’s delivered two of my babies. We’ve been through a lot, her and I and I love her. She’s the best OB/GYN, and I’m lucky to have found her, so I really can’t wait to see her, now pregnant with my first girl. She’s going to be so excited!

So, I can file away my IVF folder, filled with info, and test results, and calendars, and bills, and receipts and hospital bracelets. I can safely move on to the next phase. 12 weeks today. On to the next chapter. The second trimester. Cheers.