So, how much do ya'll think the above gear might weigh? Care to venture a guess? Eh. I know. It's kind of tough to know for sure, and I wouldn't have had a CLUE how much it weighed until I went to the doctor yesterday. Now, I'm certain. The above garments, I hereby swear, weigh 18 pounds. They must. I mean, check out the clunky shoes. They're at least five pounds each.
That's the story I told Zube Boy, anyway. See, the scale at the doctor's office said 148. And I do declare that that is just plain WRONG! I KNOW for a fact that I weigh 130. Granted, that's five pounds heavier than what my license says, but the way I see it, if they don't ask me when I renew my license, if I've gained weight, I don't have to offer that information up. I think the Motor Vehicles people should be doing the investigatin' and shit. Besides, maybe I LOOK like I weigh 125, which is really the salient point of having your weight listed on your license, right? Right? I thought so.
NO WONDER I'm exhausted after work. Who the hell wouldn't be after traipsing around the office all day wearing 18 pounds of clothing?
You may be wondering why I went to the doctor in the first place. Or you may not be. I'm going to tell you anyway, because it's important and stuff and may explain a lot. Like my blog hiatus.
As much as I'd like to explain, all I can really muster is to say Here We Go Again. Well, maybe.
Do not read further if you're squeamish...
We've got weirdness going on down in the nether regions, which doesn't fare well since I got a positive pregnancy test a week ago.
I came home from work yesterday morning to rush to an appointment.
Z-Girl: Hi honey.
Z-Boy: What are you doing home?
Z-Girl: I have to go to the doctor. I don't think Stinky is sticking.
Z-Boy: Oh no.
Have I ever told you how wonderful he is? Yes? Well, it bears repeating. My husband is too awesome for words, really. He's said nothing but the perfect things and I'm not going to share them with you because I love being the special person who gets to know how truly thoughtful and caring he is. Neener!
I've been, shall we say, gassy, lately. Hence nicknaming the offspring-to-be (or not-to-be) Stinky. If that's silly, fuck it. We only get to be pregnant for, like, a week anyway, so whatever. I'll take all the liberties I feel like in that damn week.
I can say a lot without having to say much at all. Here are some words and phrases that have been pounding in my head since yesterday's appointment...
...Spotting can be normal...brown...old blood...red blood would be bad...it's not red...cramps can be normal...ectopic...blood test...HCG should double by Sunday if everything is okay...things may be wrong...but they could be okay...IF you have a third one, that's the magic number where we start taking things really seriously...la la la...
Sticking my fingers in my ears and singing Mary Had a Little Lamb at the top of my lungs isn't making those words go away. I can't stop obsessing. I just want to know.
I've stopped bleeding. And it really wasn't much at all.
I've stopped cramping. But they were VERY crampy and very scary.
My cervix is still closed and not tender. Which is good, I've been told.
I threw up this morning. It would be nice if THAT would go away if I'm not going to remain knocked up much longer.
The tatas, they are still hurting. That's how I knew for sure that something was wrong the last two times. Even before they went REALLY wrong. The tata pain abated. Not this time, though.
So, I'd like to be hopeful, but I'm finding it tough. I've looked in every corner of my mind for a little hope and found only a few glimmers. I'll work with those. If ya'll have hope to spare, please send it this way. I'm like a Hope Whore right now. I've used up my stash and now I'm eyeballing other people's.
As always, thank you. I'll know for certain Monday. Or sooner if things go wrong.
Hopefully, you won't hear from me until Monday.