11 May 2012

Knocked Up - Episode 2

Episode 1 is here.

My flatmates by now know I'm knocked up; I told them I had some news to tell them and they said "You're pregnant." Apparently my ginormous knockers gave it away. Well, at least there's one perk to being knocked up. Let's see, we've covered the food restrictions, the hormonal roller coaster, the fatigue...oh yes. The constipation.

I was a one poo a day girl, and now I'm lucky if it's once every three days. At the beginning I was just feeling it as bloat, but now that the belly has started to make an appearance, I can feel my food just sitting there, sloooooowly being digested as my body wrings every last nutrient out of it for me and my cute little uterine parasite. Sarlaccs digest faster than I do right now.

And thus I'm at the stage where if I've pooed, the belly bulge is barely noticeable. If not, I just look fat. Which is also no fun because we are keeping this secret as long as possible due to various work concerns on both our parts, so I get to go through my closet everytime I get dressed and try to scrounge something roomy if we're not going to be around people who already know. I have fuck all in that department since my clothes are all fairly body conscious. Trying to move the poo along with leafy greens, fruit, and various other digestible sources of fiber make no difference, nor does copious amounts of yogurt (I draw the line at that Activia yick because drinkable yogurt has always made me want to hurl.)

Other fun preggo experiences include brushing my teeth and looking like someone punched me in the mouth. Apparently your gums bleed easier because you have about 50% more blood corsing through your veins. Also thanks to all that extra  blood is a rather awkward feeling located between my legs when I walk, what I've come to term "Swollen pussy feeling". It doesn't quite hurt, just sits there feeling heavy and noticeable when I walk. And Googling that particular symptom brought me to varicose veins...of the twat. Oh hellllll no...really? This is what I might potentially have to look forward to later on when I look like a waddling land whale?!

Googling under the influence of pregnancy is a really bad idea, trust.

Also in the lower pelvic area we have the hormone relaxin loosening up the joints and the ligaments and things in general. Since I am an ex-dancer, I am hyperaware of this and was concerned at times that my left hip would go in one direction and my right in another. Before this, I could pop my hips in ways that would disturb my friends; now I disturb myself.

The day of my appointment at the consultorio arrives and I leave Mon Amour to sleep as he is exhausted from working. Dr. Consultorio looks over all of my exams and examines me, saying I have myself un bel utero and she think I might be further along. She and her assitant give me the prescirptions for the next round of blood and pee tests -  a monthly ordeal now since I am negative for the big three: toxioplasmisis antibodies (in spite of having cats in the past and in my current flat), cytomegalovirus antibodies, and rubella antibodies (in spite of the fact that I was vaccinated against it as a kid. Apparently it's a highly susceptible thing, where some women are inoculated for life and others it disappears after a while). This means I get a lecture on food again and told to stay away from children as I wonder to myself what pregnant mothers of young children do in these cases.

She gives me a prescription for my "first" sonogram and details of a private clinic affiliated with the Italian SSN, since waiting times for sonograms are biblical and I need to have it done that week. She also gives me a prescription for the 2nd morphology sonogram to be done around the 22nd week so that I can call the regional reservation hotline ASAP and schedule it, plus a prescription for an extra blood test to check for genetic issues since my blood coagulation levels are low. This I already know since it's something my mom has dealt with as well as my maternal grandmother; we're not hemophiliacs, but we are pretty slow to clot. As a very young child I had so many severe nosebleeds that I became anemic for a while. To this day I hate the smell of Neosporin because Mom would put some on a q-tip and shove it up my nose. There is nothing grosser than coppery blood tinged Neosporin melting down the back of your throat. Well, maybe puking up your prenatals. They might actually tie.

After I finish with Dr. Consultorio, I meet again with the social worker to finish setting up my enrollment in the prenatal classes and schedule next month's appointment. I get home and call the regional reservation hotline for the morphology sonogram. The very helpful man on the other end finds me a spot for the 19th of June. Did I mention this appointment is at a hospital 80 kilometers away in Frosinone? I am starting to learn that for certain tests you should start reserving months before you even conceive...this is a recurring theme that we will revisit in the very near future.

In any case, the man is very apologetic and tells me to try calling occasionally to see if there is a cancellation somewhere nearer and tells me auguri along with the usual "Have a nice day." This is something I still have yet to get used to, is the whole "Congratulations!" thing from perfect strangers. It takes me by surprise and almost makes up for an 80 kilometer jaunt.

During all this fun bouncing from one health care structure to another, Mon Amour and I have also been flat hunting and now that we have a bit more breathing room, we begin to focus a bit more on that area. And flat hunting in Rome is a whole 'nother diary of indignities, which I am not even going to get into at this time, because the topic right now is preggo indignities. Let's leave it at this: flat hunting on a budget in Rome sucks dirty pigeon testicles. And no, I don't care if pigeons have testicles or not. The metaphor stands.

We get the first sonogram done at the suggested clinic and, if not overly effusive, the technician seems competent, eventually showing us the head, feet and hands as we listen to the heartbeat after she has made her clicky measurements and scans. She also notes a small cyst on my left ovary but says it's just something  to keep an eye on.

We are walking towards the clinic exit when Mon Amour gets a call from the insurance adjuster about inspecting his car for an estimate on repairing the damage from some asshole who apparently keyed his car one night. He gets pissy with the adjuster trying to dictate the day and hour, rightfully pointing out that he's paying for a service and why should he have to skip work so he can wait around for this dude to show up. He ends the call, but his ire does not. And while I know my honey is car crazy and very particular about his, I finally tire of his ranting and, with only a hint of irritation in my voice, point out that he just saw and heard his child for the first time and maybe he should get over the asshole adjuster? Point taken. Go Super Preggo.

I was inordinately proud of only showing a slight hint of irritation, because man, my back teeth were grinding like there was flour to be stored for winter. Have I mentioned I get super irritated super easy lately? And apparently pregnancy has made me even more blunt than usual. Which also translates to "SuperBitch". So I really try to make an effort lately to count to ten and attempt logically pinpoint to myself why I am irritated before I open up my big mouth. Doesn't always work and my poor Mon Amour has been resolutely bearing up under the brunt of it.

Case in point? His cigarette smoking. Which considering I only quit back after the first of the year is patently ridonkulous coming from me. But in addition to my ginormous ta-tas and naroclepsy, another of my preggo superpowers is Super Sensitive Nose. I was waiting for friends in front of a cinema getting ready to open and could smell when they turned on the popcorn machine. Not only can I smell a fart 30 minutes before it happens, but the smell of ciggies in particular hits my preggo gag reflex. So when he goes though a pack of ten in an entire morning as we bop around various doctors' offices, I have to bite my tongue. The irritation is irrational and hypocritical, not to mention I would be nagging pointlessly as he has intentions of quitting very soon - I told him he could quit after we found a flat and he wants to try sooner than that. (Shows you just how optimistic we are about flat hunting, eh?)

I eventually might get to what started me off writing today...Part 3 to come soon here 

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