Hostage in my own house.

Let me preface this by saying: I am an idiot for letting this happen. I was trying to be accommodating, a nice wife, a happy pregnant person. I should have known better.

B., gawd love him, rediscovered his love of hunting this year. As such, we have a chest freezer full of venison. Normally this would be something I myself would be enthusiastic about, but my Number One Pregnancy-Related Food Enemy is red meat, to include venison. (In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that I haven’t eaten beef in over ten years.) I can’t even see a hamburger commercial on television without thinking I’m going to hurl.

A few weeks ago B. fried some venison sausage. It smelled so bad to me that I had to sit on the front porch in forty degree weather until the odor cleared. I should have learned my lesson then, but no...

He’s been itching to make a big pot of spaghetti sauce using some of the ground venison, so last night he did just that. The smell of the meat browning was tolerable at first, but got bad quickly. To top it off, he had also defrosted some venison cube steaks, thinking he’d brown those as well and add them into the sauce. Instead, he decided to chicken-fry them, in oil.

The smell was indescribably bad. Really, really bad. The house reeked, and still does. I ended up blockading myself in the master bedroom with windows open and air-freshener in hand, but not before I had a major meltdown while helping B. clean up.

I am an admitted control freak in the kitchen. (But nowhere else, right? Ha ha ha ha ha!) I was able to let B. do all the cooking himself, but when it came time for the clean up, I had to step in. The man can’t load a dishwasher to save his life...if it were up to him he’d manage to fit a knife and two plates in there before declaring it full. As I stood at the sink rinsing the many greasy, floury disgusting dishes, pots and pans he’d used I could barely breathe.

Meltdown ensued. I made him promise no more “cooking” of this sort until I felt better.

Poor guy. All he wanted to do was make himself a meal and stock the freezer with some lunches for work. He ended up with a hormonal wife weeping at the disgustingness of it all.

And it was disgusting.

I may never eat again.

Oh, my beloved, how I miss you!

No, I’m not talking about B. I’m mourning the shift in my relationship with food.

I come from a long line of food obsessed people. Holidays, ritual, celebration, day-to-day existence, they all revolve around food and eating. Likelier than not, while we’re eating lunch we’ll be discussing what’s for dinner.

I was a skinny child. My mother loved me with food, hard. I learned early on that my wish was her command in the kitchen. Craving a sour cream pound cake? Just ask, and it’d be cooling on the counter when I returned from school that afternoon.

As an adult I find myself “loving” those around me with food; it just feels natural, and nurturing, and what I do best. The kitchen is a friendly place, not a battleground.

Not lately, though. Since the nausea kicked in at around six weeks I have fought to eat each and every day. There is no joy in Mudville, folks. All love of eating and food is out the window. Very little tastes good, and even if it does, it’s no guarantee that it will tomorrow. I am acutely aware of the nutritional requirements this twin pregnancy is placing on my body, but failing miserably at meeting them.

Don’t get me wrong...I’m thrilled to be pregnant, and if losing my appetite and taste for food is the price I have to pay, well, so be it. This is all to be expected, and hopefully will run its course in the next few weeks. What I didn’t expect was to so miss the pleasure food used to give me. I knew I was a bit wrapped up in eating, but I never realized just how much joy food brought me on a daily basis.

As an update, 10w3d today. Both twins looked fine at Wednesday’s perinatologist appointment.

What a blessing to be able to say, “so far, so good.”

Baby steps into bigger pants.

I did the unthinkable yesterday. I bought maternity pants. Two pairs of ‘em.

I wasn’t quite brave enough to venture to an actual maternity clothes store. Instead, I chose to enter the previously forbidden territory of the maternity section at Target. Honest, not two months ago I couldn’t even bear to walk by the section, much less go in, pick out items, try ‘em on and buy ‘em.

My, how things have changed...

Yeah, it’s early to be needing maternity pants. I’m only 9w5d today, and I swear to you that I’ve not gained a single pound yet. (Kinda hard to do when food is The Enemy.) Still, there’s no doubt that my belly is flat-out swollen. Me, I think it’s from the steroids I’ve been on, but when I say that, B. says, “I’ve got one word for you: twins.”

Irregardless, it has gotten to the point that I no longer have any pants that fit with the top button closed. I have been walking around out in public with my pants unbuttoned for the past week or two. Sure, my shirt covers that top button most of the time, but my belly looks like hell, what with all the bruises from the Lovenox. Accidentally exposing my belly to some poor unsuspecting victim could scar them for life. It was time to address the issue and buy some pants that fit, even if that meant crossing over into the mythical world of maternity clothing. I can’t help but hope that I haven’t jinxed myself somehow by daring to be so audacious.

I’m tapering off the steroids this week, and have stopped the PIO shots and suppositories. Progress, yes?

Finally, I’d like to give a big congratulations to my internet & real-life buddy K. who delivered a precious baby girl on Friday the 13th. K. and I met online prior to my failed cycle at Walter Reed in May of 2005. She was cycling at the same time - her third and likely last attempt - and ended up pregnant, thankfully. She was instrumental in helping me navigate through the bureaucratic and procedural hell that was Walter Reed, and over time became a huge part of my support system. She’s been rooting for me all along, and I just wanted to thank her for her support and congratulate her on her little miracle. Thanks, girl, and enjoy that baby!

8w5d: Let the whining begin.

Man, mornings lately have been rough. Enough so that I’m freaked out. If it’s this difficult for me to function at this early stage, what’s going to happen to me as this pregnancy progresses?

It’s not the nausea. Hell, the nausea doesn’t even really kick in until late morning anyway, and is at a level that while annoying, is pretty manageable. The past three days I’ve woken up with the Headache From Hell. I’m hesitant to call them migraines since they usually back off after a few hours (don’t migraines last longer?) but they’re certainly among the worst headaches I’ve ever had. Add to that my newfound symptom of sharp, stabbing lower back/hip pain, and I am almost completely incapacitated these last few mornings.

I have managed to bounce back later in the day each day, but being so miserable for even a short period of time leaves me exhausted and scared. This is all hormones, right? I’m going to be able to handle this pregnancy, right?

B. has been wonderfully supportive and reassuring, but not particularly helpful around the house. (I’m a tough customer to please, aren’t I?) I think I’d be more forgiving if his track record with me was better. Three years of absolute minimal support during our infertility struggle cannot be erased with one month of loving pregnancy support.

I worry for our short term future. B. will be starting his next semester of grad school this weekend, and has also volunteered for a huge, nightmarish high profile work project. ‘Cause you know, he wasn’t already busy enough. I didn’t get jack shit outta him last semester when I needed support. It’ll be interesting to see what suffers this semester. His schoolwork? His day job? Me? It won’t be so easy to ignore me this go-round.

At least I hope not.

Whew!

They’re both still there, and with strong heartbeats too. They both measured at 7w6d, so one day behind, but I was repeatedly reassured that that’s totally normal and plenty close to perfect.

For whatever reason, my RE’s ultrasound can’t measure the heartrate, which is a bit frustrating. I will have to wait until I see a perinatologist, which will be two weeks from now when I’m ten weeks pregnant.

I am relieved.

It’s all still very unreal. Are there really two little babies growing in my belly? I knew for so long that I’d never be pregnant that being told otherwise is unbelievable. Given how rocky the infertility road has been for me, it’s flat-out odd that my pregnancy has progressed this easily so far. Shouldn’t I be having all kinds of complications? Insurance difficulties? Fights with B.? (Well, that’s looming, but more on that later.)

Crazy.

Enter: anxiety.

Okay, so I lied a little in my last post. I am obsessing about this pregnancy. Mostly it’s the fluctuation in my symptoms that’s occupying my mind. You would think there would be some pattern to how I’m feeling, some progression of sorts. Nope. Each day is likelier than not completely different than the day before, and that’s got me nervous.

Last week at this time it seemed like moving from mere nausea to actual vomiting was just a matter of time. This week? Well, I have plenty of hours in the day when I’m not nauseous at all. I still have pretty strong food aversions, but the nausea comes and goes. I have also found that the more distracted I am, the better I feel; i.e., laying around on the couch makes me feel worse, while being active makes me feel almost normal.

I know a sudden stop to pregnancy symptoms is considered a bad sign, but that’s not the case here. They’ve just slowed down. But shouldn’t they be increasing? What does it mean?

I have learned this last week that B. has limits to what he’s willing to hear. A constant systems check is too much for him, and he just gets exasperated at my attempts to interpret every little symptom. It’s so much easier for him, it’s not his body that’s sending him different signals every hour.

I know that there’s nothing I can do to change the outcome at this point, but somehow that’s not very reassuring.

Our next ultrasound is tomorrow morning. I’ll be eight weeks pregnant exactly. I’m afraid of what we’ll see, or more exactly, what we won’t see. In my heart-of-hearts I don’t really think that both embryos have conked out (not that it’s not possible), but I am afraid that one has. And if one has, I’ll be extremely nervous about the other’s chances.

Dig hole, insert head.

Sorry for the long pause between posts. I guess if I’m not depressed I have a lot less to blog about.

Not being depressed? That in an of itself is such a huge blessing. I’m not going to tell you that it’s all sunshine and puppy dogs and lollipops at the Bad Egg house, but I am able to get a glimpse of the person I used to be. To not be spending every waking moment obsessing about my infertility, well, I’m almost bored without the stress.

Just kidding.

You would be surprised, however, to see how little I am obsessing about this pregnancy. In fact, I could be described as officially in Head In Sand mode. I’m barely reading anything about pregnancy online or in book form, barely allowing myself to contemplate the future, barely acknowledging at all that I’m pregnant. Except for the constant nausea, that is. And oh yeah, the armtit, can’t forget that.

I will be seven weeks pregnant tomorrow. So, so far to go yet. Plenty of time to pull my head outta the sand.