I could tell from the nurse’s expression every time I went for a checkup that I was gaining more weight than I was “supposed” to. They told me I was starting to retain water. At first, you just feel like your belly looks bloated. And good for you for noticing because it is. But then, you notice that your rings are hurting your fingers. You notice that your skin is puffing up around the rings and so you decide to take them off “for a while.” Well, kiss them good-bye, sister. Put them in a safe place; once they are off, you’re not going to see your rings on until after you deliver or perhaps later than that. I couldn’t put my rings back on until my baby was two months old. In and of itself, a little less jewelry isn’t a very big deal. Except when little old men and women stare at your pregnant belly and your naked ring finger. They’re putting two and two together and deciding right then and there that you’re a total hussy. On more than one occasion, I wanted to show them my naked middle finger!
The next thing to go was my butt. Before the army of cellulite invaded, I noticed about four new inches hanging off my tail side. It was like a tray—you could place an entire TV dinner on my ass. Despite the obvious, I managed to convince myself that having “back” (as the song goes) was totally in and that I was safely in fashion. Wow! Mother Nature has a way of helping us fatties fool ourselves, doesn’t she? I had a friend who, after she’d gained a good forty pounds on her belly and ass, actually said to me, “You can’t really tell I’m pregnant, can you?” No, sweetie. You’ve got such lovely back.
The next body part to bloat was my arms. I noticed that they were filling up the arms of sweatshirts that used to be big. Even though you can tell the difference between water and fat (water feels a lot harder to the touch than fat, and water doesn’t mush around like cellulite), it wasn’t a pretty sight. I said good-bye to sleeveless tops.
And then came the ankles. Or there they went. You couldn’t even see my anklebones after a while. My ankles looked like giant sausage links with no definition at all.
In rapid succession, my feet were up next. I actually had rolls of skin hanging over my shoes because they swelled up so badly. Here’s a little tip if you get to this stage: Your best bet is a pair of flip-flop sandals. If it’s wintertime, stick to a pair of gym shoes that are one size bigger than your normal size. Either option will be comfortable and won’t draw as much attention to your foot bloat.
Last but not least, and the scariest one of all is . . . pregnant head! Ah, yes. Pregnant head. Your face and head completely take on a new shape. Though this last one didn’t happen to me, even your nose could expand. I once ran into an old friend who had pregnant face going, and I swear I had to really work hard to be sure it was her. Her nose was really broad and her face was a different shape. I remember thinking, “Either this is her ugly sister or she’s had horrible plastic surgery.”
If you are unfortunate enough to get pregnant head, I advise that you just put a paper bag over your head until you deliver or stay indoors where no one will have to see you. And I’m only half kidding! Whatever coping strategy you choose, there is cause for hope: You may feel as though you’re carrying around the Pacific Ocean, but take comfort in the knowledge that the more you resemble the Michelin Tire man the closer you are to bringing your baby into the world.
The McRib Sandwich
(Back Pain)
You might be lucky enough to escape back pain. God, I hope you are. For me, back pain was more painful than delivery. And it certainly lasted longer!
My back pain really got out of hand in the sixth month. I woke up in the middle of the night with what felt like pulsing, piercing knots in the middle of my back. I kept slapping my husband to get up and rub my back, but at three o’clock in the morning he was as good as my dog. Sack of potatoes. No help at all. I know that most back pain in pregnancy is called sciatica and the pain runs down your leg (from your sciatic nerve . . . hey, I have the books too!). Mine was different but pain is pain, so hear my cry.
After a week of misery I decided that our soft-top, body-conforming mattress was the problem, and I figured that buying a new one would solve it. So off I went! I waddled into a mattress store with my credit card in one hand and a big ol’ “Won’t you help me, please?” smile. Of course, the combination of a ready credit card, a belly as big as a house, and an attempt to flirt basically tattoos “sucker” on your head. Live and learn. I rolled on and off a few mattresses and found one that seemed right-on. The problem was that I knew my husband, and I knew this mattress had divorce written all over it. If I got this one, he would either leave me or sleep on the couch indefinitely. But I bought it anyway. I was desperate.
When my husband came home, he saw the new mattress and decided to test it out. He took a running start and flew through the air toward it. I tried to warn him, but he was already airborne. Too late. Ka-klink! He looked like he had hit a solid piece of concrete. He reminded me of the Roadrunner cartoon where the coyote rams into a stone wall. He just lay there, completely still, and it looked like he was now in as much pain over the mattress as I had been when buying it. I couldn’t help but giggle. And of course, things only got worse before they got better.
Once again, at 3 a.m., I woke up in horrific pain. I was howling like a dog in heat. I was crying and shaking my husband; I could hardly breathe. Bless him, he helped me get through the night with heating pads and a shitload of love (not that kind, you pervert).
The next morning we went straight to the chiropractor. I know, I know. You’d think I would have learned my lesson with seeing specialists, but this guy turned out to be a savior. He determined that my pain was due to bad posture. Once he said it, I understood immediately. To hide my pregnancy for so long I had been hunching over to hide my growing belly. Posture I could fix.
The next diagnosis was a surprise. I had popped out two ribs. TWO RIBS! Popped out?! I knew that my hips had to widen to make room for the baby; I didn’t know my ribs did, too. But okay, so as my ribs were widening, some were popping out. And popping out is painful. This made sense. And ever the optimist, I kept telling myself that because I was suffering so much in my pregnancy, my delivery was going to be a cinch. (No such luck . . . read on.)
So the doc popped my ribs back in. Sounds painful but it wasn’t too terribly bad. And once the ribs were back in, the back felt better. Unfortunately I had to continue to see the chiropractor every day that month because those damn ribs kept popping back out. Once, I even had to go to his house at 2 a.m. for a fix.
Of course, my husband started seeing the chiropractor because of our new mattress. The poor guy would moan all night. In a selfish way I kind of liked it. Why should I be the only one in pain all the time? Maybe husbands should have to gain all that weight, too. You know, sympathy weight.
My advice for back pain would be to get help. And I don’t mean help from a mattress salesperson. Ask your doc; that’s what he or she is there for. Also, pregnant massages are not only a nice treat, but they really get some of the kinks out. So treat yourself. A massage is a lot cheaper than a new mattress!
Headaches
(Headaches . . . Duh)
Not all headaches are created equal. I’ve had headaches before, but no one prepared me for what pregnancy could deliver. It was as though a jackhammering troll had moved into my head.
It all began around the tenth week of pregnancy. I was sitting on the couch watching television and kaboom! I clutched my head and screamed. My husband thought I was having a brain aneurysm. I thought I had about two minutes left to live. If I hadn’t been pregnant, I would have sliced my head off. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Get a grip on yourself . . . we get it.” But the pain, I tell you, was HORRIFIC! The only relief was a Tylenol and a heating pad for my neck. That took a whole 2 percent of the pain away. I was then left trying to figure out what to do with the other 98 percent. This went on for about two months. On someone’s advice, I started doubling up on my prenatal vitamins, and that helped until I got completely constipated again. These
headaches are supposedly “normal” in pregnancy, so don’t freak out like I did and think you’re dying. Once again, our hormones are raging, causing the brain to throb. Just hang in there, partner; the best is yet to come!
That Ain’t My Ass!
(Cellulite Gain)
Before I became pregnant, I told myself that I was going to eat healthy and work out religiously, and that I would be a cute pregnant lady. I wanted to look like Madonna when she was pregnant. Wishful thinking. I did manage to work out: At its height, my workout regimen consisted of one hour of cardio every day and two days a week of weights. I hate to break it to you, but even all this did NOTHING to keep cellulite off my ass!
Let’s be honest. Most women already have some amount of cellulite. From years of yo-yoing weight, I have my fair share, too (airbrushing is a great invention!). But pregnant cellulite takes things to a whole new level. It’s ridiculous.
I think I first noticed my problem on my normal morning waddle to the toilet. On the way there I passed my bedroom mirror. Just like in the movies, I did a double take, and I waddled my ass backward to find myself in the mirror again. I could not believe my eyes. That wasn’t my ass! It was seriously three times the size of its usual bulbous state, and it was loaded with cottage cheese. And I mean LOADED! What the hell? I didn’t waddle to the gym every day for this.
My husband also noticed a different shape to it that day. He kept humming the song “Baby’s Got Back.” I soon became obsessed. When I would walk down the street, I would stare at the reflection of my ass in store windows. Then I would look down and see that my shadow’s ass even looked skinnier than mine. I was demoralized, and my workouts slowly became nonexistent. I could hardly breathe anyway with my lungs being squashed by my growing baby. I knew I had to try to surrender and accept my new ass.
Well, I tried. I tried really hard. But it didn’t work altogether. In the end, I just avoided turning around in the mirror to view my back end altogether. This did make things a little easier. I knew it was there, but at least I didn’t have to witness new cottage cheese dimples forming every day. Out of sight, sort of out of mind.
When I did get too hard on myself (which was quite often), I would stare at my pregnant belly and kind of hug and rock it. Reminding myself that there was a good reason for all this change and heartache made those tough moments just a little easier to deal with. Not easy. But easier.
No, Not Yet! I’m Not Ready for This Yet!
(Premature Labor)
You might be thinking that premature labor is rare or at least that it’s not going to happen to you. Let me tell you: It’s not and it might, sister. Don’t skip this part. And don’t ignore the warning signs.
In my twenty-fifth week of pregnancy I decided to treat myself to a day of beauty. You know, a pamper thyself day. First up, I went to get a pretty blow-dry from my hair stylist. While I was there, I started feeling crampy, but I just blew it off, thinking it was my ol’ uterus growing. As he continued to “blow me out” (sounds nice, eh?), I started sweating. He saw my glow and asked me if I was okay. I really wasn’t sure myself, so I called my husband, who assured me (doctor that he isn’t) that my uterus was probably just growing (great minds think alike). So I tried to ignore my cramps, tipped my hairdresser, and drove to the manicurist. While I was getting my nails buffed, I started feeling worse. My cramps were getting stronger and seemed to be starting a pattern (like every five minutes). Something told me that these weren’t those Braxton Hicks contractions everyone told me about (you know, the ones that certainly feel weird but don’t really hurt). I asked my Vietnamese manicurist, who’d just had a baby, what labor pains feel like. She didn’t speak much English, so all she kept saying was “Legs hurt real bad, legs hurt real bad.” Needless to say that didn’t help much, so I had her stop, and I got the hell out of there. Halfway home I realized that I could barely drive. Safe barely-driving driver that I am, I took one hand off the wheel and called my husband. I told him to meet me at home because I was sure that something was seriously wrong.
I know what you’re thinking: “She thought something was seriously wrong, so why didn’t she just drive to the hospital?” The reason is that these cramps felt exactly like menstrual cramps. In fact I’d had worse period cramps than this, so I convinced myself that I was doing fine. Women in labor scream and yell, and I wasn’t doing that. But when I finally got home, I started puffing like you see laboring women do in movies, and I started to panic. I called my doctor, who told me to have a glass of wine and put my feet up. What the #%*# kind of loony advice is that? To this day, I don’t know the medical explanation!
As soon as I hung up the phone, I looked at my husband and told him to get me to the hospital. Pulling up to the emergency room when you are only twenty-five weeks pregnant is like pulling up with a gunshot wound. It’s made-for-TV drama. People rush all around you and zoom you away for help. They’ll do anything to prevent a premature birth, which I’m so grateful for.
Once I was inside, they hooked a belt across my belly to hear the baby’s heartbeat and to monitor my contractions. What those things told them is that I was indeed in labor. My heart sank as visions of sick preemie babies poured through my mind from watching all those scary medical shows, the ones that had made me cry like a baby myself. My memory is a little foggy about all this, but I’m pretty sure I told anyone who would listen that they were welcome to sew up my vagina to keep the baby inside (okay, so it’s the cervix that counts, but vagina is the word I used).
Sewing me up turned out not to be necessary. I wasn’t dilating and my water hadn’t broken, so the chances were good that they could stop my labor. They gave me an injection of something, and it made me feel like I was having a seizure. My head was bouncing all around uncontrollably and my hands were quivering. I could tell by my husband’s face that he was totally freaked out. But I wasn’t that worried. I figured I was in good hands and this seizure-inducing stuff was helping my baby. After about four hours, when the contractions finally ended, they released me.
I went home and took it easy for the remaining fifteen weeks. I kind of put myself on bed rest. Better to be safe than sorry. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to my little chicken.
Moral of the story: Listen to your body, not a manicurist, and maybe not even your doc. If I had listened to him, I would have been a drunken pregnant lady giving birth at home on my brand-new, expensive, rock-hard mattress.
Poopin’ on the Table
(The Dark Side of Delivery)
NO ONE EVER TALKS ABOUT THIS! Or should I say no one ever told me about this. I want to talk about it. I want you to know about it: You might just take a crap on the delivery room table. Yes, right there in front of the crowd of doctors and nurses who have gathered for the blessed event. The blessed crap. Clearly, there is no justice in this world.
I freaked out when my mother once said in passing, “I hope you don’t poopie on the table, dear.” I was astonished. I was like “What the hell are you talking about, Ma?” She went on to tell me that when you are pushing during delivery, you “bear down” just like you do when you’re going Number Two and that sometimes you push out a little poopie. I handled back pain and rib popping and nasty red face rashes and more, but this I couldn’t handle.
I proceeded to ask every woman who had ever given birth if she had pooped on the table, and I was horrified to learn that almost every woman I asked had actually had it happen. I was freaking out at the thought of this. My friends couldn’t believe how worried I was about this, considering that under different circumstances, poop is one of my favorite topics. Under different circumstances is the operative phrase there, folks!
I continued to bug my mother about this, and she kept assuring me that it’s no big deal because they whisk it away so quickly (now there’s a job for ya . . . Do the nurses know this will be one of their tasks when they sign on to work in labor and delivery?). And by that point in delivery, she said, you could really care less. She had given birth t
o four girls, she had pooped on the table almost every time . . . and she had never mentioned this. Ah, but now that she’d opened the floodgates, she shared another beautiful detail with me: Hers were like logs. I was like “MA, NO WAY! Stop scaring me.”
So, as with all my concerns, off I went to my gynecologist and shared my big fear with him. He kind of smiled and told me he could understand my worry. This told me that yes, indeed, it could happen. He’d seen it before. He suggested that if my water hadn’t broken by the time I was ready to go to the hospital, I could give myself an enema. He also told me that when women go into labor, the body anticipates the problem and sometimes cleans itself out naturally. You know, kind of like a self-cleaning oven (my comparison, not his). Indeed, he continued, it can be a warning that labor will start soon if your bowels become more active.
Well, I was hoping my bowels would be on full alert and very cooperative, but just in case, I had an enema under the sink ready to go. Keep reading to find out if I needed it or if I pooped on the table. Believe me, one way or another, there’s more shit to come.
The Blue Twinkies
(Your Swollen Vagina)
Blue Twinkies does not refer to your vagina after delivery. That would be called Blown-Out Vagina. This section is about the evolution of your vagina in preparation for blowing it out. Though I really do find the vagina fascinating, I promise I’m not going to get all Vagina Monologues on you here. Those girls talk about the vagina like it’s got feelings and needs a wardrobe!
Belly Laughs Page 6