Mi Vagina, Su Vagina

Pelvic Rest Slams the Door on Normalcy.

We were told three months ago that I have a complete placenta previa.

It means the placenta is completely blocking the cervix.

No vaginal delivery.

No natural labor, period.

I will be told when I am going to deliver. I will report to the hospital.

I will have a c-section.

And hopefully I will not have complications. I will keep my uterus. The baby will be okay. And I will be fine as well.

In the meantime, I cannot walk. Cannot stand for long periods of time. Cannot exert myself. Cannot have sex.

The sex part hurt me more than walking.

It’s my relief. My release valve. My tension breaker.

Sure, we can have foreplay. We can masturbate. There are ways.

However…

The bigger I get, the further along I am the harder it is for this to happen.

My back hurts. My legs spasm. My belly is a huge hindrance. The baby kicks constantly. Rolls. Switches position. Causing me incredible discomfort.

And to make matters worse, where once upon a time I was insatiable, and could have multiple orgasms, now as soon as I cum I am rendered immobile. I have a massive contraction. I cannot move my legs, or my arms, or roll from side to side.

I just have to lay there and let it pass. And it usually exhausts me. Hurts me.

And the mood is destroyed.

So, now we have a predicament. We have to work around this. Which usually involves him “going” first…or him going an entire DAY before me.

Which means, I will dote on him, love him up, please him…and he can fall asleep happy.

And the next day, it’s my turn.

It’s the most unbelievable situation I have ever been in. I am often depressed behind it. Thinking he may be as unhappy as I am with out often disjointed connection.

Taking sex out of our relationship has eliminated the one serious, intimate connection we had. Our touch stone. And turned us into strangers.

I feel like a failure as a woman. And little by little my sex drive is just disappearing.

It’s making me blue.

And in a house filled with pink, I don’t fail to see the irony.

I’m exhausted

Moving has sapped what little energy and interest I had right out of me. I haven’t been on line because I am so drained and so over heated that I simply just don’t care about anything.

I’m excited about the move. I’m practically giddy about my new home. It’s just now that the worst is over…I anticipated being able to relax and settle in. And I simply can’t.

I am uncomfortable. I can’t sleep. Last night was the breaking point for me. The nightmares. The leg cramps. The constant kicking. I slept two hours total.

The heat is not something I am handling well either. We have no AC. The landlord doesn’t window units, and the one that is already in the window of our living room isn’t large enough to cool off the whole house.

So, here I sweat. Sitting in bed, unable to sit longer than 20 minutes at a time before I have to pee or stretch my legs.

I just have so much on my plate. And I want my clear thoughts back. I want to be able to exhale. I want to enjoy the final leg of this journey.

That’s all.

I have to pee every 11 minutes

And not just your normal pee.

We are talking drunk, have been drinking all night, haven’t used a bathroom once, as you wander the streets looking for an open bar/restaurant/gas station you can duck into because if you don’t find a place soon, you will have to go all the way home in soggy urine soaked jeans, trying to stuff your pride along with your cell phone in your teeny, tiny purse.

That kinda pee.

And it has to happen every 11 minutes.

And I am always surprised.

Pregnancy is weird.

If you thought there was nothing more beautiful than a pregnant woman apparently you have never been around said woman when she is releasing the tremendous amounts of gas she is forced to carry throughout the day.

It’s gross.

I burp several times during conversations. I fart when I walk. I toot when I cough. And I don’t even want to tell you what happens when I sneeze.

Placenta Previa And the Sexless Relationship

Sounds like a good movie or book title, right?

Except no the fuck it wouldn’t because it would be the saddest most depressing, anxiety riddled story that was ever told.

Hearing the words COMPLETE PLACENTA PREVIA have changed my entire life in only 5 weeks. I thought I knew everything there was to know about being pregnant. I’ve been to the fair a bunch of times. I’ve had my hand stamped. I know the routine. All the carnies are my friends. The clowns give me free balloons. Cotton candy, funnel cake..the whole nine yards.

Now, I have no idea where I am. Where are all the cool games? Shooting water into the clowns head? Knocking down the bottles? It’s a wasteland. Nothing.

It’s like I’m watching my pregnant self go through all the motions of being pregnant without actually getting to FEEL anything.

I have a lot on my plate. I am in the process of finding a place to live. the stress of trying to find a home before school starts in 3 weeks, is an intense ordeal. Add to that having a baby under normal circumstances and it sounds like a nightmare.

Add this heaping pile of shit to the equation and it’s like a typhoon hit.

I have no time to enjoy my belly. I hurt too much to marvel at how agile she is. I am too scared to walk too fast, or stand too long, or sleep too deep because what happens if the unexpected happens?

If labor starts now, she will be a very tiny baby. A baby I will have to leave behind. A baby who may have a lifetime of issues.

The longer I am pregnant, the better it is for me and her…and all of us.

She will be healthy. The kids can get situated. And I can stay in denial that anything bad may happen.

I’ve never been this pregnant before where I didn’t want it to end.

I can remember hitting the 3rd trimester of every pregnancy and thinking..When will this kid get out of me?? How much longer until I’m free?

This is a first for me. I am in no hurry to have this end. but not for all the right reasons.

I am selfish. I need time to get my ducks in a row. I need to get organized.

I need to stop being so afraid.

Because that’s what I am right now. Scared.

That’s all.

Maternity Clothes are The Devil

When I was pregnant with my first daughter in 1993, my mother bought me these mix and match seperates from the local maternity store.

They were neutral colors. Mint green. Faux acid washed denim. Peach with flowers.

All elastic waist. Flood water short. And that odd maternity flair type top that was longer in the front than in the back.

I’m not a mauve kind of girl. Or tulips. Or lil baby birds.

It was just never my thing, but since prior to getting pregnant I was a size 2…I had no choice. Wear what was given to me, or go naked.

I was young and naive and eager to please my mother who was already repulsed by me since I was 18 and having a baby and ruining her good name. So I wore them.

As I got older, and less intent on pleasing my mother and more so on pleasing myself I realized I could and would wear whatever the hell I wanted.

And I did. And I do.

My maternity clothes consist of 10 pairs of yoga pants. The kinds with the fold down waist are my favorite because they almost hug my tummy the bigger I get and offer a teeny tiny bit of support.

I wear tee shirts. Tank tops. Hoodies. Sweat shirts.

Regular lingerie…although g-strings are out of the question in the last trimester. (Don’t ask why if you really don’t want to know.)

I don’t own a maternity bra. Or one pair of elastic paneled pants.

I still fit in my pre baby jeans and purchased a few one size bigger for when the weather gets a bit cooler.  I wear flip flops now because it’s Summer. Sneakers for longer walks.  And even heels.

When a woman gets pregnant she forfeits elements of herself for the good of the baby.

Her fashion sense doesn’t have to be one of them.

High Risk

The words are severe and sound official.

My file folder in the doctor’s office has a HUGE red label across the top.

It warns of bad things. Both to come, and what could be.

There are special tests. Limitations. Precautions. Anxieties.

In the doctor’s office I feel some what comforted. The tests keep coming back normal. I keep hearing the reassuring words. I just can’t make myself believe it.

I lay awake at night and every gas bubble, stomach cramp, headache. twinge…Feels like a heavy weight I carry in my chest.

Every time I go to the bathroom I look to see if I’m bleeding.

I can’t have sex because my doctor says it could literally kill me.

So now the one stress relieving outlet I had is marred. I’m scared to fuck. Scared to death.

I am nervous. Terrified might be a better word. I am frightened something may happen to the baby. The baby I have never met and yet love with my whole heart. And I worry about me too. What happens if something happens to me? I get sick? I am incapacitated and cannot care for this baby, or my other children?

It’s a lot to think about. A lot to carry.

I just want this over. I want this beautiful baby girl in my arms. And I just want a guarantee that everything will be okay.

Everything Hurts

My back is sore if I stand too long. It hurts if I lay down too.

My legs hurt. My crotch hurts. I have sciatica. I can only walk a few blocks before I literally cannot go any further.

I have this weird pain on my right side, that intensifies if I’m dehydrated or if I exert myself.

The baby kicks me until I feel bruised.

I get insane headaches. Sometimes I think they are blood pressure related, other times I think it is because I am wearing older contact lenses and they are causing me to strain my eyes.

I cannot eat very much, even though I am starving. The baby is super high and it causes my stomach to be compacted as well as my GI tract and I can only eat small bites before I am so full I am nauseated.

I am not sleeping and it is starting to effect my mood. Add stress and the kids driving me nuts and I am a walking, talking basket case.

Pregnancy has its perks. I know they are there. I am just having a hard time looking past all the crapola and enjoying them.

10 more weeks and counting….sigh.

To Wax, Or Not to Wax.

I can no longer see my vagina.

I know it’s there. I can hear it thinking. But unless I am standing in front of a full length mirror, I have no idea what it looks like anymore. I haven’t ‘scaped my garden. I have no reason to. It’s not like anyone is beating down my door to catch a gander. No one is admiring it. Or writing it fan letters. It is a shadow of its former self and has become an utter recluse. However, the BIG SHOW is fast approaching. And with that in mind, a makeover has to happen.

Or does it?

So, I ask you….should I keep my lady junk the same as it is, and deliver this baby all HIPSTER-LIKE?

Or should I wax as a courtesy to my OB/GYN and ya know…so it looks pretty and stuff when the cameras are rolling?