Now that we can all breathe again….

Managed to not lose the sticker included with my absentee ballot. WINNING.

I used to write a fair amount about politics, back in the day.  Then, for a long time, I really did not care much.  I was way too preoccupied with anxiety and depression over not knowing whether we’d ever get to bring home a baby, and trying not to acknowledge even to myself that I WANTED to bring home a baby someday.  So it waxes and wanes, my political fervor, I suppose.  But I wanted to quickly touch on one aspect that ties into this blog – the title.  My blogger blog went through several different names, but nothing ever really seemed to click and feel just right.  So for a long while, it was titled simply ‘Undecided,’ and it stayed that way for what felt like an eternity, as I sunk deeper and deeper into apathy, not really caring about much other than making it back to my couch at the end of the day to stare at the TV and try to not think about the subject that was all I could ever really think about.  Then came the 2008 election season, and along with it, Ms. Sarah Palin.  I am about as liberal/libertarian as they come, I think, but I must circle back around and offer sincere gratitude to John McCain for choosing her as his running mate, because it PISSED ME OFF how pandering and condescending and frankly just ignorant the whole thing was.  It made me realize, OH!  I CAN HAZ FEELINGS!  ABOUT STUFF! IN THE WORLD!  And I began to care again, to be less stuck in my head, in the never-ending internal dialogue that I rarely dared to even voice aloud.  Granted, this was all after my very first miscarriage, and I had varying reactions after each subsequent one, but during that campaign I decided that ‘Undecided’ was the very last thing that my blog should be named.  Still lacking any creativity or willingness to commit to tying any one specific word or phrase to my own life’s chronicles (what can I say, I hate to be defined.  Too constricting.), I simply changed it to ‘Not Undecided.’  It stayed that way long enough that I eventually started seeing the phrase turn up in my keywords/search terms, so I figured it had better stay that way, so that anyone looking for it without a bookmark could find it again. And so here we are.

(I never did change the url to reflect the title, though.  I have often thought that it should be ‘hard to MAKE a human,’ rather than ‘hard to be human,’ but again, I kind of like the built-in history reflection, even if I’m the only one who can recognize it.)

So, while I am not Obama’s biggest fan (looooooong way to go on civil liberties, civil rights, drug policy, the whole not killing innocent people thing, etc., etc.), I am deeply, deeply relieved to not be entering a Mittens presidency, for I firmly believe that it would be a far scarier thing than what we have now, which I will continue to critique (though not always here, I’m sure).  Shudder.  I think that’s all I need to say about that.

(Except also, YAY for the huge advances made in the Senate and House races, as well as ballot initiatives for marriage equality and legalization.  YAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!)

Planning Ahead

As much fun as I had at Lake Cumberland weekend before last, it did not go unnoticed that I didn’t achieve my goal of being elsewhere that weekend:  BlogHer.  Sad face.  Never even had those free business cards printed up.  Meh.

So out of curiosity I googled it…next year it’s in San Diego!  Not NYC, but I would LOVE to go back there.  (That’s where we honeymooned.)  Hmmmm.  I may just have to make this one happen.  But I’d better get on it now, as I do believe registration is cheaper in advance…plane tickets and hotel rooms probably also on that type of sliding scale.  Hmmmmmmm.  Yes, I think this will have to happen.

All wand, no magic.

I may as well tell these stories now.  No point holding onto them.  I mean, really?  What am I saving it for, posterity?  HAH.  I still feel pretty stuck not knowing what the hell’s going to happen next, so why the hell not tell the embarrassing stories that, when they’re HAPPENING seem like positively the most mortifying thing ever to happen to anyone, but in all reality are probably kind of par for the course. This course apparently being that obstacle course of I guess what’s probably at this point more than fairly called recurrent miscarriage.  This is probably the best place for it anyway…not like people want to chat about this kind of stuff much in person, which obviously is understandable.


Aaaaand, my stomach ties itself in knots.  Harsh.  Anyway!  Moving on….


So, the day I went to the doctor this last time around, I as usual had taken the earliest appointment possible so as to not be too late getting into work.  Hah.  The IRONY.  Anyway, I don’t remember what day…yes, it was a Friday.  Jeans, sneakers, etc.  Casual.  But being a considerate little patient (ha), I had actually managed to shave my legs that morning before leaving the house, so when I got the call as I was driving back to work that the pee in a cup deal came back positive (that’s still a WTF moment if there ever was one, somehow…weirdness), and I drove home instead of going back into the office, I went ahead and changed clothes…something to do to kill time between arriving and having to leave again to go to this ultrasound they wanted me to have.  Here’s where I start to chuckle.  

Medical protocols can be an odd thing.  I’m sure they’re in place for perfectly good reasons, most of the time, obviously, but sometimes they don’t make a helluva lot of sense when one is fairly sure the problem is at least half obvious.  Cringe warning – just skip the rest of this paragraph if you’re squeamish, girly-wise.  At this point, I’d already been bleeding for longer than a normal period for me, for more than a week even if you don’t count the week of spotting that began this whole fiasco.  I’d taken TWO pregnancy tests earlier in the month, however, both very negative, so I frankly was fearing more of a bloodwork shows early menopause or some random unhelpful type thing along those lines.  I’ve always been like clockwork, so I knew something wasn’t right, but given TWO NEGATIVE POASings, I didn’t think it was a miscarriage until the doctor called.  Once she said it was positive, I kind of figured.  Yes, at various points over the coming weekend I more than managed to get my hopes up, but COME ON.  It just wasn’t looking like a third time’s the charm kind of deal.  Not at all.  So, as I’m flipping through my closet looking for distractions as well as something else to wear, I find the dress.  I think it was actually my sister’s dress in high school.  Cute, short, black, small plaid pattern, I think red.  Kind of cut that doesn’t absolutely require a bra.  I wore it under my college grad gown, actually, with the best pair of black wedges ever designed, now sadly gone.  And a bra.  I mean, all the rights and privileges and responsibilities sorta call for that.  Anyway, an ultrasound I knew couldn’t possibly provide good news (even it it was going to be a sticky pregnancy, I wouldn’t have even been late yet at this point, so I knew I wasn’t going to see shit other than hopefully nothing wildly abnormal for such a situation) wasn’t exactly at the top of my list of things to do, so…no bra.  Flip-flops, etc.  Basically, this dress is a little too short.  I think I also wore it for a bridal shower…yes, the one Mike’s family threw for me.  I remember going through the pictures later and going, oops.  So you could see my freaking panties while I sat and opened gifts all afternoon and not ONE BRIDESMAID OF FIVE SAID ANYTHING TO ME?  Nice, ladies, nice.  

So yes, the dress is short.  Mike met me at home, we killed a bit more time looking at each other like, WTF?  I dunno, your guess is as good as mine, then headed back over to the doctor’s office complex thing.  Registered, waited, blahblahblah paperwork.  Oh yes, the paperwork.  That must be the MOST fun thing about all of this.  I knew this from the first time, but the second you have both a positive hcg or urine test AND any type of bleeding, you’re a THREATENED ABORTION.  And because nothing, not even drawing blood, is done IN a doctor’s office anymore, it seems, you have to go to the lab for all these blood draws.  With the same “steady on your feet today, ma’am?” line of questioning every time.  I love it when they ask for my due date.  FUCK YOU.  I’ve never had a due date.  Starting to think I probably never will.  Anyway, so basically my role in this dramedy is to wander around like a disoriented pincushion and accept piteous or confused eye contact, friendly smiles, needles to the inner arm wielded by either incredibly skilled and concerned or mayhaps underaged and inept and possibly nearly illiterate phlebotomists.  This time was a little different, though.  No needles, just the wand.  No magic.

So, yes, it might be nice if I could start a paragraph with a word other than SO.  Maybe later.  So, we walk into the little room, meet the tech, blahblahblah Q&A, no due date, circumstances, LMP (hahahaa), blahblahblah.  The tech is a cute little Southern girl, very understanding and good at her job, I’m sure.  Now, the only other time I had an ultrasound actually WAS in the doctor’s office, so I partially knew the drill.  However, PROTOCOL.  I explained that my doctor wanted to make sure that this wasn’t ectopic, basically.  She said, okay, well that will be the transvaginal, blahblahblah, DILDO CAM!  Seriously.  There’s just no way to see ANYTHING via the external method when you’re talking about three weeks gestation or less, more than likely failing to boot, and I know this, man.  This is not squirting a pile of goo on a big fat pregnant belly and watching some creepy looking alien thing wave or show you its goods and then you start thinking pink or blue, no.  This is futile at best.  So, being already depleted of cash, dignity, and patience for this rigmarole, I…LOL.  Yes, I…respond logically yet grossly inappropriately, in hindsight, to her assessment of the period math that we won’t see what we need to see the easy way by starting to just go ahead and whip off the panties without removing the dress.  Standing up.  You know, quick-like.  LOL….ahhh, good times.  The tech gets all confused, WAIT A MINUTE!  LOLOLOL.  We have to do the over-the-belly way first.  Oh.  Really?  Uhm, mmmkay, if you say so.  Who needs an effing paper gown when you’re already dressed like a suburban streetwalker?  Meh.  So, yeah, she agrees I can just use the paper lap blanket or whatever you call it, let’s just get this creepy innards show on the road, shall we?

And yes, you might think that’s the funny embarrassing part, but no.  Hoh no.  This is a dildo cam – the fun and embarrassment NEVER ends.  So she does the over the bloat thing, nothing to see here, carry on.  Now, the tech is not a doctor, so this part goes differently than I’d had the pleasure of the first time around.  She explains how it all works, we laugh while she slides the condom on the, um, implement?  LOL.  I’m not looking up what that part of the instrument is called.  We’ll call it the giant deformed plastic penis with a big eyeball at the end.  Yes, that just rolls right off the tongue.  Fingers.  Whatever.  She says, okay, so I’m going to hand this to you and you get to insert it.  Mmmmkay, woohoo!  Tits.  Or something.  So, yeah, follow instructions..and she giggles.  I raise an eyebrow, full of poise and cryptic wondering.  “Sorry, I didn’t tell you.  It only goes in a little bit, actually, but you did a GOOD JOB.”  All but pat me on the head.

And here’s where I almost piss myself (oh yes, you must have a VERY FULL BLADDER for these good times medical diagnostic sessions, but noooooo, they won’t keep you waiting an extra thirty minutes before they’re ready for you, they promise!) and fall off the effing exam lounge table thing.  Mike is about to fall off his chair in the corner, we all have to literally laugh out loud, because, really?  What the fuck else can one do at this point?  There is NO DIGNITY allowed in the ultrasound room.  It’s just useless.    

Stories?  Yeah, I got stories.  No, you didn’t ask for them.  Sorry.  I tend to keep talking anyway.

GiST

  1. Good people
  2. Good booze
  3. Not needing a D&C.  Woohoo, partay!
  4. The weekend being young yet
  5. Knowing how to properly (or improperly) nurse a slightly broken heart.  Mkay, not broken.  Bruised.  Definitely bruised.  
  6. Arrrrrrnica.  And saying it like a pirate.
  7. The foresight to try and enjoy this long weekend in which everything regarding the mysterious crap surrounding #3 is still all unknown and out there, sitting in some file folder in some doctor’s office…probably as of yet even unreviewed, unpondered, unanalyzed, NOT IMPORTANT.
  8. Independence
  9. Bikinis
  10. SPF
  11. A big floppy hat and movie star sunglasses
  12. Grow-your-own flowers.  Everywhere.
  13. Horoscope hilarity

Oh yeah, and so…that happened, too.

If I may engage in some shameless self promotion….please direct your attention on Thursday, June 24 after 8 AM Central time to Violence UnSilenced.  Ms. Maggie Dammit will graciously be posting an edited version of That One Time.  Trigger warning applies, of course – please don’t go read if that phrase means anything of a warning flag to you.  But I must toot my own horn every now and then.  It’s good for the ego.  I think.  We’ll see.  C’est la vie and all.  This is the permalink:  Amy; but it’s not live.  Yet.

HARK, WHO GOES THERE?

Okay, local person.  I SEE YOU.  I hope you are amused.  If you have malicious intent, say so.  If not, say so.  But it takes enough clicking around to find my cached twitter feed that still links here so you can spend HOURS going through archives, etc. that I’d think it’d be reasonable to LEAVE A COMMENT.  Or send me an email.  You’re creeping me out.  I don’t wanna go invite-only again, but I WILL.  THEN YOU SEE NOTHING.  Speak up, speak out. What the hell are you looking for?!?  There really isn’t a whole lot to see here.  You’re welcome to keep lurking, but it would be nice to know you’re not a real, live, stalkerish stalker.  Mkay?  Kthxbai.