Role Reversal

I fully expected to receive some push back on my declaration that this will be the one and only child J and I will be having. Surprisingly, there has been far less than I had anticipated, although that may very well change this weekend as we are attending a family picnic hosted by J's cousin, none of who are shy about expressing their opinion on how we should be conducting our life.

I did not expect J to receive as much push back as he seems to be getting right now, and it surprised me. J is irritated, he has had far too many conversations in the past several weeks with co-workers who absolutely refuse to accept that maybe the two of us have a pretty good grasp, after nine and a half years of marriage, of where our collective limitations end. To wit, they end with one child.

The pattern of the conversation is always the same. J mentions an alien is gestating, coworker responds with an exposition on the joys of parenthood. This is followed up by an interrogation on our current parental status, continued with statements on how eager the two of us will be to have another once the first is past the helpless alien stage. J responds that we intend to have one child. Coworker counters with the classic “you will change your mind”. J, unable to make himself walk away at this point, proceeds to explain all the logical reasons (time, money, resources, overpopulated planet, I don't want another child and hate being pregnant). Coworker dismisses explanations as the lunatic ravings of a nervous, first time father. The fact that I have no desire or intention to go through the experience again does not enter into the coworkers consciousness as a legitimate reason.. After all, once married, ownership of my reproductive organs passes onto my husband. I'm just the safe holding the goods. J gets to decide how the goods are used.

J shuts these conversations down by explaining that I have a history of depression, pregnancy has been far more difficult on me than he had anticipated and that he has no intention of putting me through such an experience again. Coworker shuts up.

Not wanting to be pregnant again? Not a reason. Not wanting your already crazy wife to become even crazier. Perfectly acceptable, after all there are children involved.

My parents were in the city over the weekend, to see Til Death Do Us Part: Late Nite Catechism 3. J and I met them at Six Penn Kitchen (home of a killer lobster macaroni and cheese dish that I have yet to try with the lobster) for brunch on Sunday morning.

Brunch began as the breezy and fun meal it is supposed to be late on a Sunday morning. Dad ordered an espresso and a green pepper stuffed with various meats, mom an iced tea and cheesecake stuffed french toast. J voted for coffee and an omelet stuffed with various meats while I opted for decaffeinated tea (served loose in a press pot), fresh orange juice, huevos rancheros and a side order of the macaroni and cheese*.

Remarks were made on my very gradual weight gain (I'm still in most of my regular clothing and only appear pregnant to those in the know), as gaining weight gradually is supposed to be less stressful on the body, lead to less weight gain overall, easier loss of weight post-pregnancy and, as told to me by my father-the-expert on such things, fewer and lighter stretch marks. Oohs and aahs were expressed over the twelve week ultrasound photos. An update on the Perkins restaurant that burned down several weeks ago was given.

This discomfort began once the details of the meal had been settled. J's mom wants to throw me a baby shower, an announcement that the majority of my female friends, knowing and sharing my deep aversion to showers bridal, baby and otherwise, greeted with much hilarity and the promise to present me with some highly inappropriate gifts to keep my spirits up during the execution of the event**.

As the alien I will be expelling is number six in a line of grandchildren on J's side and the first for my parents, it felt only appropriate and correct that my mom get first crack at torturing her daughter in the fashion of a baby shower. Except that, as carefully as I phrased the question, I could not find a way of explaining myself without sounding mercenary and made my mother very uncomfortable, as it had not occurred to her to think about hosting a baby shower.

As J and I have been trolling Craigslist in recent weeks for gently used infant clothing, a second hand crib made within the past three years, a second hand stroller and other baby related items, it was frustrating to come across as an individual who was begging for stuff. The only new items we intend to purchase are the breast pump, the infant car seat and the mattress for the crib. We are not assuming that anyone will providing us with anything.

After mom made it clear that she was more than willing to pass the shower honor on to J's mom, the conversation turned to our future plans.

J has a very bad habit of asking, in an audible undertone, if we should share information in front of the very people that I may want to withhold information from, at least in the short term. Over the years, I have gotten better at explicitly telling J to avoid certain topics of conversation, but once in a while an item will slip and he has never caught onto the concept

Such as the fact that I am seriously considering staying home.

My mom, who quit working when I was twelve to stay at home, did not approve. At all. And argued against it. My explanation, that out of the two choices, living with less money stressed me out less than the thought of the getting the alien bathed, fed and to/from daycare while holding down a full-time job, did little to appease her. J's explanation that I would be doing unpaid work for a friend part-time appeased her a little, but not much. All the contingencies J insists on putting into place to ensure that I get out of the house did little to appease her.

I shrugged her objections off, only to have them come back to haunt me at 4:30 in the morning. By the time J got up I was in tears and anxious.

And J was he gentle blunt self. “When have you honestly felt like you mom really supported you?” he asked me in the kitchen, after my bout of histrionics.

“Rarely” I replied.

“There's your answer. Do what makes you happy”.

*The ability to order an enormous amount of food without commentary is one of the few remaining prerogatives a pregnant woman has these days, after being denied lunch meat (including roast beef), sushi, rare steak, various cheeses, most seafood, chocolate, beer/wine and caffeinated beverages. And it is a prerogative that is slipping away as the media becomes increasingly enamored in shaming pregnant women for completely natural weight gain.

I also feel compelled to go on record and state that I did not finish all that food and took the rest home. The rest of the huevos made an excellent Sunday evening dinner and the macaroni and cheese is tonight's meal.

**A flask was mentioned. A full one. With wine. As for why I am opting to go through this particular torture, I may not be mercenary, but I'm also not a fool.

Options

J has been searching for a job for several months. Because of the gradually tightening economy, his success has been non-existent. Messages from recruiters have dropped to zero and his calls to them go either unanswered or offer no progress.

He received an email last week informing him that a product manager position has opened up at a company J left five years ago. The email came from an ex-coworker (and good friend) still employed at the company. He proposed J's name to management and received an enthusiastic response to the idea.

The job is ideal for J. Highly technical, with opportunities to interact with clients on a regular basis and attend major developer conferences, for a decent salary, working with individuals that J knows well and still maintains a good relationship with these many years later.

It is also highly stressful, with travel ranging from two to seven days every month and an average burn-out rate of a year. At a company that made J so miserable that I nearly moved out of our home near the end of his tenure there, rather than put up with one more day of his bad attitude. When he finally found new employment I threatened to leave him if ever went back *.

The interview went well, but he is only the first person interviewed and we think the company is balking at J's salary requirements.

J and I have both tried to live by the general rule of not stopping the other from doing something we really want to do, as long as it does not violate the boundaries of our very bourgeois marriage values. Ninety percent of the time it works out well. J is free to buy the Porsche, I am free to fly off to Paris for a week by myself.

But the thought of the amount of travel he will have to do every month, no matter how minimal, leaves me stressed, as it is becoming painfully clear, in spite of our best intentions, that if I continue working I will be overwhelmingly responsible, at least for the first year, for the care of our child. Feeding, watching over, getting to and from day care and doctors appointments. Even if he does not take this job, I feel an incredible amount of the burden falling on my shoulders. And I'm a little bit angry that the dictates of biology and culture make it this way.

So, I quit. Or am quitting. Maybe. Possibly. When I sit quietly and weigh the two options in my mind, being home makes more sense. J had put out feelers among his network of developer friends and one is interested in hiring me to test on a part time basis. I could work on the sketches for the children's story I wrote seven years ago. I could spend some time writing. And J insists that I keep my gym membership and figure out a budget for hiring a sitter, to get me out of the house alone a 2-3 days a week.

Then my common sense weighs in and tells me that I'm crazy to quit in this economy and need to tough it out. That we can get by on one income, but I need to be employed in case J becomes unemployed. That it is worth giving up 1/3 of my paycheck to childcare and my temporary sanity to ensure that we stay afloat in the long term.

This sucks.

*Obviously an empty threat.

Handmade Cutting Board Blues*

J and I manged to escape our house over the weekend and spend a day in State College, at the Central Pennsylvania Festival of the Arts. It has not been easy to escape, as of late. J has been working long hours and too many weekends, a situation that is causing both of us frustration and some anxiety, as attempts to plan some sort of last hurrah as a childless couple getaway-ish type weekend have been thwarted by his work responsibilities.

After an early lunch at the Deli, we spent a happy afternoon wandering the streets of State College and portions of Penn State University's campus, peering into booths filled with prints, painting, pottery, jewelry and woodwork.

Midway through our tour of the tents we stopped to admire the blockcut prints made by an artist named Thomas Bucci. As we were studying the prints, the thunder we had been hearing for the past twenty minutes became louder, the wind kicked up and it began to rain. Thomas invited us to shelter inside his tent during the storm, assuring us that it would be strong, but very brief.

As we stood inside his zipped up tent, he explained how he created the prints. He pulled out his Blackberry and showed us some of the sketches he created on his phone, done with a piece of software and a stylus.

I was amazed. I loved the mingling of art and technology. As the rain stopped, J and I purchased two prints to add to our collection, most likely to decorate the walls of the alien's room.

We saw the artisan who made the jewelry box J purchased at the Three Rivers Festival as a birthday gift for me two years ago. J was thrilled to find him, as we owed him money. When we originally purchased the box, we asked if he could change out one of the sections. Since it could not be done at the festival, we put a 50% down payment and he agreed to make the change and call us before sending the box so we could pay him the rest.

Except that he never called. He packed the box up and shipped to us, without asking for the rest of the money. By the time we received the box we had lost his business card and had no way of contacting him to pay up.

It took a while for J to convince him that we still owed him money and J was only able to pay him back half of what we actually owed. But it was something.

I also experienced something like homesickness while talking to a weaver from Greensboro, N.C, my home during graduate school. She was sunny and bouncy and fun and caught me up on some of my favorite places in the city. I walked away with a matching mohair hat, scarf and shaw, which I plan to use while cuddling the alien next winter. She walked away delighted at the thought that the shawl would be used to keep warm a new life.

* Title inspired by the antics of a customer at one booth who wanted to make sure that she was shipped a cutting board without any knots in it. She did not like any of the boards he had available because they were "knotty".

Things I'm Thinking of Rather Than Working

Because I'm writing this on a sunny Friday afternoon when I should be working...

It is my general philosophy to not attribute to malice what can be explained by stupidity, but I suspect Robert Hanlon never had to deal with health insurance company.

Conversations with all involved parties have allowed me to piece together the factors that precipitated Coventry's determination that the Midwife Center is an out-of-network provider. A brief time line:

1. The Midwife Center faxes a standard letter to Coventry notifying the insurance company that the center will be providing my prenatal and birth care. The letter contains my name, group number and insurance number. The letter does not contain the Midwife Center's provider number, as the center is not billing Coventry for any services at this time.
2. Coventry sends me a letter stating that the Midwife Center is an out-of-network provider.
3. I call the Midwife Center and inform them of the letter. They call Coventry, verify that they are in-network and tell me that I need to call the insurance company and try to determine where the mistake happened.
4. I call Coventry and speak with a very nice CSR. She explains to me that the Midwife Center has two provider numbers, probably due to a change in the name of the center sometime in the past. One number is out-of-network and essentially defunct. The second is in-network. It appears that an employee assigned the fax to the out-of-network number. In order to change it, I need to get the Midwife Center to refax the information to Coventry, with the correct provider number. Once they receive the corrected information, they will send me confirmation.
5. I call the center back and explain the situation. The woman who handles the billing is completely bewildered as the center has never put the provider number on this type of notification. She also does not seem to understand why it is necessary to refax the information with the provider number included. She says the situation will resolve itself when the Midwife Center bills Coventry at the end of the pregnancy. She seems to have missed the simple fact that this company has pre-emptively refused to pay in-network for a service and will stick to that decision until told otherwise.
6. After hanging up, I remind myself that I paid a considerable sum of money for my older, but still highly functional CDMA/GSM hybrid phone, and breaking the phone by throwing it across the conference room is a bad idea.
7. I decide, instead, to spend my Sunday composing and filing an appeal with Coventry, using the information that the very nice CSR gave to me. Copies of this appeal will be sent to Coventry, the Midwife Center, the PA Department of Insurance and the PA Attorney General. Coventry will also be receiving a copy of the formal complaints I will be filing with the PA Department of Insurance and the PA Attorney General.

My week was rounded out, on Thursday, by my first official "pregancy scold" lecture from a co-worker who felt that I should not have indulged in a sushi dinner earlier in the week. She felt it was "too risky" as "you never know, with all the physical changes to your body, what might make you sick".* While I have experienced a significant aversions to some foods, such as the smell of peanut better and well done (overcooked) meat, I have not become suddenly and mysteriously allergic to raw fish.

The sushi was magnificent.

* The dinner consisted of spider rolls (cooked, soft-shell crab), sweet shrimp sushi (also cooked) and crazy tuna rolls (raw, ahi tuna mixed with wasabi served on warm, lightly fried rice rolls). The combined amount of seafood in the meal maybe reached 8oz total, most of the food was cooked and wasabi is used with sushi because of its anti-microbial qualities.

Insurance Battle Number 1

I received a letter from Coventry Health Assurance today.

Coventry Health Assurance has decided, in spite of my diligent checking three months ago*, that the Midwife Center is an out-of-network provider and that I will be responsible for a $2,000.00 out-of-network deductible plus any overages above what Coventry Health Assurance feels like paying as reasonable cost to the Midwife Center.**

Oh, and I have a right to appeal, but it will not be considered an urgent appeal, so Coventry Health Assurance could, in theory, tie up the appeal past the point where I would be able and permitted to switch to an in-network OB.

The next person who tells me that nationalized health care will send the United States down the road to rationed care is getting punched in the nose.

* A phone call to the Midwife Center to confirm they were in-network and several hours digging through a provider search interface designed to create the maximum amount of aggravation with a minimum number of results. The search options are Find a Doctor, Find a Hospital, Find an Ancillary Service Provider, Find an Urgent Care Center or Find an Allied Health Professional. You can not search by clinic or practice name. You can not search by individual name if the provider is anything other than an MD, unless you try Ancillary Service Provider or Allied Health Professional and your guess about which category a CNM falls into is as good as mine. You can search by specialty, but the only names that come up are, once again, MD's.

** My interpretation.

Don't Panic - Episode I

One of the more pleasant aspects of visiting the midwives is that I am handed my chart as I walk through the door for an appointment. Rather then endure the borderline humiliation of being weighed by a nurse, I go into the bathroom, weigh myself on the old fashioned scale and note it in the chart.

Task done, I took a few moments while waiting for the midwife to read through my chart, including the results from a very unpleasant procedure I had several years ago and the more recent reports from the ultrasound done earlier this month.

Noted in the ultrasound report - Placenta: previa (complete).

Oh. No.

I digress to openly admit that I read way to much sometimes. Once I accepted that this pregnancy was real I became acquainted with the Mayo Clinic's website and have become obsessive at learning about all the things that could possibly go wrong during a pregnancy. But in all my worries about birth defects, gestational diabetes (because I hate the idea of having to stick myself with needles multiple times a day) and pre-eclempsea (because I hate the idea of forced bed rest and possible stroke), that I might have the condition known as placenta previa never occurred to me.

In this, I have potentially hit, at once, all of things I fear with frightening pathology - forced bed rest, repeated ultrasounds, steroids, needles, knives, surgery and death.

Dana the midwife* calls me back to the office and we sit down to chat. She asks me if I have any questions. I ask her about the "previa (complete)" notation on the ultrasound report.

Dana explains to me that this condition is very common into the second trimester of pregnancy and that the placenta usually moves upwards as the uterus expands. If I had not had the ultrasound, I would not have known. They will check again at the 18-20 week ultrasound and take necessary action if the placenta has not moved by then.

This should have been enough to calm me down, at least until I have the next ultrasound. In the short term, defined as the sixteen hours between the end of my appointment and this morning, it was.

Then I had to look up the complications. I knew that previa meant c-section. It did not register in my first round of reading that it might also mean enforced hospital bed rest, steroids to speed up fetal lung development, premature delivery, excessive bleeding, hysterectomy and possibly death. Finding out the resolve rate for partial previa is 95%, complete previa 90%, did not help much, because there is that 10% to worry about. And 10% is a lot when you are not quite ready to shuffle off the mortal coil.

J is calm in contrast of my controlled panic. Calm, but irate, the way men become when they will not allow themselves to panic. He wanted to know why the doctor, who told us "everything was normal", failed to mention the previa.

I'm not as curious. He's a doctor. He sees a previa, note that I am just finishing the first trimester, assumes that it will resolve and moves on. Does not want to deal with giving an already stressed out woman potentially bad news about a life-threatening condition that usually resolves itself.

The bills from the first ultrasound and blood tests are starting to roll in. Almost $600.00 towards my $1000.00 deductible already reached. The insurance breakdown came first, followed by a bill from National Chain Lab who has not sent the results of my blood work two weeks ago to the midwives. They sit on the dining room table waiting for me to match up the statements, to ensure that I am not being overcharged for any service. The next ultrasound should eat up the rest of the deductible. Then the fun of explaining to multiple parties that I have fulfilled my deductible and that they need to take it up with the insurance company begins.

*There are five midwives in this practice. Patients are rotated through all five over the course of a pregnancy and receive labor and delivery care from whomever is on call at the time labor begins, whether at the center or in the hospital. Even if I go to the hospital, the midwife will be there for support.

My Pregnancy Letter

Dear Friends, Family and Complete Strangers who will Feel Compelled to Accost me on the Street in the Next Nine Months,

1. Yes, I am pregnant.
2. No, it was not planned. But it does not follow that it is unwanted.
3. No, I was not thrilled when I found out. As a point of fact, I was rather pissed off. But it does not follow that I unhappy about it now.
4. No, I am not getting rid of the cats. End of discussion.
5. Yes, we are discussing names. No, we are not going to tell you what they are.
6. No I don't know what the gender of the alien is and I'm not interested in finding out.
7. And while we are on the subject, I don't care if the alien is a boy or a girl. Really. I. DON'T. CARE.
8. As a matter of fact, I do think it is funny to refer to the fetus as an alien. It certainly feels like one mentally and emotionally. Thanks for your concern.
9. No, we are not planning on trying for “another on”. We didn't try for this one. Which is not done yet, so why the rush?
10. No, I don't think I am being selfish by not giving the alien a sibling. I value my sanity far more than I value breeding a second alien to keep the first one company.
11. Since you insist on pressing the issue, I'm getting my tubes tied. TMI? TDB!
12. No, you may not touch me.
13. Do I know you? Have we been introduced? No? Then take your hands off me, n.o.w.
14. Yes, I intend to go back to work.
15. Yes, the alien will be in day care since I am going back to work.
16. Yes, I intend to bottle feed the alien at some point. Possibly with formula. Yes, I am aware that I am a horrible excuse for a mother and that the alien may turned out stupid, like me. With a Master's degree and a good job. If only all of us were so lucky.
17. Yes, I am using a nurse midwife instead of an obstetrician. Yes, I do think they are qualified to take care of me. Did you know that my father, mother, younger brother, his wife, her mother, one of my aunts and her daughter (my cousin) are all nurses? Now you do.
18. Yes, the alien will be vaccinated. Yes, I've heard about the autism study. Did you know that the results of that study have never been replicated and researchers have proven that some of data was manipulated? Manipulated as in falsified?
19. I'm sorry that my (currently non-existent) birth plan does not meet with your expectations. Perhaps you would like to discuss your concerns with my midwife?
20. No, I'm not giving up my study for the nursery. Have you seen how small the study is? Most walk-in closets are larger.
21. What about guests? Couch, air mattress or hotel.
22. No, I am not repainting the spare bedroom for the alien.
23. Yes, I agree that I'm a horrible person for not wanting to put a theme to the alien's room.

I'm sure this list will get longer...

Thirteen Weeks and Thirty Six Years

The ultrasound and blood tests are complete. The hospital ignored my request for the quad screen and did the standard first trimester screening and took enough blood to fill seven vials. Naturally the tech had trouble finding the vein and spent several moments after sticking me moving the needle around, while it was in my arm. I closed my eyes, breathed very deeply and slowly and tried not to count the number of vials she will filling.*

I've decided, after a flush of irritation, not to push for the quad screen unless the midwives feel it is warranted. The ultrasound showed a healthy little alien with a fondness for moving it's hands and rolling over and over. The risk of Down's went from 1/150 to 1/1053 with the results of the blood tests. After weeks of saying to J, over and over, that whatever the outcome we will be OK, I have to start believing my own words.

Whatever the outcome, it will be OK. I said this to myself one morning, after dreaming about a labor that had gone wrong and that J and I were fighting over whose responsibility it was to raise the alien.

I'm amazed, maternity leave worries aside, at how supportive my employer and co-workers have been. One regularly asks me how I am feeling and passes on pieces of advice from his wife, a neonatal nurse. Others are planning on rotating out of their parking spots next winter, so I can ditch the bus and drive to work in late pregnancy without having to worry about finding a place to park. My supervisor tells me not to worry too much about work that I am missing for prenatal appointments – he knows I'll make it up.

I read about pregnancy, childbirth and child raising almost obsessively these days. Not about the mechanics, which I understand pretty well. I read about society's expectations of how pregnant women should behave. Irritating articles equating an occasional glass of wine during pregnancy and nursing with alcohol (and child) abuse. A compelling yet horrifying livejournal entry about an unassisted home birth, forwarded to me by a co-worker who was a friend of the writer. Compelling as the writer described the process of late labor vividly and beautifully. Horrifying as she hired an uncertified midwife who:

• Did next to nothing to assist in the birth
• Never checked to see if the writer was properly dilated for delivery
• Told the writer to reach into herself and check if the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck
• Mistook the sound of blood flowing through veins as a heartbeat on the doppler and told the writer she was going to deliver a twin

I found it very, very difficult to hold my judgement of the writer's choices. I've already has some backlash from a SIL over my decision to use certified nurse midwives instead of an OB. She had a considerable amount of trouble wrapping her head around the idea that doctors are not the only medical individuals qualified to deliver babies. And the fact that I intend to deliver in a birthing center confused her considerably.

But not knowing to check how far a laboring woman is dilating? An inability to tell the difference between a vein and a heartbeat? Really?

I turned thirty-six on Sunday. As far as birthdays go, it was not the most ideal day. J was sick and spent it sleeping. I spent it catching up on laundry, watching 80's movies on television and alternately feeling sorry for myself and telling myself to suck it up and be a grownup. J was sick, but friends left messages in my inbox and I received phone calls from both siblings, my parents and one friend living in Switzerland. The last was a special, completely unexpected and lovely treat.

*Seven and I have a lovely, streaky bruise on the inside of my right elbow to prove it.

Welcome Back...

To Pittsburgh


Lord Stanley returns to the Steel City.

Ten Weeks

Notes from June 4 Prenatal Exam

1. I am permitted (and encouraged) to read my chart on every visit. This was really surprising and gratifying.
2. I spent 50 of the 60 minutes of the exam in my own clothes, just talking to the midwife, KM.
3. I am permitted to do the following activities: ride my bike, swim, work out the ellipse and treadmill and work out with free weights and the weight machines.
4. When I told KM about my history or depression, she wrote out a list of names of counselors near my place of work and requested that I develop a relationship with a therapist to aid me with my pregnancy and postpartum depression issues. She does not expect me to go every week or even every other week, but wants me to have the appropriate interventions in place in case I become severely depressed at any point.
5. She found my friend B's suggestion that I take a prenatal yoga class as a tool for controlling the depression and anxiety “absolutely brilliant” and is almost requiring me to take the class.
6. I can't say that I had a flood of motherly emotion upon hearing the heartbeat via the Doppler. It just confirmed the “walking science experiment” feeling I have been experiencing the past few weeks.
7. My GP is the medical director of the center. As such, she will be routinely reviewing my chart. Talk about continuity of care.
8. I have ideal nipples for nursing. I'm acutely aware of how much information I am giving away with that statement, but I found this to be the most hilarious part of the visit.
9. I can ditch the foul prenatal vitamins and take one Flinstone's chewable a day instead. I can even ditch the chewable, but that would entail watching my diet more closely then I care to think about.
10. I have to be very careful about the fish I eat.
11. I felt 10 pounds lighter walking out of the office. The fact that I have been cleared for regular activity after being told I could not do any other exercise other than walk (by the nurse practitioner at my GP's office) has been a contributing factor to the depression and anxiety I am feeling. More so, I felt like they were caring for me as a person and not just as a vessel.

Genetic counseling, ultrasound and blood work (ugh) scheduled for June 15th. Which leads me into part 2 of this post.

I've been thinking a lot of the murder of Dr. George Tiller in the past ten days. I can't help thinking about it. The further I advance in this pregnancy, the more strenuously pro-choice I find myself coming. Primary because the decisions I am making are no longer in the abstract. I am no longer thinking about abortion as a theory, but as a necessary truth I may be forced to explore.

I find myself thinking in relentlessly, ruthlessly pragmatic tones, separating my emotions from what I might be seeing on the ultrasound and in test results in a couple of weeks. I find myself deeply examining my conscience, trying to parse out a complicated formula that will allow me to base decisions on what is instead of what might be.

On June 15th I will have a blood test called a Quad Screen and an nuchal fold ultrasound. The results of these tests will be used, along with my age and genetic history, to calculate the risk that the alien inside me is carrying markers for Trisomy 18 Syndrome, also known as Edward's Syndrome. Trisomy 18 causes severe developmental complications and 50% of the babies diagnosed carried to term are stillborn. Less than 10% survive past the first year.

These tests will not be able to tell me how specifically the alien will be affected, only the risk.

These tests are done between the 11th and 13th week of pregnancy. If the risk returns as high, I will be forced to make a painful decision.

[A] Wait until between the 15th and 18th week to have an amniocentesis to confirm whether the risk is real and learn the specific genetic abnormalities the alien may be manifesting. Test results take three weeks, which would put me in the 18th to 21st week range, right on the cusp of legality (24 weeks) for terminating a pregnancy. There is only 1 clinic in Pittsburgh who will terminate so late in the second trimester. Late termination is NOT the pleasant experience anti-choice paint it out to be. It takes multiple visits to a clinic and it painful. There are no clinics (to my knowledge) in Pennsylvania that will perform a third trimester termination, I would have to prove medical necessity and travel out of state to have the procedure done.

[B] Terminate early into the second trimester, without waiting to have the amnio done, taking the risk that I am terminating a healthy pregnancy. Still not a pleasant experience, but can be done in most clinics in a single visit. I'm also taking the risk of being disowned/ostracized by some family and friends for this decision.

[C] Do nothing and hope for the best. Risk the possibility of having no control over the medical decisions if the alien is born with defects that are incompatible with life.

The murder of George Tiller, the harassment of doctors, employees and patients at the clinics, all of these things have the cumulative affect of restricting women even further, and, ironically, putting women in the position of choosing [B] in situations where the fetus could be healthy as a way of avoiding making decision [A] further in pregnancy.

I think about these things. I think about how angry I get when I listen to someone who paints themselves as “pro-life” belittle women who have abortions because of mental health issues as women who just don't want to take care of a baby, as if the increased hormonal levels, the sickness, the bewildering sense that you are less than the fetus you are carrying, the fear of loss of job and support systems are a temporary state. Because that is ME they are talking about. That is ME who is trying so hard to get up every morning and get through the day.

Changing Parts I, II & III

Changing - Part II

29 April 2009

I'm pregnant. By the time I am able to put this post up, I will have been pregnant for around 12 weeks. At the time I am writing this, at 7:04 PM on Wednesday, April 29, 2009, I've known definitely for less than 24 hours and have been “in the family way” for 2-3 weeks.

I can't say that I was happy, initially, to discover that I am incubating. Shocked. Disappointed. Pissed. I don't want to be pregnant. I want to eat raw oysters at the Outer Banks in May. I don't want to be pregnant. I want to go to Germany in the fall, to see my friends. I prayed for a change, but this is not the change I wanted.

For a moment, a flash of a moment, I wondered about an abortion. Bury the pregnancy tests in the trash with the cat litter, secretly get an abortion, never breathe a word. But the thought of carrying out this kind of subterfuge felt wrong, wrong at the core.

I called J instead, before I lost my courage. J laughed. I felt a tiny bit better, listening to him laugh, him sound happy. I asked him to pick up a second test, to make sure I had not screwed up the first. The second test was positive too.

We talked. I told J the truth. I told him that I was upset. That I was pissed. That I felt like I was going to have to start all over again, drawing boundaries. That I dreaded the battles with grandparents over faith, holidays, all the struggles, all over again.

From scratch.

J asked if I wanted an abortion.

No. Not an option.

I didn't sleep last night. Maybe an hour, hour and a half. I lay dazed, thinking, thinking, thinking. Moved from the bed upstairs to the couch down, opened the window, felt the cooler air on my skin. Sleep did not come. Felt sick, sicker then the slight sense of nausea I had felt in the past couple of weeks.

I finally got up, showered, dressed. 5:30 AM. My friend A was online, hours ahead, almost halfway through his day.

“I have news” I messaged.

“Your pregnant? Yay! He replied.

He was happy for me. “wow, you'll be a great mom”.

I felt a little bit better. Slowly, as the day wore on, as tired as I was, as sick as I felt, I felt better.

Changing – Part II

30 April 2009

Today:
1.The nurse practitioner at my GP confirmed the pregnancy.
2.I was obliquely told that a glass of wine every few weeks would be ignored.
3.Riding my bike was reluctantly approved, as long as I stayed on the trails. No mountain biking.
4.Walking was highly recommended and encouraged.
5.I had my first bout of real nausea, which left me close to feeling like I was going to pass out. Thankfully, I was in the bathroom when it happened. The bathroom has a cushy black armchair that I was able to sit in for a few minutes to collect myself.
6.J purchased ginger ale, ginger tea, tylenol and crackers.
7.I had to switch asthma inhalers. The new medication costs $41.53 for a 25 day supply. I don't even want to consider how much it would cost without insurance.
8.I can no longer take Imitrex for migraines. If they get bad enough, I can call the doctor and have them prescribe tylenol with codeine.

Changing – Part III

15 May 2009

Today I had repeat of the panic that has been plaguing me off and on since I initially stared at the digital readout of a positive pregnancy test.

There is a very real, very distinct possibility that I could lose my job because of this pregancy. The company I work is not bound by the FMLA because they employ less that 50 people. Any maternity leave that I am granted is at the discretion of the company.

In short, if they wanted to get rid of me, and I can name one person off the top of my head who would do it in a minute, all they would have to do is authorize less leave then medically necessary (the minimum suggested by most doctors is six weeks) and I'm out the door, because I will be physically incapable of working. And it will be framed in such a manner that collecting unemployment will be incredibly difficult.

I came home feeling ill, from the fatigue, from the nausea, and from the renewed realization that I could end up unemployed. I lay down on the couch and told J that I might only get six weeks of leave.

Silence. J absorbing the news. Shocked, as he thought I was overreacting two weeks ago when I sat on the couch and cried because I might lose my job.

J asked me if there was anything he could do for me. My first remark was “I can't say anything that you will not find highly offensive”.

J encouraged me to express the least offensive of my thoughts. After telling him that he needed to prepare to take six weeks off, to care for the alien while I went back to work, I concluded with this comment:

“This is a perfect example of why women have abortions”.

Irony Part II

Attending one of the most conservative Christian colleges in the country on funds earned by starring in gay porn.

Having walked the grounds of Grove City College and the town, it is a creepy, creepy place and I'm not surprised the he was suspended.

Irony

Is writing an entry expressing gratitude for something, only to have it come a mere week later and bite you in the ass.

Disgusting

I've been reading, with avid interest, the articles discussing the upcoming arguments in Stafford vs April Redding to the Supreme Court.

Reading the articles surrounding the case have actually made me incredibly grateful that I am not trying to raise a child, especially a female child, in today's society. Savana Redding (now 19) was 13 years old when school officials decided to strip search her, based on a classmate's tip that she had a contraband drug on her person.

Read again. School officials strip searched a 13 year old girl. Without first calling her mother. Without having anyone advocate for her.

She voluntarily consented? She is thirteen years old, with school officials breathing down her neck, with no idea that officials were going to request that she shake out her bra and jiggle her underwear. The imbalance of power makes consent impossible in this case. The imbalance of power alone makes consent difficult to accept.

The drug in question was a prescription strength dosage (400mg) of Ibuprofen.

If Slate's summary of the proceedings is an indication, it is going to get a hell of a lot more difficult for parents to send their children to school. The two page summary was infuriating to say the least and left me with the distinct impression that the majority of the Supreme Court justices regressed to the age of 13 year old boys, sniggering in the locker room.

In other words, they don't think strip searching a thirteen year old is a big deal, if it keeps the drugs away.

Photo Class - Part II

Today was the second of the four class series I am taking at the Pittsburgh Glass Center. Today was all about practicing. Practicing how to sandblast the plates. Practicing how to transfer the image from the transparency to the resist. Practice transferring the resist to the glass plate. Practicing painting, with powders and beautiful, fast-drying paints. Practice sandblasting the resist off of the glass, leaving paint or a ghost image behind, to rub with paint or powder.

The sandblaster is an intimidating piece of equipment, a large box with a plexiglass window in which the user turns on the compressed air. places the glass plate into the unit, latches the door, flips two switches, places her hands into the attached rubber gloves, picks up a device that looks like a gun and presses down on a pedal to shoot air onto the plate.

Even though the unit is enclosed, dust goes everywhere. Which means wearing an itchy face to avoid inhaling the dust and lead-based paint particles. And because the unit is enclosed, the dust has etched into the window of the unit, leaving only a small section of clear window in which to work. This section is (naturally) in the most inconvenient location of the unit.

We are also required to wear masks while handling the paints and powders, as the majority of them are lead based. The lead makes the color rich, but adds an element of danger to the creation process. The masks can be removed if no one is working with powders and while washing out the resist.

Bad idea, I discovered shortly after leaving the center. Not only were my clothes saturated with dust and powder but I had also inhaled enough to make the rest of this afternoon rather uncomfortable. I suspect the mask will have to remain on through the entire class next week.

Photo Class I

In a search for further enlightenment, I am taking a four week class on Sunday mornings at the Pittsburgh Glass Center, learning how to transfer photographic images into glass.

It is intimidating, walking into a room with a group of strangers, no matter how small the group is. All the students are women and our ages range from twelve to to forty something. I am the only member of the class that has no experience working with glass. I am also the only member of the class with minimal photography experience.

The instructor gave us an overview of the techniques she would be teaching and gave a very brief lesson in converting images for use. She also talked about the different things we could create once the images were transferred to the glass – plates, jewelery, wind chimes...

It was good to get out of the house and do something challenging for a few hours.

Into the Fire - Part II

I've never dealt with a personality like the individual I am dealing with now. I've never had the professional experience of sitting helplessly as my words are twisted and used as weapons against me. The last time I had a conversation with someone in which they asked me to explain myself, I explained myself, only to be informed that my explanation was “not an excuse and [unacceptable]” I was seven years old.

I don't understand this kind of management style. I don't understand what goes through the mind of an individual who indulges in this type of management style. It is not productive. It is not effective. It invalidates the legitimacy of any true criticism of my performance, as it is wrapped up on a series of implied statements, personal attacks and contradictory instructions about what I should be doing to improve the situation.

Anytime you preface or reinforce a statement by stating “I'm not saying you are [adjective of choice]”, you are, in fact, saying it. In the past 24 hours, over two meetings I have been called lazy, disorganized and told that I am not taking my responsibilities seriously. And I have a third meeting with this individual next Wednesday to discuss “next steps”. All indicators are that this meeting will be very much like the last two, in which suggestions on how I could improve the situation will be used to berate me about not implementing them to begin with.

This individual is not my immediate supervisor, but is in a position of serious authority. I have been informed that there is absolutely nothing I can do but to wait for their attention span to divert elsewhere, probably in two or three weeks, possibly several months, sometimes never. That no matter what I do or say, it will not be the right answer.

If this individual gives me instructions then decides on a different course of action, thus causing me to submit bad information, it is my fault for not reading their mind. If I send them something for review and do not send a reminder, I am the one who has dropped the ball. If I don't met unexpressed expectations, it is because I did not ask the right questions. This individual will never apologize, will never concede that anyone else's ideas are valid and will never take responsibility for their actions. Ever.

I've also been told, short of committing a sacrifice of small animals in the middle of the workspace floor, this individual can not fire me without going through both my immediate supervisor and his supervisor for approval. That there are multiple parties willing to step up and defend me if this individual decides that he wants to get rid of me. Additionally, since this specific duty I appear to be failing to perform falls outside my core responsibilities, the consequences would be minor* and there would be more than ample opportunity to work on other projects within the company.

The stress of this is making me ill. I am not sleeping. I am having trouble eating. The pit of nausea in my stomach is larger and I go to work each day praying that I can get to the end of it without triggering a migraine. I can not concentrate on my work, at a time when I need to be able to fully concentrate.

* Loss of stock options and bonuses that will not be paid out this year anyway.

Into the Fire

I've been listening to a lot of David Grey concert recordings these past few weeks, thanks to the Live Music Archive*. The more I listen, the more I come to appreciate the mixture of dark and light in his music and lyrics. Especially the dark. David Grey's lyrics can be very, very dark. The One I Love? The man in the song dying of a gunshot wound.

I find a certain comfort in listening to someone sing about drugs, death and destruction in such a lyrical manner, as it fits my overall stressed mood, as I struggle to get testing completed on projects slated for release the first week of May.

The stress is taking its toll on my physically. I'm waking up every day feeling slightly nauseated** and eating seems to intensify the feeling for short periods of time. The last time I felt like this was near the end of my first year of college. My doctor put me on a short course of medicine and the semester ended.

But I can't get in to see my doctor until the end of May (that American healthcare system, the greatest in the world, don't you know), so I'm dealing by thrice weekly visits to the gym, increased workouts on the elliptical machine and as many pull ups and dips as my shoulders can tolerate. I may feel sick, but by the end of May the media will be shaming me over my biceps and triceps.

This is compounded by the fact that I must occasionally work with an individual who is difficult. Who has authority over me. Who does not communicate expectations and chastises me when I fail (naturally) to fulfill those unspoken, unknown, (occasionally) unreasonable expectations.

A bully. And I don't react well to bullies. My emotions overcome my intellect when I have to deal with any person with a bullying personality. I don't handle them well at all.

I came home Friday afternoon demoralized. Upset. Agitated. And bemused that a sixty second phone conversation could upset me so badly. J looked at me and gently suggested that I might want to consider looking for a different job, Acknowledging that as much as I really enjoy what I do (and I do), and like my coworkers, none of that is worth it to get so completely wound over a single individual.

But I don't feel as if I can look this time. I feel as if I need to face this is a challenge, learn how to deal with this individual's type of personality.

I'm at a loss as to where to begin.

*I also found a recording of Blues Traveler performing a cover of Superstition with Lenny Kravitz and Rusted Root at the Shoreline Amphitheatre in 1996. Only significant in that I was at that concert and that song remains clear in my memory thirteen years later.
**Most definitely NOT knocked up, in the family way or pregnant.
***Intentional, necessary misuse of grammar.

The Post

I was going to title this entry "Going Postal" but I could not find it in myself to sink that low.

Normally, I don't mind going to the post office. The consumer demographic is interesting to observe*, the stamps are pretty to look at and I've never had an employer give me a hard time about coming back late from an errand when that errand is the post office.** I've never gotten bad directions from a mail carrier and the counter employees are cheerful and easygoing.

Except at the Squirrel Hill branch of the Pittsburgh post office. Conducting business there is an experience in aggravation akin to trying to navigate through Milan Malpensa airport.*** No amount of people watching can eliminate the bad taste of conducting business in this branch.

There exists a set of undefined, completely arbitrary and random rules as to how a customer is supposed to function while inside the confines of this particular office. The only order I have been able to determine is that if you are a middle aged, monied male you could get away with murdering all the patrons, piling their bodies into a pile and setting the corpses on fire and the staff would not blink an eye.

Or, in a less extreme example, bypass the line altogether, dump enormous package and bag of mail on the counter and demand a specific employee. Be sure to count off where your place in line would have been, if you were actually the type to participate in such a bourgeois custom. Manage to conveniently ignore the last woman in the line while counting, she must be invisible. Proceed to leave the lot in a pile on the counter in order to spend several moments banging on the heavy, wooden, "employee's only" door while yelling. Return to counter and hover over the postal employees, asserting

Be not young or female and step up to the empty station without first being called. You will be screamed at, then sent back to the line, where you watch while the screaming employee throws the packages from a prior customer into the waiting bin and storms off for a smoke.

Just as your turn comes, a third, yawning, employee will wander out, announce that she is tired but can't seem to nap and that she needs cash. Instead of going outside to the ATM across the street, she hands her debit card to her coworker, who swipes and hands her some bills.

I hate the place.

* Today there was an elderly man and a middle-aged woman holding the forms and various other paraphernalia necessary to obtain a passport. The elderly man was applying for his first passport. I wondered where he would be traveling. A son in the military? A cruise? A late-in-life desire to see the world? Or a casio junket to the Falls?
** I suspect that is a more a function of being successful at choosing more relaxed employers. My current boss, for example, happens to be a fan of packages and packing material, so he has a tendency to overlook long absences in the middle of the day when the employee in question has business to conduct at the neighborhood post office.
*** Minimal signage and what is posted is in direct contradiction with reality. Truly awful customs agents.