3:09 p.m. - 2006-09-28
Itching to Give Birth
OMG! OMG! OMG! I'm itchy beyond belief and I want to cry.
Guess I don't have to tell you where the itchiness is centered. It is seriously maddening, and if I were a dog, the vet would have put a plastic shield around my waist by now so I couldn't scratch. Which is not a bad idea, actually.
Last night went something like this: I've been using the prescription Proctofoam (yum) on all the itchiness, along with some over the counter crap to speed the process along, but since last night, it felt like it was spreading to the front part of me, too. It felt like a yeast infection, kinda, but I don't think that's what it was -- I think just everything between my legs is inflamed, so maybe it's even psychosomatic. Anyway, around 9:00 last night, I couldn't take it anymore, so I scurried to CVS to get some Monistat or something. I ended up with "Gyno-" something, which took care of the itch -- and replaced it with such an intense burning that I almost thought about self-circumcision, and wondered if instead I had accidentally bought Masochist Brand Extra-Intense Itch and Burn Cream. I was up ALL NIGHT sobbing and trying not to claw myself to ribbons, when it dawned on me at 6:00 am this morning that if Percoset worked for pain, it might also dull the nerve receptors responsible for itch, too. Brilliant, huh? It totally worked, but by the time it did, I was ready to pass out, so I slept in a little bit, but not as late was I wanted to, because I had to get here in time to let Surly Pouty Temp in the office. Anyway, I'm doing much better, or will be, as soon as the next dose of Percoset I just swallowed kicks back in to take me to a happy rectum place.
I'm so glad I've never had any desire to be all earthy-crunchy-Zen-mother about this pregnancy, 'cause that would totally have NOT worked. I feel guilty about the fact that before she's even born, my child will have already had a steady stream of Prozac and prescription painkillers coursing through her system. I didn't think she'd be such an addict until she was at least 15.
So, between all the head-butting of my cervix, and the glamorous side effects of my anal woes (which were a side effect themselves of pregnancy, probably caused by constipation due to all the heavy-duty iron supplements I have to take because of my anemia, again, brought on by pregnancy), I'm done. DONE, I tell you. It's about time to evict the resident of Hotel Uterus. I'm sure she'll be nothing but charming when she's inhabiting her own space, and not destroying mine.
So, I do want to have this baby sooner rather than later, but at least one coworker here at the gym is hoping for a nighttime or weekend delivery for me. Our gym manager is a sweet guy, who can't be older than 25, and who hasn't ever really been around pregnant women before. He's the one who tells me I'm the biggest pregnant woman he's ever seen (he's adorable, so I resist choking him), and he's also terrified every time he sees me walk across the gym floor to the rest room, because he's convinced that a baby is likely to drop out of me at any second. Earlier this week, we had a conversation that went something like this:
Mgr: (Terrified look on his face.)
Me: You know, I'm not going to have the baby on the gym floor, ok?
Mgr: How do you know? What if you go into labor here?
Me: Well, then I'll probably go home. I only live about two miles from here.
Mgr: What if you need to go to the hospital, and I'm the only one here?
Me: Then hopefully, you'll take me there.
Mgr: What if you pass out?
Me: You know, that really doesn't usually happen in childbirth. But if I pass out, I hope you'll call 911 for me.
The poor kid is convinced that my delivery will be like something out of "ER," with lots of screaming and blood, and maybe even a helicopter ride to the hospital if we're lucky.
