Disgusting Housewives

My husband is the Patron Saint of Dealing with Disgusting.
He's squeamish to be sure, and stands on propriety fairly well.

Other then the gas, the mad disgusting gas of being pregnant, I try to limit, and he limits for sure, the amount of body function interaction that goes on. We pee with the door closed, I don't use the bathroom while he's in the shower, we sh*t on different floors. there's no nose picking, surreptitious of otherwise. a dutch oven would be cause for divorce.

all and all, we both like to maintain a little distance, decorum.
which is why it was particularly humiliating to require his assistance last night.

See somewhere in the postop kit I declined to take, the "Dealing With Your Loss" portfolio I blithely waived away, somewhere in that kit and likely said:

"And we recommend you take a fiber supplement or a gentle laxative post surgery."
Because prenatal vitamins and the lack of coffee combined weren't doing you any favors and the anesthesia is likely to make your shit rock solid. Causing what will cause an extraordinary amount of excruciating pain. Pain that render you in agony, rocking on your livingroom floor for several minutes whimpering before you associate the pain, not with passing a blood clot but specifically from an impacted ball of shit. A shit so dense pressing thisclosely to your cervix on the inside, that will leave you writhing and moaning on the floor.

Likely it went on to tell me that it would be akin to a labor cramp. That'd I feel a sweat on my neck and a lightheadedness heretofor associated with fainting.

I saw my husbands legs.
"What can I do?"
I think I'm going to throw up" I said.
I knew he's go for a pail, I preferred to be dragged to the bathroom.
He comes back in with a yellow little tikes Bob the Builder helmet. Ellie's. I laugh.
I'm going to throw up into her helmet.

"I think" I said. "I think actually I need to poop."
I start crawling towards the doorway. The bathroom kitchen is closest.
"I don't want you to look" I said. While I hoisted myself up.
"It hurts"

He mixes up a packet of orange Metamucil, leftover from bedrest with Ellie. When shitting was my doctors obsession. If she gave out gold stars for proactive potty, surely I would have earned enough for an xbox level treat.

"Just slide it in."
He did. Like Tom Cruise in cocktail.
"ohhhwwww" I moan loudly.
"MY GOD, MY GOD whats wrong."

"There's a bug. There's a huge huge bug in here. Please. you need to come get it. I need to to come get it. I can't relax."

Dear god, the man comes in, I'm gross, I'm crying. I'm sitting on a toilet yelping "Dont look" and he's got 1 cubic inch to crawl OVER my legs, kill the bug and pass back all the while like some delicate Houdini that Isn't Going To Look.

"Owwwwwwww." I'm still in pain. "I cannnnn't. Nothings happening. It hurts."
He's helpless. I'm humiliated.
And then I snap.
I'm going to pull that sh*t out. Literally. I'm done. I'm in pain, and I'm certain my ass can take it.

I stick - good lord with a vengeance, my finger, with its long prenatal fingernail UP my ass. SURE THAT THIS IS A GOOD IDEA. Thinking, Maybe I can SPEAR this sucker.

Wait 24 hours before making decisions, it read.
Yeh, Like engaging in ass play. Would that I took that fucking kit home.

And through the closed door he hears me say "I think maybe this wasn't a good idea."
Him: "What can I get you"
Me: "I'm not sure. But I don't think fishing for shit with fingernails was my finest solution"
I hear with every fiber of my being that man freeze on the other side of the door.
But lord love a duck, he rallies.

"Wait" He says. "Just wait"

Then footsteps traveling through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, UP stairs, some banging and down again.
And a graceful hand opens the door.

"DON'T LOOK" I'm squealing.
"Trust me. I don't want to look"
And he passes me a bottle of lubricant. One that hasn't seen daylight, or frankly dark of night, neigh on two months.

"Good idea" I breath heavily as I reach.
And several seconds later I peer out the door.
"Um, can you get me upstairs to the shower?"

And we hobble ala the three-legged race at the fair. He turns the shower on.
"Hot" I say. "As hot as you can make it"

He sticks his head in.
"You alright?"
"He was my neighbor. And he violated me. Now I'll never end up in a fancy pie"
"Yeh, you're fine."

And I am.
I really really am.

The Best Laid Plans

I was supposed to get a pedicure today.
I was supposed to get up at 6, be out the door by 7, to the Doctors by 8. I was supposed to hear the heartbeat and make plans got a cerclage, and then for progesterone shots. I waited deliberately until i was this far along, to give the baby as much time as possible to decide whether it was going to stay around.
I was supposed to finish at the doctors, stop at CVS and buy a wedding card. I was supposed to pick up a bottle of OPI Magalia Wine and convince Lulu that I don't want a french manicure. I was supposed to get home late, have a snack, and see my daughter and husband as they return from NY. I was supposed to get up tomorrow, have my hair flatironed and go to the wedding of my dear dear friend. I was supposed to come home happy, maybe a little sick, and I was supposed to announce at playgroup on monday that I guessed the sex based on the heartrate.

I was not supposed to go to the doctor today and find out that my babies, my twins, had died.

Didn't even see it coming.

One Example of Apples Not Falling Far From The Tree

Have I ever mentioned that in my family of four am "The Quiet One"?
I shit you not.
Not The Funny One, The Successful One, The Pretty One, The Happy One, The Simple One. It's possible that I am The Neurotic One but when all is said and done, I'm actually "The Quiet One".

Proof:
FB - From Me To my Brother:
Can you refriend me? I think I X'd a conversation a couple of months ago and instead killed you off. Today I deleted you to re-add you and it won't let me request you. Unless you BLOCKED me?

FB - From Him to Me:
No, you were not blocked. Since I am a social media expert and I know intuitively how Facebook works (because I have un-friended many an asshole myself), you have to un-friend me to remove me from your friends list. Nice try.

This certainly is a poor effort at an excuse. Given your intellectual prowess, you could have come up with a better story. For example, a hacker infiltrated your Facebook account and deleted all your friends. Or, better yet, the Securities and Exchange commission was investigating your family for insider trading. You deleted your family from your Facebook profile to save you from embarrassment, or worse, scrutiny that you actually married a secret day trader and that your daughter is a ruse for some kind of tax shelter. Her birth certificate is from Panama.

That being said, I took into just consideration you may have simply just been (rightfully) annoyed, peeved, or exhausted from having to be interrupted by my thoughtful, enlightened, or intellectual musings. You reconsidered our familial friendship based on the realization that some tragic incident (I had nothing to do with) may have burdened you with the untold psychologically distress you may have experienced during your periodic human growth episodes, which have left you unable to discern familial bonds with the stress of corporate life while working for "THE MAN."

Being that you're considered "family" and all (and I use that term in the loosest form grammatically possible), your request has been evaluated and reference checked against the common code of social conduct as it relates to sibling interpersonal communication.

With careful thought and consideration to the fact that our past and futures are summarily intertwined--in that I may run into you at a family function or assist your beautiful daughter and oddly funny husband with their lives should you accidentally (or not) meet your untimely demise--your request to re-friend your f'ing brother, for chrissake, has been granted.

Consider yourself lucky, because--you know--it's an honor and privilege to be friends with someone as popular as I am (in my own mind).

Next time you do something so stupid as to un-friend your own brother, I will ex-communicate you from my online social world. You will therefore only be able to communicate with me through third-world communications systems, like the freakin telephone OR snail mail.

Yours truly,
Your F'in Brother!

Mama Called The Doctor and The Doctor Said...

The plan is a cerclage at 11 weeks, followed by weekly progesterone shots starting at 16. The shots can be administered at home (yeh) but my husband is likely to faint. Id ask a friend but really, I don't think I'm that close to anyone.

Then we'll see. The risks are pretty standard with a cerclage(1 in 250) but without a cerclage, I'm at high risk for premature labor. So either way, your assuming some risk. The downside is that there is no long term data avaialble for the effects of elevated progesterone on children. So there's always the chance that today's breakthrough is tomorrow's thelidamide.

Having said that, this is where I'm putting my trust.
They have a vested interest, perhaps even moreso then we, on bringing a healthy live baby into this world.

For them, it's a career, a life study, a passion, something to propel their hospital as a leader in perinatal care. Maybe a pathway to a Level 3 NICU. For us, well, we have each other and we have Ellie. It's simply "wait and see."

In the end, we're going with the aggressive Western Medicine option and hoping for the best. And honestly, the best is going to be "Whatever happen, happens."