39 & 4

39 weeks, 4 days and going out of my damn mind.  I got all excited
post-yoga on Friday night because of a series of Braxton-Hicks
contractions and "feeling weird", but it was nothing.  I was hopeful
all weekend because it was my midwife's weekend on duty and I'd really
like her to be there, but nothing happened (except that I got bigger). Today was my grandmother's birthday and how nice to have what would have been her first great-grandchild on her birthday (You see how I'm clutching at straws here holding out hope for an imminent birth?) I'm trying not to hold my breath.  This baby is perfectly happy in utero it seems.

We know that the kiddo is happy in utero because when I saw the midwife on Friday, she sent me for a scan.  I'd expressed some concern about the drop in fetal movement and I don't know if she was placating a crazy person or being generally cautious or both but she referred me in any event.  We couldn't see much because of the size of the baby (though Mum was pleased to hear we spotted the nose in profile, the 32 week scan appearing as if baby had a giant nasal void), but it seems baby is on track to be a tall child possibly with short legs (my genetic material has doomed this baby).  I am pleased to report that apart from one run-in with a transvaginal ultrasound in the early days (damn dildo-cam) I have thus far managed to avoid having anyone up in my business.  Oh sure, I guess I could be asking for a stretch and sweep etc but eh, I kinda feel like that's pointless unless birth is
reasonbly close anyway.  So I have no idea what my cervix is up to. Closed up like a clam, I expect.

That's enough cervix talk.  Ugh.

The other reason I'm going out of my damn mind of course is the desire to go see Dad and introduce the baby to him.  It's already been a month since I saw him last.  It's likely going to be another month.
It is freaking me out.

Here's hoping the next time we talk will be on the flip side.

38 & 3

It's the crack of dawn on Sunday and I am pleased because I managed to stay asleep until after 5am.  The cats are thrilled I got up; the bikkie bowl is now full.

I sleep best before midnight, assuming no reflux, then the parade of toilet trips and resettling starts. Too many naps might have something to do with it, too. I resent the implication the terrible sleep is getting me ready for baby -- shouldn't I be packing away a good 8 hours a night now, while I still can? I guess it's like everything else that people say you should enjoy in your last days of pregnancy -- you know, doing all those couple things, going out by yourselves etc -- most of them are already off the cards because I can't sit in one place for too long, I can't have a drink anyway, my conversational skills are not what you'd call sparkling right now.

That sounds like a giant moan but really, I love being at home with my husband most of all just now in any case. Last night, he watched rugby while lying back on me and the baby (a little), feeling the kid belt his ear when he got too excited about the Hurricanes' peformance. It was truly very nice.

We waved our hippie flag at the yoga birth prep course yesterday. Actually, we waved our mainstream flag in front of many hippies because we were the only people booked in to give birth at the hospital, rather than Birthcare (Central Auckland's birthing unit, where epidurals are most certainly not available.) I have been enjoying practicing the birthing positions with P -- because of my heat and general discomfort/size, I haven't been as physically affectionate with him as I would normally be. Hanging off his neck to rock my hips and doing some gentle squats using each other as support was surprisingly intimate and relaxing.  Here's hoping some of it sticks.

I got cross after speaking to Dad yesterday. I guess it's a sign of greediness and Dad's general stability over past weeks that when I hung up, I blurted to P that I wanted my old Dad back. Not all that long ago, even this version of Dad seemed impossible.  I have been grateful, don't get me wrong, but I still reserve the right to miss him as he was.  And don't worry, I can also see the day when I read this back and get furious because this is so, so much better than no Dad at all.  I think I see this happening with Mum too - we all want continued improvement and when he has a bad day with blood pressure issues, or when he can't recall what was said or gets confused, we get frustrated now, rather than despairing. I suspect it's natural. At the very least, it's better than crying. I try not to let him see it.

I want to write him a letter, but what on earth do I say? Maybe just that it made my life to get a birthday card signed by him, wobbly and with two extra 'd's at the end of Dad and all.  I need to do it now. I never want it to be too late.

37 + 6

I don't know what I've done to our piece of shit laptop but I can't type or paste into the new post box on Blogger.  I've been typing these last posts in Gmail and using my phone to paste them into Blogger but the formatting is completely screwed.  However, it doesn't appear I care enough to fix the problem just at the moment.  I am saving some of my weekly discretionary income at present and perhaps a
new laptop or tablet is called for.  However, in six-ish months I've only squirrelled about half of fuck all aside so I won't hold my breath that it'll happen any time soon.

So, since I last posted two weeks ago?  Seems like we now have a status quo, which is good.  Dad's stable period continues - he chats on the phone a bit and is now a little more physically active, despite still having serious numerical inversion and some forward planning mental issues.  I think they're keeping secrets from me though - Dad forgets they weren't going to tell me things following visits from the hospice nurse so I suspect I'm only getting part of the picture.  This is probably to save me from feeling bad/sad/frustrated in my current 'delicate' condition,* which is sweet but nonetheless frustrating in its own right.

So, I have not yet had a baby.  38 weeks tomorrow and it can't come soon enough.  I know, I know, I should be savouring this time, but it's hard to savour when all I want is to meet this wee person and
have this wee person know my Dad & vice versa for at least a little while.

Physically, I'm not too bad aside from the general hugeness and reflux issues.  Oh, actually I take it back - this time last week I developed a fucking haemorrhoid of all things following a tummy upset and that made me cross beyond belief.  I have worked hard to avoid that sort of issue with a fibrous diet etc - it was uncomfortable and gross.  I was going to organise a bikini wax but I didn't want to go with ... all of that ... hanging out and now it's kind of too late (waxer doesn't want me past 38 weeks).  So hairy fairy for giving birth it is (not that I'll probably care).  For the record, it is now slightly less
uncomfortable and gross but here's hoping I don't destroy my butt during birthing and this bad boy vanishes pronto post-natal.

Are we ready for a baby?  I guess so.  We finally finished the renovation on the baby's room and hallway on the weekend.  I've been moving bits and pieces back into the room over the last couple of
days, chipping plaster and stray paint spots off the floor, organising entirely too preshus little onesies etc.  While the house is not yet
back to tidy (and clean is probably a long way off), I feel
comfortable that if the baby came by tomorrow it wouldn't be the grade
A clusterfuck crisis I was scared of while my house was still full of
paint fumes, ladders and nails.

There's been a last minute spate of babies prior to ours, with
attendant use of just about every name we could agree on for a baby
boy (and I remain convinced I'm having a boy).  This entirely
predictable given how popular the names I like are (my give-a-shit
factor about uniqueness is bugger all.  I have a very popular early
80s name and it's never really bothered me.  Besides which, our last
name is a complete sod to spell and pronounce so I think we've already
got unique covered).  P absolutely hates my number 1 choice which is
the only option that hasn't been pinched (it's the name of your old
boyfriend who is a complete cock, he moans.  Doesn't matter that he
was my boyfriend at age 12 and I never had the gumption to even give
him a pash.  Yes, he may have given a friend of P's chlamydia somewhat
later in life but surely that shouldn't completely taint a name?!)

I'm taking P to a special session run by the pregnancy yoga teacher
this weekend, so we can bone up on birthing positions, useful things
for him to say and breathing techniques etc.  This is about 5,000%
more hippy than I usually am but yoga has been such a breath of fresh
air this pregnancy.  It's been so helpful for my body and state of
mind during the pregnancy that even if it only helps me keep my cool
for a bit during labour, it's still worthwhile.  Am considering
launching in to the raspberry leaf tea and some acupuncture to bring
on this baby, but on reflection I'm actually quite keen for my body
just to do it's thing unmolested to the extent possible.

*There is nothing fucking delicate about me right now.  I am ahippopotamus with reflux issues.

35 & 6

I have returned from my last pre-baby trip to Hawke's Bay to a run of sunny days in Auckland.  Thank god for that, because I was utterly miserable when we departed on Monday.  The idea of not being able to
spend any time with Mum and Dad between now and when the baby is a few weeks old is distressing.  As things go with babies, it could be up to six weeks before the baby arrives and I'm not sure when we'll feel confident enough to take the baby to Mum and Dad.  My guess is that it will be at least two months before I see Dad again in person.

It could be worse, I suppose.  A month ago, when I finished work, it looked an awful lot like his death was imminent (weeks or days away -- anything further is no longer 'imminent' or even close, to me). Dad is
now much more stable than he has been for a while so I shouldn't suppose that my departure on Monday was the last time I'll see him. The thought has crept into my mind however, brooding in the corner
like a malevolent spirit waiting a turn to take my controls.

I am engaging with uncertainty in a sustained manner for the first time in my life.  Dad's illness and the baby's arrival are pretty big, as uncertainty goes.  Sure, I spent 5 months unemployed in 2010,
freaking that I'd never get hired in London to do anything I'd trained for, but that uncertainty had options -- look for other work, move back to NZ.  I was supported by P's paycheck, which made it certain we could still pay rent and buy food.  This kind of uncertainty can't be pragmatically supported in the same way.

So, at 35 weeks + 6 days, here I sit, unable to travel any longer.
Air New Zealand puts the cut off at 36 weeks.  Dad, Mum and P banded
together to ban me from buying impulse tickets next weekend to visit
(just for a night, I said, to no avail).

I fill my days now with light activity.  I purchased new sheets and
bed linen yesterday, acting on impulse.  I wash things.  I caulked a
little this morning.  I mop up after the gib stopper.  I call the
glazier.  I make dinner.  I have baths to soothe the baby and my back.
I speak to Mum and Dad twice a day.  I avoid social engagement where
possible.  I don't think about things, usually, because that way
trouble lies.
s
I have devoted some mental real estate to Lecretia Seales, however.
During the course of my last trip to Hawke's Bay, Lecretia died and
the judgment regarding assisted euthanasia and the New Zealand Bill of
Rights Act 1990 was released.  Trust me, I devoured Lecretia's blog
and the judgment, poring over it in the hope that we would be able to
have a sensible public debate about thie end of life.  I am still
stewing it all internally -- not only the big principle issues, but
also the evidence I found in the judgment about what the end will
involve for Dad.  I ought to have expected to have found that kind of
expert evidence.  I didn't, and now I don't know whether I'm glad or
horrified to have read it.

If you don't know, Lecretia was a 42 year old New Zealand lawyer who
was diagnosed with a brain tumour and wished to have the option to
pursue physician assisted suicide if she felt that her life had become
intolerable due to the impact of her illness.  While Lecretia's
diagnosis/prognosis was slightly different to Dad's, the parallels
were undeniable and the similarities between Lecretia's life and
personality and my own (and Dad's, too) made her plight and decisions
compelling for us.  I genuinely grieve her death.  I am so grateful
she took the steps she did to get New Zealand to engage in a
conversation about the end of life.

36 years

The trip to the hospice helped, a lot.  The seizures are now largely under control and the episodes of confusion have lessened.  Following release from the hospice, we had about a week during which Dad's
mental acuity incrementally improved, showing us flashes of the pre-cancer Dad.  Not to say things are totally rosy (he's still largely confined to the wheelchair and walking is not on the cards, he
tires easily, his memory is shot, his eyesight is limited), but he and Mum are enjoying some quality of life now.  They can reminisce together, which is huge.  Revisiting your shared memories and good
times is such an important part of any relationship, I've come to appreciate.

I am holed up in my bedroom at home while builders busily fix gib plasterboard in the hallway and baby's room.  They're also fixing a few shoddy piles under the front section of the house.  I've been home now for the best part of a week and got to spend a long weekend with
P, which was so needed.  My 'weekends' away from Hawke's Bay had largely been on Thursday/Friday and he's been nuts at work -- it'd been about a month since we'd spent any quality time with one another, and stress was fraying our edges.  P has shouldered the financial and practical responsibilities (work, the renovation) together with looking after my emotional needs, and I'm doing what I can to support
my mother and father, as well as cope with reality of my father dying while I'm heavily pregnant. We very much needed to spend some time just enjoying each other's company and acknowledging what the other is going through. Three days was perfect.

We are going to Mum and Dad's this weekend (I leave on Thursday, P is
joining us on Saturday).  It's the last trip I have booked before the
baby's due date.  I'm 36 weeks on 11 June and while I think the
midwife will give me a dispensation to travel, I'm starting to find
travel much harder.  I'm trying not to think about the impotence of
sitting in the house in Auckland, unable to assist or spend time with
Mum and Dad, growing larger and unsure when I'll be able to be back
with them.  Mum has better assistance now provided by a retired RN for
a couple of hours a day, which allows her to manage the farm, but the
companionship and someone else to share the chores has been helpful
for her, I think.  No one else can give the time I have been able to
this past month, and as things deteriorate as they inevitably will,
she's going to need more emotional support.  I call twice a day at
least when I'm not there, but it's not the same.

At this stage, the plan is for Dad to spend a night or two in hospice
after the baby is born so Mum can come and meet him or her.  As soon
as we're able after that, I'd like to take the baby to Hawke's Bay to
meet Dad.  Who knows whether that will be feasible (whether Dad will
be up to it, whether we'll be up to it, whether baby will be up to it)
but I don't think we have much time.  We have an official trip booked
for September, but I can't wait that long.  I don't think we have that
long.  I don't know.

And yet, life keeps on keeping on, even though I'm preoccupied with
death.  The baby feels huge to me now.  I've had enough comments from
strangers about my size to last a lifetime (woman at the Citta outlet
store who outright said I must be more than 34 weeks last weekend,
because I look huge, you are very lucky I swallowed my righteous
indignation and left your shop without committing a crime).  To be
fair, the student midwife told me this morning that I'm measuring
about a week ahead, so I am large; I just don't want to hear about it
from strangers.  My back has been getting very sore if I don't walk or
practice yoga or if I sit with poor posture.  The indigestion has
eased.  There's a little insomnia, though I never know if that's
pregnancy related or Dad related.  I can discern little fists and feet
on my lower right hand side and I can most definitely feel the effects
of a head on my bladder.  I've been washing baby clothing for days,
marvelling that I'm going to produce an entire human being to fill
those wee onesies.  We are agreed on two possible first names for
either sex, though not on middle names.

We've finished antenatal classes.  At the last session, I quietly
asked the instructor what steps I could be taking now to help avoid
post natal depression.  She has had a friend go through this exact
thing with her mother (i.e. brain tumour during pregnancy, rapid
deterioration and death shortly following birth), but as far as it
went helpwise was having a list of people to call on to help care for
the baby when I need to cry.   I think I should probably be seeing a
counsellor now, but I don't want to.  Writing helps, immeasurably.
The cartharsis in corralling the feelings and committing them to the
page is evident; I have a controlled weep at the end of writing a
post.

Today is Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary.  36 years - a lifetime
together, but not long enough.  Mum and Dad have not really been
adults without one another.  They had plans, together.  Over the
weekend, Mum was gifted a black labrador puppy.  She already has a
devoted golden lab, but there was a spare kennel and her friend who
bred the puppy wanted to give her something else to lavish love on and
receive love in return.  She's thrilled - it's a responsibility, yes,
but one that sits happily alongside caring for Dad.  Six months ago,
Dad would have been terribly cross.  Puppies are long-term
responsibilities that make travel and spontaneity much harder.  It's
an acknowledgement of how the plans have changed that he's happily
acquiesced, knowing what it will mean for Mum.  It's awful and it'slovely, both.

Happy anniversary, my parents. Let's always celebrate it.

my plan for the next two or so months

Hi, still here. 

I've made the call to be done with work and spend time with Dad.  Last day is Friday next week.  The stress of not keeping up with my job, worry about letting people down and feeling torn that I needed to be with Mum and Dad outweighed the financial need in the end.  Work's been great, so understanding.  After the last episode with Dad, I just couldn't get back into it and work was no longer the distraction I'd appreciated in the early days of all of this.  Still feel like I'm leaving people in the lurch, but I just can't do it anymore.

Dad's back on chemo.  It's not great.  At least he was more himself mentally when I saw him last weekend, even if very physically limited.  The new nagging worry at the back of my brain is that we're all distancing ourselves from him and he from us.  On his part, it's likely just focussing on those things he absolutely needs to, because his mental and physical energy is finite and very, very limited these days.  On our part, is it fear and/or an unhealthy sense of self-preservation?  Self-preservation is a good thing, don't get me wrong, but I don't think that's the right way to go about it.  When we're there next on the 2nd, I'm going to make the effort to touch him more (for me, the distancing has been physical).  I know Mum's been sick, so keeping her distance is wise, but I heard less use of their terms of endearment over the weekend.  She's very tired too. 

I'm 29 weeks today and we've finally sorted out a load of baby stuff.  I've been offered my pick of the nice and barely used things belonging to a daughter-in-law of Mum's friend and we've just got to agree a price and pick up.  Our room is now inhabitable and the baby's room gets demolished this weekend.  Within eight weeks, it should be habitable.  We hope.  Oh god do we hope!  I bought another load of maternity clothing (a second pair of jeans, a top and jersey that double as nursing items and a dress) that I hope will last me through the end of the pregnancy.  I can buy more long singlets, I suppose, if required.  We start ante-natal classes tonight. 

I'll drive down for time with Mum and Dad in May while I still can, in addition to the flights I already have booked.  It's a five and a half hour drive at least, plus stops.  I don't imagine I'm going to be keen on that much longer, given my size and the fact I usually get a sore back when driving for more than a couple of hours at a time. 

2015 is slipping away into a morass of practical arrangements, the fall punctuated by moments of heartbreak. 

pollyanna

Do you know, I've been cheerful today.  I mean, what the fuck is that? I'd forgotten a bit what cheerful was like and I've missed it.  Dad's had two good days in a row which, despite the fact that the third good day may not materialise, is apparently enough for me to relax for two minutes.  Just call me Pollyanna. 

I just really wanted to write that down.  Something positive, hopeful even, for once.  Oh don't get me wrong, my dad is still dying, I've made police complaints recently, my family is a mess, I'm woefully underprepared for impending parenthood, peeing about a dozen times a day, slugging apple cider vinegar as a homemade remedy for heartburn and thoroughly fucked off at my bank but I AM FEELING POSITIVE right here and right now.  Here are some things I can say are genuinely good:

• My in-laws have helped immensely with painting my freshly re-constructed bedroom.  I love the paint colour we chose (Resene Half Athens Grey, should you care) and the room is lovely.  They've been so wonderful to us. 
• I listened to the rain on the roof last night and thought fondly of all the extra insulation we installed in the new bedroom as well as the heated towel rail in the bathroom (still not over it.  It's like christmas every time I pick up a towel). 
• I'm babysitting P's cousin's very cute baby this evening.
• I had a moment of real excitement about Cletus' arrival in July the other day.  It's looking like I'm going to have a real live baby who is fathered by my favourite person and should be awesome in his or her own right. That's pretty great. 
• My boss has been so understanding, patient and kind (as have my colleagues). 
• My husband has been beyond.  I love him. 
• I made people laugh at yoga the other night, rather than being the quiet sad sack in the corner prone to a wobbly chin.   
• Tabby cat has been sleeping by my belly.  It's been lovely and soothing. 
• I baked an excellent apple loaf that is basically butter and brown sugar and makes me fat and happy. 
• I'm going to see my mum and dad this weekend.

I mean, that's all good stuff.  I'm sure I'll read back on this in a week or two and want to get stabby with a rusty spoon but for now, I need to focus on all of this. 

26+6

I am a bit waddly after a long day or sitting for extended periods.  Rolling over at night is getting harder.  Bending over occasions a grunt or two. 

The baby likes to party pre- and post-meal times (and meals better be punctual), as well as at assorted times during the night.  When Cocoa or Tabby sits next to me or on my belly (Cokes' preferred position) the baby goes crazy.  I can't decide whether it's pleasure or displeasure causing the commotion - I mean, it must be a little like having your house vibrated by a low-level flyover, when a cat purrs on my uterus. 

P regularly feels the kicking, now. Dad's tried a couple of times, but still nothing. He needs to be more cat-like to elicit a reaction.

I walk slowly up the hill to work.

At Mum's, I deadheaded agapanthus for a couple of hours between hospital visits.  The exercise was on the borderline of overdoing it, but it was mentally soothing to be outside, doing a repetitive physical task, with the visual satisfaction of seeing the improvement to each plant in a long row up the driveway.  At home, I mow the lawn steadily.  I tried to dig up kukuyu grass, but the bending was too much. 

I baked muffins, twice.  It was satisfying and truly weird as baking is most definitely not my thing and I've never felt the urge or a sense of satisfaction from it before. 

I still have an innie.  It's shallow and strained but it's tidy.  When I sit up in the bath, my belly goes to an odd point and I can see the abdominal muscles don't really reach over the top any more.  When I suck in, I can't hide the belly really at all anymore.

All facets of my boobs are still expanding.  I don't think I've gained much weight elsewhere than belly and breasts at this stage, but I've no idea exactly how much I've gained and I can't use my usual clothes as a guide, so it's hard to say.   

If I talk too long (say, instructions on a file to a junior solicitor) I get a little bit breathless. 

I have 1 onesie, 2 toys and a couple of instructional books, all gifted. We have a list, but haven't purchased a single other thing at this stage.  Our room is nearly complete, but the baby's room hasn't yet been started.  That's a worry, given it is now three months and one day until my due date.  We'll get there, we tell ourselves. 

I need to do the diabetes screening test tomorrow.  I'm not sure whether I'll be in Auckland or Hawke's Bay to do it.  I don't know if I'll be in Auckland for my next midwife appointment on Monday. 

I think I may have had a Braxton-Hicks contraction last night, but I'm not sure.  I was getting up from the toilet and my lower abdomen and belly was suddenly tight and constrained. 

It was P's last birthday pre-fatherhood, yesterday.  He turned 32.  I left his present sitting on my desk at work, unwrapped.  We picked it up and then ate takeaways together, getting text updates from the hospital and feeling the baby flip.  It wasn't what we'd expected 32 to look like, but then, expectations are often fruitless, aren't they?  His gift was a magnum of a 2013 vintage of a wine he very much enjoys.  We talked about drinking it on his 50th birthday, when the baby will be nearly 18.  I know now not to take the prospect of sharing that future for granted.

I am well.  The baby is well.  I am so, so glad that he or she is coming soon.  

funny ha ha or funny peculiar

You might be surprised by this, but I'm going to a comedy show this evening.  Yes, even though I normally detest staged comedy (exception might be made for Billy Connolly), am terrified of the potential for P to heckle (he thinks he's so clever, sigh) and have not, well, been in the mood for funny business of late,* I saw a sign for a show that P would like and purchased tickets out of the blue.  I wanted to do something nice for him.  He's been lovely despite the wasting away of our mutual social life -- do you know, I think he might actually like my company and is missing nights out together? Strange as it may seem -- that I thought he would both greatly enjoy a show and recognise it for the clear sacrifice it'll be on my part.  Nothing like enjoying a side of martyrdom with your gesture of goodwill.

On Thursday I have a function for work.  On Saturday a high tea for a hen, which I think will only last a couple of hours.  I think those events will probably drain me of all the social camaraderie I can muster this week, aside from the usual pleasantries in the office.  I'm such a drag at the moment. 

Over the weekend, you could generally find me pottering around the house, providing pleasant company for the cats but very few others.  Being bigger than normal in hot weather is no joke.  I was completely cranky by the end of Friday and Saturday evenings, as the evening humidity rose.  Oh, and I am never going to the hairdresser pregnant in hot weather ever again.  It was some twisted torture sitting under a cape with a hairdryer being pointed at my scalp and having to make pleasant conversation. 

I suspect it's at least half unwillingness to unleash my beastly self on others that is causing my social reluctance at the moment.  Poor old P, wish him luck this evening...

*This goes exactly as far as you think it does.  Well, I have been feeling better pregnancy-wise and I think under different circumstances this might actually be an, ahem, amorous period of my existence, the circumstances remain and make spontaneous one-on-one time somewhat more difficult than usual.

23 weeks

Things I have noted about my pregnancy, recently:

• I never felt 'flutterings'.  I went straight from believing I had those weird intestinal gas pops (you know, where there's trapped gas and you get a wee explosion in your intestines, cf fizzing) to thinking a week or so later, hey, that must be a baby.
• The movement still isn't particularly regular.  At least, I don't register it as particularly regular.  The pops are still there, as is pushing and what must be kicking.  Very occasionally I feel something that may be wriggling.   
• Pregnancy yoga is the business, still.  Even though I burst into tears during quiet time once.  I cannot believe I am voluntarily going to a class twice a week where I 'breathe my baby' and have to think about my terrible posture.  I love it. 
• I had to wear one of P's t-shirts to yoga this week.  My gym pants keep rolling over at the top because they don't fit under the bump. 
• Knocker growth is out of control. I am seriously concerned that Lefty is going to far, far outstrip Righty, which, given Righty's still the size of a football (or so it seems), is a Very Bad Thing.
• I'm a bit slower than I was previously.  I get a bit huffy heading up the first hill in the morning. 
• Everything is stretchy.  My tummy, the ligaments in my pelvis - they're stretching all the time. 
• At night, it's now really uncomfortable if I end up lying partly on my stomach or back.  I wake up quite a bit, but am peeing slightly less frequently than previously.
• I need to pare back the meal size and eat earlier because heartburn blows. 
• I really need to get organised on the paperwork for parental leave.
• I really need to get organised to think about daycare (can you fucking believe it, over a year out from when I'll need it.  Calm down Auckland parents!) 
• I really, really want to know who is in there.  I don't usually let people I don't know inside me.  But it's not creeping me out - rather, I'm curious and feel a kind of wee secret smile come across my face when I think about it. 
• Tailbone is still giving me grief, but then, I've not done anything to fix it recently either.
• Wore a horrible, sacklike dress to the wedding last weekend having paid more than I should for it.  Have another wedding in two or three weeks and really want a new one...but cheap heart tells me to recycle the first to make it remotely worth the price.  Will wear my stacked heels come hell or high water.
• P thinks he felt the baby from the outside, when we were away on holiday.  I'm not sure he did because when he thought he felt it, I didn't notice anything.  I'm giving it to him though. 
• I still have an innie tummy button. 
• I really like Fresh'n'Fruity custard and rhubarb yoghurt. 
• Good apples are very satisfying.
• I am ordering a fresh Tank C (orange, pineapple and ginger) juice almost every morning, asking them to put apple in it.  I can tell when they get the proportions wrong.  I am going to bankrupt myself over juice on the way to work.   
• I find myself holding the bump all.the.time. 

progress

The renovations are actually going quite well, in case you were wondering.  Gib went up in the master bedroom yesterday (hah, master bedroom - in a very wee house, it feels odd to describe anything that way!) and today I believe it'll get a new door and a frame for the wardrobe.  With any luck the gibstopper will have been in too, to get the walls plastered. 

The wardrobe interior and doors are planned and barring a few minor details, should be ordered shortly too.  Assuming all the framing and stopping happens this week, P and I (well, P, I am mostly useless) only need to sand and fill the roof, sand the window and then paint the bejesus out of everything and voila, we should be able to move back in. 

So yes, it's going well.  Mostly because we're paying a professional this time.  We've streamlined to our DIY strengths - we can demolish, insulate and paint.  With me mostly out of action between visits to family and pregnancy, this being P's busiest time of the year at work and the looming baby deadline, we've decided that it makes sense to pay to get the work done quickly.  This does fill my wee nesty heart with horror though, thinking about the unpaid months of parental leave looming on the horizon.  So much so that I'm squirrelling tiny amounts of cash away for a rainy day unbeknownst to P.  So far, I've saved the princely sum of $350 which isn't going to go far but honestly, just the act of dropping $20 in a savings account from time to time relieves the hormone-induced need to be financially savvy.  We're not going to be destitute by losing my income for a while by any means, but I don't know, I'm like a spare change hoarder. 

Bedroom 2 is next in line, but isn't getting a new wardrobe.  We're just going to insulate, re-line, decorate and replace the door on that bad boy, because we still aren't sure where the bathrooms will eventually end up.  The bathroom or rooms may be on the other side of the wall to bedroom 2 and if we decide to have a wee ensuite, the space where a wardrobe might go may need to be a doorway.  We thought about leaving the room entirely alone, but it's not properly insulated and eventually this baby will move in there.  I think it preferable that the baby have a warm dry space to sleep in, I guess. 

(PS Tuesday was a good day, Dad was well enough to go back on chemo.  Wednesday, unfortunately, not so hot, Dad feeling terrible.  Rollercoaster is the cliche, I believe.)

rumination

I spend the day following my return from a visit melancholy and processing, churning over the events of the previous few days.  I lay in Mum and Dad's guest bed last night, stoutly chasing away all thoughts of how bad it must have been for this weekend to count as 'good', but following three hours' transit back to Auckland this morning there's no avoiding it.  The processing is grim.  I'll adjust by tomorrow and be back into summoning optimism and dealing with normality.

I also spend the day before a visit in a similar reflective and concerned mode.  On Friday, not long after posting that last angry/sad missive, I burst into tears during quiet reflection time at the end of my yoga class.  The others were very, very kind, but I was mortified.  I couldn't stop -- the dam had opened and there wasn't a single thing I could do.  I leaked the whole way home behind large sunglasses, sniffling and trying to unobtrusively wipe my face, as much as that's possible as a pedestrian beside a four lane road. 

This was bothersome also because yoga has been the one proactive thing that makes me feel as if I'm doing something to help my baby, myself and my stress levels.  So if it's not achieving that result, what on earth are the alternatives?  P's step-mother was so kind, a week or two ago.  She told me that there was evidence that a pregnant woman's stress levels only affect the unborn baby to the degree that she feels unsafe in her own home or relationship - other things, like grief, don't necessarily trigger concern for the child.  I want to believe that, whether or not it's true, because the belief in turn reduces my stress.  It seems that the inhabitant of my uterus is currently flopping around quietly post-lunch, apparently unperturbed by what's going on upstairs.  God, I hope that's the case.  He or she seems to get a little kicky/punchy at 4am-ish when I've rolled over onto my stomach, but otherwise has seemed very low key, up to now. 

(I've just googled pre-natal maternal stress and come across this doozy.  Oh not to worry, the effects may not last into adulthood, we're not sure yet.)

So I breathe, I focus, I work on my posture.  We will get through this, that's all I know. 

the end of another month of this

I'm going to visit Mum and Dad this weekend and I'm a bit nervous.  Fragile as he was two weeks ago when I saw him last, he's now lost his hair, is battling a burned/cracked/chapped face and is using a walking cane.  If I've said it once, I've said it far too many times: this, from a man who three months ago was digging holes and fixing fences and lugging rocks for landscaping purposes.  It's fucking brutal, is what it is.

My nerves arise out of the unknowns - I don't give a shit what his hair looks like, but I just want him to still be my dad underneath it all, you know? 

These things (hah, cancer, a 'thing' - it's like I can't name it for fear of the consequences) come in batches.  A colleague's father has just had surgery for prostate cancer.  Another's ex-boyfriend has been paralysed from the chest down in a workplace accident this week.  I find myself understanding and empathising properly to some degree for the first time (maybe that's why they're telling me?)

To top it off, I started fucking bleeding again last night.

It wasn't a major - no cramps, finished quickly, I can still feel the baby move (I think - I play a constant game of 'firstborn or gas?').  Still scary to turn around to flush and find your toilet looks like a murder scene at twenty to one in the morning.  Afterwards, I lay still in bed for twenty or so minutes, burning with concentration at my stomach, hands wrapped around it.  I got up again to check progress and things appeared to have eased.  I slept, uneasily. 

The good news, I suppose, is that the suspected UTI wasn't in fact an infection - just a raised bacteria level.  I haven't really reported much good news this pregnancy - here we are: I feel mostly like a human being (albeit a human being with a sore tailbone) and I'm starting to relish having a belly.  I want to feel this baby more often so I can enjoy the feeling of not being alone.  I do enjoy being by myself, but it's nice to know someone is just quietly there with me. 

upwards, onwards

Shall we finish the week with some good news?  Avoid despondency and despair for a change?  Ah, go on, why not?!

The baby looked fine at the anatomy scan.  Better than fine, to me.  He or she looked like a right wee wriggler with a chatterbox mouth (opening and closing all the time, no surprises to anyone who knows the parents) and frankly adorable wee fists up close by the face.  We resisted the temptation to know the sex, though I have a very strong boy feeling, based on the ultrasound tech's level of surety that she knew exactly what we are having. 

My placenta (shudder) is a bit on the thin side, but not to worry, the tech said.  We get to go back for another scan at about 32 weeks as a result and I am already looking forward to clapping eyes on those cute wee heart ventricles and fat wee limbs and smooshy wee nose and all the other very wee things that I MADE MYSELF.  (P had something to do with it, I suppose) (and all the jelly tip icecreams, they've contributed too, I expect). 

There's an actual real live person in there!  A person who is going to be (is already?) part of my family!

(I did have a moment during the scan of 'holy shit, it's only to get bigger and then it has to GET OUT.' but we'll ignore that for present purposes).

Another wee shining moment: someone told me today that I look quite small for 20 weeks and appear to have put weight on only around the belly.  I could have kissed her. 

I'm on a roll, what else have I got that's positive?  I have more tickets to go see Dad, the new lights in the bedroom look great and we can see in there now after dark, I'm going to preg yoga tonight and will feel better about myself afterwards, Bachelor Australia is on the box this evening (o trashy goodness) - - it is definitely not all bad. 

I'm going to try and sustain the glow from the scan as long as possible. 

back to your regularly scheduled self-centred moaning

ALERT, ALERT, more whinging ahead.

The following is a rant about things both trivial and important that have contrived to make me feel like a sack of crap, today:

• Apparently I have a UTI.  I say apparently because the test results are still pending and I'm not feeling any particular pain (thank goodness) though I pee every 5 minutes.  The doctor prescribed me some antibiotics to take in the interim if any pain kicks in, but she vacillated more than seems reasonable over whether they were safe to take in pregnancy.  I forgot to check the label myself, and subsequently discovered it's an antibiotic that historically does not work for my and my godawful UTIs.  Great.
• Miscellaneous 'account charges' on the credit card totalling $87. 
• A great aunt who lives in close proximity to my parents had a heart attack on the weekend.  She's on the mend, but what the actual fuck, timing?  Poor Aunt S. 
• There were onions in my NO ONION salad. You know, rage tipping point and all.
• I experienced the 'shoot the messenger' phenomenon at work today.  Me being the messenger.  It was every bit as awesome as you would expect.
• And the final absolute fucker of a bullet point: Dad's been taken off chemo.  His white blood cell counts are too low - they're going to reassess next week, but no chemo is a blow.  Oh, and the day they took him off it?  The day his hair started to fall out. 

I am not going to cry today.  I'm going to go home, take a not-quite-hot-enough bath (pregnancy is great and all, but I miss screamingly hot baths) and cuddle my husband.

right now

We were at the lake this weekend, at the bach that Dad purchased a share of in the time just B.D. (before diagnosis).  It was tough to see him sleep for lengthy periods and sit quietly on the deck, sheltered from the sun.  He'd usually be the first to direct the walk, to back the boat down the ramp into the water, to run into the water for a swim. 

I didn't do many of those things either this weekend, preferring instead to stay close to him where I could.  My stomach has been feeling slightly uncomfortable and stretchy, of late, and I think the depression surrounding Dad's illness kicks in a little more when I see him in person, which in turn makes me feel physically drained.  I sat on the couch with him, joked about all his pills and I asked about the hairloss and the dimming of his vision, but mostly we talked about small things.  We watched the opening game of the Cricket World Cup and cheered the Black Caps on together, but I don't think he could see much of the action ('was that a four or a six?' 'what's the RPO now?' 'who bowled that?'). 

I heard murmuring through the wall at night.  It's simultaneouly reassuring and awful to know that Mum and Dad were chatting quietly together in the dead of night - reassuring because they're in this together, awful because I know why they're awake.  I also heard some terrible snoring coming from my sister K, which was mostly just reassuring because I want her to sleep while she can.  I don't know what she's thinking a lot of the time (I think I once did?  When we were young and lived together and knew each other better than anyone else) but I hope she's managing to find peace in all of this.  We call each other more regularly, now.  We don't say much, but we do share each nugget of information or insight into how our parents are feeling. 

We arrived home about 7.30 last night.  Cocoa was waiting on the step but Tabitha was nowhere to be seen.  It was unusual and she didn't turn up until 1.30 this morning.  Christ, I was so relieved.  I do not need any more death or despair on top of what's already going on, not that there would ever be a good time to lose her.  I am funnelling so much love and affection into those cats who don't have a clue that things aren't as they should be.

The next visit I'd booked is for Easter, some seven weeks away.  I don't think I can leave it that long.  I want to make this finite time we have left last as long as I possibly can.  Plus, I think Mum needs me.  A colleague the other day commented that I must be wishing time away to get to June and my departure on maternity leave.  No, I snapped, I want it to stand still right now.  I felt terrible and apologised - she doesn't know the finer detail of what's happening in my life and it was well meant.  Yes, I'm looking forward to meeting this baby but no, I can't fathom that we're probably only going to get further away from Dad as he should be.  As he was. 

(Christ, the past tense has made me cry.)

I have the 20 week scan this week.  I haven't yet identified any clear movements from the baby which, although probably normal, is making me nervous.  I have been considering whether we should find out the sex to share with Dad, just in case.  I couldn't bring myself to ask whether he wanted to know though - it felt too much like saying 'what if you die before July?' out loud.  I can't say that.  I won't say that.  Maybe we'll ask for one of those envelopes with the sex written on a note inside, that I can offer him if and when things change.  I hope the baby is fine and healthy; worry is pulling at my heart. 

rounder by the day

I wore one of P's t-shirts and a pair of shorts with an elastic waistband yesterday evening and was the most comfortable I've been in weeks.  I ditched the white blazer and black pleated midi-length work dress as soon as I got in the door (I'd lost the wedge heels the minute I stood up to leave the office - jandals and workwear is a key look for Kiwis on a summer commute) and heaved a sigh of relief as it all hung out in P's purple t-shirt. 

I guess that's how you know I'm now visibly pregnant, shall we say.  At least I didn't doff my bra the minute I walked in the door - I've taken to unhooking it about 8pm with an audible sigh, then removing it entirely by 8.30 because the bastard keeps roughing up my nipples (by roughing up I mean touching lightly, WOW OUCH). 

Following last night's comfortpalooza, I ordered some maternity jeans and a pack of maternity basics online this morning.  And commenced bleeding on and off. 

I am living in terror of doing something to jinx the pregnancy.  I can't bring myself to buy baby things.  When I purchased the maternity goods, it was the first time I've bought something pregnancy related other than folate-laced pills or ultrasound co-pays.  OF COURSE it preceded a bodily freak out.

This is not my first rodeo with bleeding during this pregnancy.  It is scary, yes, but I've got good at ignoring it while I go about real life (ha.  that and you know, thinking about my father).  The knowledge that it is fairly common and that there is nothing I can do is not exactly reassuring, per se, but it makes me sanguine (wrong choice of word?  oh well, it fits and it stays). 

So I'm daring it to get worse.  I walked around the baby section of Smith & Caughey today (oh christ no, I didn't buy anything, that shit is expensive.) I added to the list of what we might need.  I looked at the DIA's top 100 names spreadsheets from '99 to '14.  This is superstitious bullshit I'm engaging in, believing that a positive act of child-recognition could spell doom for my baby.  I'm not doing it anymore.  I'm going to wear stuff with elastic with pride.  I'm going to be someone's mother.