Twisted Ovaries

Choices-And Not Just a Chi-Chi Name for an Insurance Programme

I'm home now.  I have been dwelling in the Eternal Land of Suckvile for three days, and finally busted loose in a blaze of NHS tea and lactated ringers late yesterday.

This hospital stay was the worst yet.  It was bad because I knew as soon as we had to go to the hospital that I would be checked in for a short while, and nothing pleases one as much as getting winged into the hospital.  I did also have reason to believe the babies were about to make a grand entrance-I was having contractions and I was leaking fluid down my leg (if that doesn't make you want to push your coffee away, then give it time.  I have more.) 

I was admitted pretty swiftly, and put on monitors. I was, at one point, contracting every three minutes.  And lemme just say, I always thought of contractions as "mildly powerful menstrual cramps".  I see I need to apologize to womankind for that kind of assumption.  Contractions really mean "Don't talk to me.  Don't move me.  Don't even fucking think of touching me. I just want to get the Suzanne Somer's Abdominizer out of my insides."  Luckily this time they took pity on me and gave me painkillers for grown-ups, so I got really trippy and enjoyed my great space coaster.

The cervix, she is closed and thick.  I know this as three different doctors felt the need to check themselves.  I am so used to the sparkle of the stainless steel speculum heading for me that I just spread my legs if you flash so much as a serving spoon my way.  My waters didn't break either-my bladder was just so badly infected and in shit shape that it randomly started leaking.  So what happened was, I basically wet myself.  Yup.  I went to kindergarten and everything, but I apparently missed that "learn how to not wee on yourself" lesson for the day. I couldn't even differentiate between one hole and the other it all hurt too much.  They gave me Super Maxi Pads that could have been used to staunch the wounds of any major battlefield to help the leakage.  My embarrassment was complete.  Thankfully, the antibiotics now have all that under control. 

I am not in good shape.  I was dehydrated so was on IV fluids.  I was contracting pretty severely, so they gave me relaxants to dial down the contractions.  My bladder and kidneys were in abyssmal shape-at one point the doctor simply touched my back where my right kidney is and I came clear off the bed in a very cool Exorcist kind of way.   I am anemic.  Once on Tuesday when I donated a urine sample it had about half a dozen stones in it, either from my ureter or my kidney, I dunno (luckily this was during a great space coaster period, so I didn't feel a thing), which, upon seeing them floating in the recycled cardboard speciman hat they make you wee in, fascinated me on a level that sticking safety pins under the skin of my fingers as a kid never quite managed.  When I was admitted I was mildly pre-eclamptic (resolved now).  I have a hemorrhoid, courtesy not of pregnancy constipation but of trying to force wee out too hard.  I am covered in bruises (thanks to the anemia) and I got to be the guinea pig of a new IV cannula type, which no one knew how to insert.  They blew clean through a vein on my left hand, and now I have a massive bruise covering the entire hand.  The needle also eventually punctured through the vein on my right arm, and now I have a golf ball-sized cyst on my arm which will go down in time but which hurts like a mother fucker right now.  So the good news is, I'm ambidextrous.  The bad news is they shagged both my hands in one go.  The pee, she is still not good, but at least I am not on the toilet screaming anymore, and at least there is no blood in it, so hey-beggars and all that. 

The first person who tells me that I should be more grateful about being pregnant is going to get sucker punched.

I am grateful that the Lemonheads are healthy and ok, believe me.  I could be doing without the E.R. style drama, however.

The babies are actually ok.  They didn't like me having contractions, but even more so they didn't like being on the Central Delivery Ward.  Even though I had a private room, there was an incredible amount of stress there (Dear NHS-I like you. I think you get a bad rap most of the time, but I have no problems with you.  But one thing you might consider, besides more midwives which you'll pay better?  Yeah.  Soundproofing the walls in the Delivery ward.  Just an idea.)  Tuesday night was the worst ever.  I was rocking in pain and waiting for my next great space coaster ride, which I was pursuing with the frenzy of a crack addict and I didn't care for a minute that they may think I was being a bit drug needy, because I most certainly was.  But all of a sudden, the Delivery ward went from me and one other woman there to being heaving full, so I just waited. 

It wasn't just full, though.

Judging by the sounds of it, they were having an old-fashioned taffy pull and using pregnant women as the taffy.

I was bordered on three sides by screaming the likes of which I have never heard, ever.  EVER.  Not even the kind of screaming one hears when seeing someone wearing white stilettos, baby.  This was pure, unmitigated pain.  It was loud.  It was constant. It was endless.

At one point a midwife popped her head in and saw me looking like a deer in the headlights.

"It's a full moon, darling, this always happens," she clucked.  "And these women didn't choose to have any pain modification, and perhaps their pain tolerance wasn't what they thought it would be."

Right.  That would be why it sounded like they were being torn apart by wolves, then.

It wasn't just me that was freaked out-with each scream the Lemonheads went mental.  I tried to calm them.  I turned the fan on in the room to try to drown out sound.  I tried rubbing them and talking to them, but they were like: Woman.  Wo-MAN.  Where have you brought us?  What is this place of ritual sacrifice, and why are we here?  They were having none of it. I know that women say of the movies that women don't go around screaming like that when they're in labor, but, um, seriously?  Yeah.  Some women who have overestimated their pain tolerance thresholds and choose no pain relief DO. 

It was awful.

I can tell you, my choice of delivery is crystal clear to me (and I should be clear-these are my choices, and I fully respect that other women have other choices.  Honest.  In case you wanted to send hate mail or anything, I just wanted to head you off at the pass.)  I have chosen to try to have them vaginally if at all possible (which is looking likely as the first baby out - the boy - is head down against the cervix and has been for ages).  But I will be drugged with everything the pharmacy will give me.  Painkillers?  Yes.  Epidural?  Yes please.  As far as the other pain methods - breathing?  TENS machine?  Gas?  Don't waste my time.  I've heard what can happen if you don't handle pain well and don't choose pain meds, and lemme just say this now-I'm a tough chick in many ways, but when it comes to my uterus I am one big pussy.  Drug me.  Right away.  Double it while you're at it. 

I was moved to the antenatal ward the next day after begging the doctor, who wanted to keep me in Delivery as I was still contracting.  "But the antenatal ward is just through those doors," I pointed out.  "I can drag myself in if need be.  You can follow my urine trail, I'll be like Hansel and Gretel for the infectious."  I was put into a room with 4 others and was the only one not being induced.   Two of the women were at 42 weeks.  They looked even more tired than I did.

I am home now and on "lighter duties" for the duration of the pregnancy.  I have the most complicated meds routine known to man.  As the registrar gave me my instructions yesterday, it occurred to me that they don't really think things through.  They gave me instructions on the diagnostics and meds I would be on for the next three months, and then they'd review after the babies were born.

Let's review.

Meds and tests for three months, then birthing.

I am 31 weeks 2 days pregnant.

I smile at the doctor. "I get it that you want the babies to be in me as long as possible," I say sweetly.  "But how long do you want me to be pregnant for?  Because I can tell you, I'll be doing all I can to drag them out of me by 37 weeks.  I'm heading for 32 weeks pregnant.  Now, math has never been my strong point, but 37 minus 31 does not make 3 months, not even in a politician's world."

He realized his math error.

We'll see what we'll see.  In the meantime, I have been diagnosed with recurrent UTI and kidney infections, an Irritable Uterus (which is just as irritable as the rest of me, really) and anemia. 

Whee.

Naughty Babies

I'm back in the hospital.

Four days after finishing my month of antibiotics, my UTI/kidney woes returned.  At 3 am on Tuesday I was crying in the bathtub trying to give birth to wee.  Based on new symptoms-contractions and fluid trickling down my leg-we got thee to our hospital.  At one point I was having 1 contraction every 3 minutes and my cervix was inspected more than if I was a professional working it dockside.  I'm happy to report so far I'm not in labor, and have been moved (at my insistence) to the ante-natal ward from the Delivery Ward.  They were shocked I WANTED to move from a private room to a room shared with 5 women, but after last night when I was bordered on three sides by epidural-refusing women that were literally screaming for hours, I can tell you that a shared room with women that are merely pregnant and not, in fact, being torn in half, is heaven.

I hope-as does Aidan, who is well sick of hospitals-to go home tomorrow, but they're saying 'we'll see' in that parental 'that means no' way.  I still have a raging infection.  I'm still contracting, but just 4 times an hour now.

The Lemonheads are fine.  Its become a sport here amongst the midwives to do traces of them with the CTG/Baby Doppler-the Lemonheads have gained notoriety for being thoroughly uncooperative and in fact like to kick the leads off my stomach.

They'll be grounded for years to come, not least because I'm still screamingly infected and trying to avoid labor.

I'll Have What She's Having

I think most of us spend our time admiring people on the other side of the fence.

Seriously. It’s not just “Keeping up with the Joneses,” it’s also “I wanna’ be where she is.” Maybe this is the foundation of why the communist theory, it didn’t stand a chance (that and the whole waiting for toilet paper shtick) but someone is always going to be where you wish you were. But it’s a bit more complicated than that-if they’re where you wish you were, they’d damn well better be loving every moment of it, else they aren’t grateful for where they are. Right?

With IVF I remember being envious of women that had a plan when I didn’t. Or envious of those who had the positive test when I didn’t.  Or wishing I was one of those who had seen the heartbeat. Or longing to be one of those who had given birth and had one of those cuddly, milky things at home, those things that you wrap up and love and sigh about a lot.

I read other women’s blogs and see that I am not alone in this wanting to be in someone else’s shoes. It seems like we’re all wanting to be somewhere else. I read one person who is waiting to cycle. I see someone else is in their 2ww. A third person’s baby is sitting up unaided, and she wishes she could go back in time and keep her child from growing up too fast.

I hit 30 weeks of pregnancy yesterday. 30 weeks has found me in new places – while I’m still up only 10-11 kilos from my pre-pregnancy weight, I’m suddenly getting larger. Quickly. I can no longer sit upright, I have to recline or stand, as when I sit I cannot breathe. And when I say I cannot breathe, I mean that literally – it’s as though I’m drowning, I just can’t draw in air. This makes computer time pretty difficult, as I have a laptop but it’s a work one so I behave on it.  I’m under constant threat for kidney and UTI infections.  I can’t eat much as my stomach is compacted by Mammoth Uterus and can’t hold any quantity whatsoever – perhaps as a result, nothing sounds good to eat except ice cubes, which I eat a lot of these days. I cannot sleep – the restless leg syndrome is far too powerful and the past few nights have seen hip and shoulder agony as the swelling that is my stomach has thrown my alignment out. I cannot get comfortable in bed. This isn’t even taking into account the fact that my bladder is teeny tiny these days, meaning I usually can’t go more than one hour without a trip to the loo, the babies think 3 am is party time and wake up around then with a jig or two, and that the dreams at night tend to be of the Kafka variety – the other night I dreamt it wasn’t egg sharing I was doing, but baby sharing. I had to choose if I would either give up both babies to a woman waiting for them and thus get an IVF cycle for free, or else choose one twin for the other woman to take while I kept the other twin. It was like Sophie’s Choice for the infertile crowd. I woke up shaking and feeling horrified that someone was waiting to take my babies away.

Little, ridiculous but important things are hard – it’s difficult to wipe, for example, and takes a lot of movements that contortionists would be envious of. The babies kick so hard that sometimes it evokes extreme nausea, and more than once I’ve gone hurtling into the toilet in preparation for the bile that’s behind one of their Solid Gold dancer moves. I am exhausted, I am cranky, none of my clothes fit and the maternity clothes I bought are having to be replaced because I bought over the bump ones and it turns out their tightness over the bump makes me nauseous, too, so under the bump ones are being hauled in to help otherwise I’ll be going in public soon in my pajamas (and don’t think I’m not tempted.)

Still, despite the fact that I have never in my life (so far) felt worse than I do right now, I imagine that someone out there reading this post feels envious about the stage I’m at, that 30 weeks with twins is the best place in the world to be. I don’t mean that in an “I’m so cool, aren’t I the shit?” kind of way, I honestly don’t, so please don’t feel the need to take me down a peg or two and make me feel bad, because I can walk there from here. I just think maybe someone wishes they were where I am as it’s part of the cycle – we all wish to be in someone else’s place.

It’s the same for me – I’m envious of others. I wish my babies were born already, I really do. I know that it’s too early for them still, that their health would suffer and it would be dangerous, but a very illogical part of my brain keeps saying “I’m so ready for this to be over, for feeling this shit to end. I want to meet them and just start life together. I really don’t want to be pregnant anymore.  I can't do this.” And then I feel horribly ashamed for thinking that way, that people will think I’m ungrateful or a terrible mother, and I shut the voices down. But I look at moms that have already given birth and have physically recovered and are just spending time with their babies, and I think: I want that. I want to be her. I want to be at that stage.  I love these babies already and I just want them to be here now.

Maybe we’re all wanting to be at a stage that we see someone else at. I remember when I was cycling I couldn’t wait to be done cycling so that the swelling, bad moods, and mood swings would go away. When I was in the 2ww I naturally wanted that to end, pronto. When I finally got a positive I couldn’t wait for the end of the first trimester, then the anatomy screening, then the third trimester. Now I’m hurrying up and waiting for the babies to be born.

Wherever it is we wish we could be, I hope you get there fast, my friend.

I’ll meet you there.

The Fun

OK.  So I'm nearly 30 weeks along now, and my stomach looks like something out of a Herman Melville novel.  It's Sunday and you know what I'm up to today?

Absolutely nothing.

At all.

In fact, time might be moving backwards in this house.

We've had the week from hell, as Aidan's son has gone from "Delighted About Babies" to "End of the Fucking World" in the space of one month.  One month.  The month was not July, the true calendar month is called "Time the Son Spent With the Bitter and Hurt Mother Who is Bent On Getting Back At Her Ex-Husband". It's a long name for a month but one growing in popularity.   Things haven't been good here and we feel like we've been emotionally napalmed, so I'm sat on the couch today watching the downloaded episodes of Grey's Anatomy that Aidan got for me (we're a bit behind over here.  Season 3 just started a few months ago.  We're neglected.)

I've also been having contractions, a few an hour (the most was 3 an hour) and so chilling?  It's the best idea ever.  The house is a wreck (we're in between moving things around rooms between studies to get nursery space ready and there are random piles of things on their merry way between one room and another), I'm disorganized all over the place as I'm undergoing The Big Purge of 2008 whereby I pillage my belongings and give them away in a combination between stress and hormones, laundry needs finishing and a table needs to be done painting, there is loads to be done, and I just don't fucking care.  I haven't even showered yet today, and although there's a bubble bath with my name on it later, I'll get to it when I get to it.

They say when you get to the third trimester the Footloose and Fancy Free Time that you have had in the second trimester goes away.  I would say that they're right, and what they don't tell you is that the Third Trimester Suck starts with an impact not unlike hitting a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour.  You can't sleep anymore because you can't get comfortable-it's a huge production to move from one side to another.  747's roll with greater grace and speed than I do.  I pee constantly, which I am grateful about as it just means the infection's kept at bay.  The heartburn comes in during the evening with a vengeance that I couldn't possibly predict.  I periodically have to get on all fours and rock back and forth to get one of the babies off my lungs, because they start to compress on them and breathing (which is muy importante) becomes very difficult.  The restless leg makes life uncomfortable.

And the leg cramps...

Ah, the leg cramps.

Luckily, as I was screaming in bed with one not long ago, Aidan calmly grabbed my leg and instructed me to "Grab my flipper."

"What the hell, do you think I'm Charlie Fucking Starkist?  I am not a dolphin!" I shout, rolling around the bed like a naked, pregnant trout. 

"No," he says calmly, grabbing my calf and flexing my foot.  I found when he did it, the cramp instantly eased.  "Didn't you pay attention in the PADI dive courses?  They tell you to grab your flipper to prevent leg cramps."

"I...took...NAUI...courses," I gasp as the cramps ease. 

So lesson learned.  As soon as leg cramps come I grab my flipper.  Saves the day every time.

I continue to grow rounder but I continue to not gain weight.  The babies kick constantly and sometimes it hurts so much it makes me want to vomit, sometimes I am absolutely convinced that the nausea is going to best me.  The ultrasound tech said they'd be running out of room shortly, and I can see that might be the case as our son's rump seems to permanently hang out of my left side. 

Tomorrow I see my therapist (yes, I still see a therapist.  I like to think it's a good thing).  But I won't be booking up another appointment for a while, I think, as the trek into London is so hard on me.  I may not be seeing him again until after the babies come, which is a shame as there's a lot on my mind.

So there you have it.  I'm honestly hoping to deliver the babies in 6 weeks' time.  We'll take it day by day in the meantime, and I personally will be hoping to make it through a full night with some sleep.

Now if only that guy with the orange vest and the glow sticks would stop trying to navigate me from side to side.

28w6d

So they say you hit the third trimester like a ton of bricks.

Whoever "they" are, they deserve a fucking bouquet of flowers. 

I'm suddenly exhausted, and not the drowsy kind of dopiness that defined the first trimester, this has the hallmarks of slapstick to it.  I feel like a narcoleptic-awake...awake...awake....oh! and she's asleep now in front of the pc.  I literally reach points where I feel like Cletus looking into the bottom of the well, going "Yup.  Them energy reserves is depleted all right."

And one of the babies is making it difficult to breathe as she luxuriates on the boppy pillows knwon as my lungs.  I know this because I not only can't see the draw enough breath, but because we had our 28 week scan today.  The scan went ok-the babies are alive and well (but I knew that anyway, because the little guys don't like to hold still).  They're measuring on target for their age, but both have some pretty damn long legs-I wonder if I'll be giving birth to colts or babies with these numbers.   They both weigh a little over 2.5 pounds right now (about 1200g).  I've now gained a kilo that I'd lost over hospital stays, putting me at 24 pounds of weight gain from my pre-pregnancy weight. 

It turns out I had the babies wrong in my head (which isn't hard, as the ultrasounds to me make no sense at all.  It's like looking through the bottom of a glass of Guinness)-the boy is on the left, the girl is on the right, meaning that Twin 2 (the CVS baby) is actually the girl, not the boy.  Twin 2 is the quiet, calm, helpful baby, execpt for that "lounging on Mum's lungs" and "fucking with Mum's right kidney" business.

They gave us pictures of the babies, which I have here on my usual photo stream.  We can see one baby in the photo (the boy), but the girl's photo looks like a Rorcshach Test.  I have no idea what I'm looking at.  I never do.  You'd think after all this time an ultrasound would make sense to me, but nope.  It's a gift that's just lost on me.

My blood pressure was high for me (I'm usually on the lower side of dead, today I was 148/84). they did a blood test as I'm a little concerned about anemia, and I'm on antibiotics for an additional 7 days to keep fighting the various infections.  The doctor discussed the possibility of a vaginal birth-as the boy is the first one presenting and is head down, it could mean they could deliver him and then flip the girl inside to deliver her.  Somehow that option seems....painful.  I'm not decided on the delivery method (although I am very clear on the pain relief, as in "yes there will be some, in every color of the narcotic rainbow) but although I do think a vaginal birth will be easier for recovery, I worry about my pink taco vibrating like a wind tunnel during sex afterwards.  The midwife admonished me to work on my pelvic floor, especially with twins, but once the infections hit I stopped the exercises, so I'm not so much pelvic floor as much as I'm pelvic linoleum acting like floor.  Driblets have been known to occur. 

I'm not proud, I'm just honest. 

I go back in three weeks.  In the meantime, I'm utterly exhausted.  I can't breathe.  I can't pee without thinking of razors, mostly because it feels like I'm peeing razors (there's a "What's grosser than gross?" joke in there somewhere, I'm sure, it's just not coming to me yet.)  I take huge comfort in the babies and their movements, while at the same time it's almost painful sometimes.  I have been having contractions, but not enough of them to stress over just now, so we'll take things as they come. 

For now, it's naptime. 

Adios Ass Bullet Wednesday!

A celebration marking the end of 30 weeks of twice daily progesterone suppositories occurred in our house yesterday.

It had to be done. 

Really.

I only ate the M&Ms, I promise.

Rolling Along

Righty-ho.

So, I went to my GP (general practitioner) this morning.  I like my GP.  He's a nice GP.  I used to have a killer GP that I loved a lot named Dr. Hugo, but he went to another town and I'm back to my old GP.  My GP is someone I can't look in the eyes, because there was a village charity calendar that came out last year along the lines of "Calendar Girls" but done with local businessman in the village, and there, in the month of July, was my GP baring his ass as he gardened.  My GP is Mr. July.  Of all the things in the world I didn't need to see, my doctor's ass is one of them-not because he's replusive or anything because he's not, but you just don't expect to open a calendar and see the buttcheeks of the man who knows at one point you had hand herpes (the herpes related to chicken pox), even if his nakedness is for charity. 

My GP, he puts me back on antibiotics, this time for 10 days.  I need another renal scan, I had to deliver a pathetic amount of urine into a vial so it could be tested to ensure I'm on the right antibiotic, and I got the news that this infection is likely a new infection, meaning that when they said I'd be prone to kidney infections/UTIs until the babies are born that they weren't kidding.  Also, it means that we may not make it to October for delivery, as these kinds of raging infections are dangerous for all three of us. 

Good times, my friends.  Good times.

I am 27w5d today, and as of Wednesday I am done with the progesterone suppositories.  To say I'm counting down is an understatement.  I only need to insert 3 more pessaries, then my anus is a pessary-free zone and there is no amount of writing I can give to show my gratitude. 

The illnesses I've been having have caused me to lose 3 kilos, which isn't a good thing.  Being in the third trimester and losing 6.6 pounds sounds like bad news.  From my pre-pregnancy weight, I am now up only 20 pounds.  I promise even though I haven't felt like it, I have been eating, but I can't hold so much food anymore as my stomach is getting squashed by babies (that's the medical term right there-"squashed".  It's right out of Merck's.)  We're buying a baby cot this weekend, just because we're worried.

I have also caved and starting eating bananas, which I hate more than I can describe.  I confess they do help with the restless leg syndrome, so they get mashed up and put into smoothies.  It's helping.  I hate the damn things, but it's helping.

And finally, I was sent the world's best T-shirt by two lovely ladies.  I never want to take it off.  It's comfortable as hell and I can only hope that people get the message.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

36 hours after finishing my prescribed round of antibiotics - and feeling fine, if still not peeing enough and finding it colors that no Dulux paint chart should accommodate - the infection symptoms came back full throttle.  I'm not in any pain but I'm back to sitting on the toilet, begging god to let me pee, and have been drawing baths to help deliver my bladder from its hell.  I have enough antibiotics to get me through to Monday, so I'll take those this weekend and head for the doctor then, unless any pain or bleeding comes up, in which case it's back to the maternity ward. Infection has brought a new friend to visit, a little smarmy sucker called Captain Diarrhea. Captain Diarrhea is being a real pain in the ass, putting his feet on my coffee table and taking my last packet of McCoy's cheese and onion crisps.

I had been hoping for some afternoon loving today, too, which hasn't been had for a week and a half. 

I informed Aidan that loving was off the menu.

"Still shitting through the eye of a needle, huh?" he says sympathetically.

"First off - ew.  Second - yes, yes I am," I reply.

"Yeah, I can see how you'd be off sex.  It's scary to think of the possibility of something coming out the other end."

"Dude!" I admonish.  "That's foul.  And, um, yes, I am scared of that."

Yeah, he's never going to find me sexy again.

I'm going to keep myself hydrated and get myself through the weekend.  I'll go to the hospital if things get worse, but for now I want to stay here because I bet if I go there they'll admit me, and I don't think there's anything they can do for me there that can't be done for me here. 

Here's to hoping, anyway.

Blurbs

• Aidan busted me out of the sickhouse over the weekend, so I'm at home recovering.  I'm on heavy duty antibiotics and although my wee comes easily now, it's not as much as it should be nor is it anything resembling a color that a human being should be emitting.  But what the hell.  As long as I can pee, I'm happy.

• The doctors said the hydronephrosis will stay with me throughout the pregnancy, and now that I've had an infection I'm at risk of having more of them.  My first kidney infection was actually in 1999, and I was hospitalized for 5 days with that one, running fevers so high that at one point I had a seizure (nothing like a little cooked brain to get the day started).  I'm feeling much better, just very drained and tired, and I get so tired just walking around that I sound like the fat kid chasing the ice cream truck.  The doctors assured me that my body is just worn out fighting the infection and it will recover.  This would be nice.

• I lost 2 kilos (4.4 pounds) in the hospital.  This means that I am up 10 kilos (22 pounds) from my pre-pregnancy weight.  I am (today) 27 weeks pregnant with twins-somehow 10 kilos does not sound like much.

• I only have one more week of those fucking progesterone suppositories and I am literally counting down the days I have to face them.  I know the PIO shots are bad and everything, but I think most of the PIO ladies only had to be on them for 8 weeks or so.  By next week, I will have been on the progesterone suppositories for 30 weeks.  For 30 weeks I have been pushing my finger up my ass twice a day to help prevent pre-term labor, and that's not including the 2 weeks that the pharmacy ran out of the 400mg pessaries and had to give me 200mg pessaries, so for two weeks I was venturing north 4 times a day.  I will absolutely not miss the suppositories in any way, shape, or form. Ever.

• I love my dad enormously.  Hugely.  But if he tells me one more time that I will never sleep again I'm going to tell him that I firmly believe the Swedish milkman we had is my real father.  I absolutely know I will sleep again.  You know why?  Because I'm not sleeping now.  I got a lot of sleep over the weekend thanks to heavy painkillers the hospital gave me to get past the kidney stones, and that was fantastic.  The past two nights now I simply haven't been sleeping, I just can't get comfortable. If I sleep in one position I can't breathe.  If I sleep on one side the twin that gets relegated to the bottom gets really fucked off and starts practicing a little kung fu fighting.  If I move to the other side then the previous throne-holding twin gets angry and rewards me with sharp kicks and punches.  If I sleep with my back and butt elevated to help breathing I get crampy.  Through it all, I get restless leg syndrome acting up. Mostly I just can't get comfortable.  It's party central.  So I'm going to start decking the people that dare to tell me I will never sleep once they're born, because seriously-this is the best training for when they get here that I can think of.  Plus, people, come on-give me something to look forward to, would'ja?

• Which brings me to the next point-it's hard to breathe.  Very hard.  Not only are the hormones wrecking havoc on my hay fever, but the babies are now firmly squishing my diaphragm and lungs.  I use a Vick's inhaler and take a lot of showers to help with the hay fever, but there's only so long you want everything to smell like mentholatum.  The diaphragm and lungs…well I guess I have to just suck it up.  I can't sit up in a desk chair for long as they press on the diaphragm too hard.  I can't lie down.  The best position is standing or reclining, so I spend a lot of time in those positions.

• I wrote two letters yesterday, which Aidan is posting.  One is to my hospital for being so fantastic.  Honestly, the hospital really was great.  They were chaotically busy and my room-which had 5 other women and myself-was often neglected for the other rooms which had moms having babies (although while I was out for a renal scan one woman in my antenatal room actually had her baby in the room.  They literally couldn't get her to L&D in time and so pulled back all the curtains and she actually delivered her baby in the antenatal room.  Mum and baby were just fine, and of course I missed out on all the action.)  But the midwives were stellar, honestly.  The other letter though, is to the Royal Surrey Hospital (are you listening, Royal Surrey?)  I rang them the night I knew something was wrong, and asked if I could come in.  I was informed in no uncertain terms that no, I couldn't come in, as they would then have to do paperwork for me!  It was "such a palaver", them having to do paperwork.  Couldn't I just get in a car and drive myself further to my own hospital?  So they wouldn't have to do paperwork?  Well, Royal Surrey, I did get in the car and went to my own hospital, and you lot can SUCK IT.  I've written to the complaints manager and will be writing to the NHS complaints line, too. Thank God I didn't have you do anything like, I dunno, help protect my babies for the sake of some paperwork.

• After finding out that both during infections and after labor the midwives encourage women to take a warm bath and pee in it (which now explains the industrial-sized bottle of cleaner I saw in there), I can whole-heartedly say that peeing in the tub did indeed get me through the bad infection days.  I'm not proud to admit it, but when it comes to pain relief, I'll take it.  But it is maybe time I stopped eyeing up bathtubs in magazines and assessing whether I could get a gusher out of me or not.  That's maybe not normal.

I'm sure I sound whiny and ungrateful.  I promise I am grateful I'm still packing two healthy babies who are hanging in there, but here's the truth of it: Pregnancy is much harder than I thought it would be.  I didn't expect a cake walk or anything, I'm not that naïve, but I had no idea that it was so physically taxing and trying.  You are always very aware of the pressure of a heavy bowling ball in the lower half of your body.  When they kick it gets pretty painful after a while.  You can't breathe and you can't sleep and you still have a ways to go.

Speaking of which, I can't explain why but I'm pretty sure the babies will be coming earlier than my doctor-promised 37 weeks. But the babies did have the super mongo steroid shots to develop their lungs faster (which I was told actually do make a very big difference indeed).  So if they don't come early then I see a future where their capacious lungs come in handy.  Opera singing, maybe.  Perhaps a career in freediving.

So here we are.