Monday, October 03, 2005

perky, upbeat title goes here

I've been pretty darn sparse on the updating, methinks because while everything is rosy on the surface, I'm not doing too well. Not today anyway, or last night, and twenty four hours of feeling overwhelmed means I must be falling apart, right? In actuality, I'm probably not bad at all, though I am anxious, and I don't get too off on whining about how pathetic my life is, wah and etc. I'll give it a burl though, and see how we go.

I'm happy and working and bladibladibla, but when do I get the goddamn opportunity to be a freakin' emotionally charged, pregnant woman and so, lose my shit? Never, that's when. And I'm so bloody tired, but if I give up my job, I give up....everything. Nothing. Fuck knows, but I feel like if I quit, I also let go of the only thing I've got going connecting me to the real world, the only thing that makes me feel like I'm something. I reckon if I quit, I'd be admitting that I'm still the pathetic piece of shit I pretend I no longer am. Working lets me fake it so the world believes I've changed. Or something.

I feel like quitting is giving up. I wish I could feel like it was taking time to seriously gestate, which is another story in itself.

Remember when I mentioned my (very sexy, ahem) anterior placenta? For the uninitiated, this translates to I Can't Feel A Damn Thing In There and so, with very little detectable movement, I have fears. Really, really, really BIG fears actually.It's a good thing pregnancy hormones keep one calm, because without them, I reckon I'd about blow a gasket. I mean, my anxiety has been awesome, but at least it's been manageable, even though I'm worrying about.....I can't even say it, suffice to say, what in fuck do you think no movement means? Now join the dots. Thankyou.

Having freaked out on one or two occasions, I called the midwives for reassurance, which is the adult thing to do, yes? To not act on the freakiness? But they told me I'd better come in to make sure everything is okay. So I did, and then they wrote in my notes that I was anxious so I came in. No, I was anxious and I took responsible and rational steps toward reducing that anxiety - and YOU told me to come in.

Now I feel like an idiot as well as still worrying that something is wrong with my baby. I mean, no movement? Fucksake.

No wonder I'm stressed.

Last Thursday, I went for my Glucose Tolerance Test, (and people, if you've had one already and someone tells you they're about to have one, here's the tip: don't say shit like 'ewww, that was AWFUL!' because, fuck off already, geez) and passed with flying colours (and to all you thoughtful asshats who told me the glucose drink tasted eww, and all that shit, good thing I'm a freak because I liked it, HA!) It works like this: they take your blood, then give you a 200ml drink containing some ridiculous amount of glucose (I think it's 75 grams per 100mls) (yes I know that because I'm an anal retentive freak who reads labels, what's your point?) and send you off to metabolise it, then bring you back in two hours to take more blood to see what went down. Easy, yes? Except the blood sister was a maroon. Good fucking grief. First, she took something like a litre of my bood, from a vein she had to dig around for TWICE because she fucked it up the first time, then instead of injecting it into the vaccuette thingies, she took the needle off the syringe, spilling my (uncontaminated, but c'mon, fercrisake) blood all over the counter when she took the lids off the vaccuette thingies while juggling a needle-less syringe filled with my finest vintage -and wiped it all up with a cottonball (which if my blood were all Hep C-ed out, wouldn't do a damn thing toward killing the virus, so hello! liver transplant for whoever sits down after this fool has drawn blood from Pamela Anderson). When I came back for the followup, it took her THREE excruciating explorations til she found a vein and repeated the whole procedure with lids and needles and blood going everywhere. I now look like a goddamn junkie, what with my five needlemarks, complete with matching bruises.

As an aside, weebee LOVED the glucose too, or was so totally juiced up it had no choice but to spend the rest of the day Riverdancing on my liver. Whatever it was, it was as cute as fuck, and extremely reassuring. Until my illogical mind says shit like it should always move like that so something must be wrong. Aargh.

Also, I broke a damn tooth last night.

Also, and this isn't really an issue anymore, but it's worth mentioning for the freak factor, I suppose. I saw Stef eight or so weeks ago, and it didn't go too well. I didn't go see him to reconcile or to be his friend, or for anything delusional like that. No, I went because I want to know I've done what I can for my child. We stayed on the front porch, because his daughter and his mate, Luch, were inside, and I didn't want to see them, nor did I want to create an uncomfortable situation for Stef. My timing wasn't terrific, but I made sure our meeting was as non-confrontational as possible.

As another aside, Luch is the tool who blamed me for the icepack incident, so while I'm not one to throw around accusations, it's kind of (read: IS) his fault I'm involved at all.

Luch came out the front door, and Stef immediately asked him something stupid like, had Luch heard anymore about the lawsuit? At that point, I really wanted to kick Stef in the nuts, but in the interests of remaining civil, I didn't say a word, thinking I'd call him later as he'd said he was going to bring it up at the commitee meeting the next day, and I wanted to request he not involve anyone else in what is essentially an issue between me and the insurance company, and NOT the soccer club. So I did, call him that is, and he didn't answer the phone three times that night, despite my number coming up, and on the fourth time the following day, he finally fucking answered - and that's why I never called before visiting last night, brainiac. God.

Anyway, the conversation rapidly degraded, and ended with him telling me he doesn't care, me qualifying his statement as meaning he doesn't care about me or his child, and stating that as he has no interest in me or this child, I'd like it in writing by the end of the week, and that if it wasn't in my mailbox by then, I'd take it further, and him hanging up on me because he's even more of a control freak than I am, and if I'm going to reject him, he's going to reject me more, so there and neener, etc.

He did the same thing last May when, after I'd told him not contact me, that I'd call him as I didn't want him involved right now, he called a week later to
a) tell me he didn't want to be involved (erm, hello? Didn't I say that first? and
b) pleaded to be allowed to call me, not to be involved with the baby, mind, but so he'd know how I am or some shit.

a) dude, you don't get both at once, you're either in or out, and if you want to be let in, smarten up, fercrisake, and
b) when he agreed to see a counsellor, I agreed to allow him entree into my life, and he never called again.

I can't believe I ever had sex with this wankstain.

There's loads more to tell, like how the Big Plan for the personal training and Bowen studio fell apart, and about the future of my business looking iffy, to being assessed next Thursday for aqua aerobics, to being assessed (finafuckingly) for my Certificate IV in Fitness, to my mother being told she's gonna be a grandmammy, to needing to buy a new car, to signing up for a four day Pilates Instructors course, to it being moved to a month later, meaning I'll only be able to do it if I'm not in labor, to totally needing to get my shit together and doing something constructive toward making this place baby ready, because that last bit? Is not getting done AT ALL.

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