Nice Man Gives Awful News

The nicest man in the world just gave me the worst news I have heard in a long time: Because I am already pregnant, the state of Texas refuses to sell me health insurance at any cost until a month after my baby is born. I could go into the reasons why, but they are complicated, and what it comes down to is insurance companies won't cover me or Scott.

My husband and I are self-employed. We have lovely health insurance in Boston leftover from my student plan. It ends on Sept 1st. My due date is October 8th. Without insurance, it costs about $5,000 to have an epidural and a baby--if nothing goes wrong. If something goes wrong, the reason you get health insurance, the sky is the limit for what it can cost. The insurance companies know this. They don't want any part of it. In Texas, those fun-loving, family-promoting, big-business kiss asses in the state legislature feel they have to protect only people who are employed by larger companies. They don't make laws protecting the self employed.

So, here are my options:

* My Boston student health insurance company kindly extends my coverage past my end date so that I can get emergency services in Texas. (Fingers are crossed that this is possible.)
* We go insurance-free and pray nothing goes wrong.
* One of us gets a job asap and then quits it a month after junior arrives.
* I apply to a cheap college, enroll in classes, and pretend to get a degree.
* We see if there are any self employment groups that have tackled this problem--surely there must be!
* We divorce and I marry someone else who has health insurance and then divorce him and then remarry my true love.
* We take a little trip to Mexico and give birth there.

What kind of butthead would set up this situation?! When they pull this shit on gay people, they say it is to protect the institution of marriage and having babies--what's their lame-ass excuse this time? And, what kind of value system is it that screws over all my friends and me in the name of bigotry and corporate greed? Do I really want to move to this state?

[Image from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Gustave_Dore_Inferno34.jpg]

Please Get My Good Side

The ultrasound was a success! And by success, I mean that the baby has two arms, two legs, an assortment of digits, a healthy heartbeat, and only one head. (I’ve been worried about two-headed babies lately and am relieved I don’t have to make any ethical decisions regarding the quality of life of conjoined offspring.) For those of you hungry for data: below are the blobby printouts. They really don’t do junior justice, so don’t worry, you can save the polite comments for when you meet the little meatloaf in person. Right now, he is about 4 cm from crown to rump, and he kicks and twists and flails his arms and does all sorts of crazy acrobatics. We are thinking of naming him Twitchy McSquirmison. Oh yeah, and he’s maybe a boy, but no one was willing to say that officially, so don’t get your heart set on it.

Full-length portrait:

Arm (with fingers!) reaching out:

Profile of face with giant nose:

Ultrasuspense

So tomorrow is the day we go for the ultrasound. This means we get assessment of any possibility of mental retardation or deformities, confirmation we’re not having twins (not really a concern, but the seal of approval is nice), potentially a sneak peak of gender, and--the real kicker--concrete evidence that we are in fact pregnant. This afternoon, I tried to convince Scott that I made the whole thing up. He had a lot of trouble coming up with concrete evidence to support his fantasy that I am in fact pregnant. Missed periods, crazy emotional meltdowns, minor tummy pooch, and tale of a heartbeat--all hearsay, and I doubt any of it would have held up in a court of law. Tomorrow’s appointment will give him the data he needs. I can’t wait!

[Image from: http://web.archive.org/web/20060129173242/http:/www.armamentarium.net/SitoNuovo/1-+Museo+Modena.htm]

Craving Raving

Wow, I had my first case of what I think must be pregnancy craving--and it was tangled up in a quagmire of miss-crankipants-tantrumming, so it was a little hard to spot. It was quite embarrassing actually, and thank goodness Scott figured it out in time before I crossed a line. Okay, maybe I did cross a line, but fortunately for our unborn child he’ll forgive me and not leave us for a sweeter woman. Anyway, I won’t incriminate myself with the details of the tantrum part.

After a good 20 minutes of aimless shopping at the grocery store, I suddenly decided I wanted a salad, but only because it would be the perfect vehicle for ****light Italian salad dressing****[fade in light coming from heaven and angels singing music]. I spent a good six minutes (possibly more because Scott, who was actually working to provide for us, had time to go down two and half grocery aisles in the time it took me) picking out the perfect one. I went with Newman’s Own. This stuff isn’t bad, but it’s not nearly as nice as the stuff I make myself with fancy vinegar and gourmet mustard and fresh garlic, etc, but no, that crap wouldn’t do! I was like a robot or a zombie or someone possessed. I didn’t even realize how crazy I was acting until a mile walk from the store. Once I figured out what a troll I had been, I apologized profusely.

Wow, those hormones are some powerful stuff! I’ve had about five salads drenched in the weak Ital-lite in the last three days. I think there is only one serving left in the bottle. I’m not sure I’m over it.

[Image from: http://web.archive.org/web/20060129173242/http:/www.armamentarium.net/SitoNuovo/1-+Museo+Modena.htm]

Little Critter’s Pitter Patter

[Note: If you are a friend of mine and this is the first time you have heard that I am pregnant, please forgive me and then contact me. I didn’t mean to leave you out of the loop!]

I heard the heart beat of my baby today. It changed everything for me. Not only did that sound provide the first real evidence that I am pregnant, but it also felt like the first time I connected with the little guy. The first three months seem so theoretical. All the signs of pregnancy (except for the cheesy pregnancy test--who trusts those anyway?) are pretty much just exaggerated versions of PMS. You start to think, “Maybe I made the whole thing up.” I kept waking up at night feeling really embarrassed, thinking, ohmygosh, I’m going to have to tell people that I have been faking it. But no longer!! At least one other person besides myself (and Scott)--a health care professional--agrees: I’m definitely pregnant and, whatever it is, it is definitely alive.

I wish that I had been able to record the little galloping sound of its baby bird pulse. Sadly, the obstetrician greased up my belly and whipped out the Doppler device before I had a chance to grab my recorder. And, it is difficult to ask someone to stop what they are doing when you are mostly naked on an examination table. Scott said I am a terrible journalist for this misstep, hee, hee. Well, he’s right--when it comes to command performance reporting while wearing a hospital gown, I am no Ira Glass.

[Image from: http://www.wprc.org/trimester1.phtml]

Trip-Tech

I try to be as honest as possible when it comes to my professional reporting, but I had to write a story in which for tact/professional/fear-o’-the-law reasons I had to omit a certain truth. For the podcast I work for, I just did an audio piece on a trippy little device, a walkman that takes environmental sound and in real-time converts it into synthesized modern music that it pumps into your headphones. Even just on the surface this is pretty cool in that everyday street noise (like squealing subways, monotonous ATM beeping, loud motors, construction racket, and annoying teenage passersby) sound like enchanting trance music. BUT, there is an entire other dimension to this invention. Because it is live, because as you see the giant semi-truck pass by, as you feel the rushing wind of the subway train, as your nose and fingers tickle from the vibration of the jackhammer, you are expecting to hear something else. Instead, you hear this lovely music. And, it’s interactive because if you laugh or say “oh my” it gets incorporated into the sound track rhythmically.

“So what’s the problem?” you ask. “What do you have to lie about in your reporting?” Here’s the problem: The overall effect is EXACTLY like an LSD trip. I mean, there is no other equivalent that I have ever come across. Except for the visual hallucinations and the overall desire to touch things, the entire afternoon I spent on this piece felt just like I was on acid. Even after the interview, I had that post-trip haziness in which you know you are back in the real world, but the psychoactive world still buzzes in your memory. And, just as acid changes your perception of the world for the rest of your life, so did this crazy little walkman. But, how do you write about that? How do you refer to an acid trip and still make this family-friendly journalism? I couldn’t figure it out, so I just lied (by omission).

PS. To further damn myself to the hypocrite’s circle of hell, I am about to write a chapter on illegal drugs for a high school health book. Never trust what your teacher’s tell you!

[Image from: http://static.flickr.com/103/261556151_1625a140e6_m.jpg]

Scampoo

The airport security guard took my shampoo. Not just any shampoo, the shampoo I got from the fancy hotel in Dallas, where we stayed for Pete’s funeral. It came in generous 4.2 oz bottles. Elinor, Amy, and I managed to sweet talk housekeeping into giving us six sets of the shampoo and conditioner--coconut flavored, Kiehl’s brand, exclusive to Bloomingdales, and NOT cheap. The method of acquiring it added yet another dimension to its already luxurious appeal. I just feel a certain kinship with my friends when I use it. It even reminds me of Pete, who probably never even spent a full minute thinking about toiletries when he was alive, but whatever, it reminds me of that weekend. Just by association, this shampoo makes me think about enjoying and celebrating life.

And, it’s not hard to make that leap. This stuff is so delicious smelling. When I use this shampoo, I turn into one of those shower ladies in television ads, who massage their scalp with orgasmic sighs. Afterwards, I pat my hair gently with a fluffy towel and then I spend the rest of the day feeling pretty and trying in vain to smell my own hair.

I’ve been hording these bottles since October, because they are travel size and I don’t want to share them with Scott who just won’t enjoy them enough to merit that kind of generosity. He’ll squirt out way too much. He’ll waste my treasure. This shampoo brings out the most selfish little 10-year-old in me. I save it for trips, not only because of its convenient size, but because it makes me look forward to traveling. Using all those strange bathrooms that are void of all my special comforts is not so bad when I have my favorite shampoo.

That’s why, last night I probably spent a half an hour trying to find a way to get this shampoo into an airport-security-approved container. I even looked up the guidelines on the internet. No, I wouldn’t jettison a single ounce of the yummy, matching bath gel that comes in a 2.6 ounce bottle, but I would carefully transfer 2 ounces of the precious unction into a 2.2 ounce nail-polish-remover bottle. This was Scott’s brilliant idea (perhaps I shouldn’t be so stingy with the stuff). I fell asleep soundly knowing I was bringing just enough shampoo to keep my hair looking sleek and shiny all weekend.

Alas, you already know the end of this tale of woe. You probably knew the rule that your three ounces of shampoo had to come in a properly labeled container. Those stingy shampoo-stealing monsters.

[Image from: http://www.kiehls.com/]