A Cure for Insomnia

Ron and I found the cure for insomnia:

Step 1: Book a 3-day vacation
Step 2: On the first day, have a medical emergency
Step 3: On the second day, start an intense discussion with your spouse
Step 4: Don’t begin the discussion until midnight
Step 5: Make sure you run the gamut of emotions
Step 6: And keep talking until the wee hours of the morn
Step 7: On the day you fly home, arrange for a snowstorm in Denver
Step 8: Re-book your tickets on a redeye
Step 9: Confirm a middle seat in the very last row
Step 10: Make sure a tall man sits in front of you
Step 11: One who will lean his seat ALL the way back
Step 12: Arrive home at 7:30am on Monday morning and don’t nap (you have to write an article that day)

After completing these steps, crawl into bed at 8:30pm and don’t set your alarm. Your insomnia will be cured. We’re talking ten and a half hours of sleep without waking up once.

Works like a charm.

False Alarm

On the first day of vacation I felt an odd pain in my right side.

On the second day I rushed to an urgent care facility, convinced my appendix was about to burst.

The doctor sent me to another doctor…
Who sent me to another doctor…
Who sent me home.

The blood test, and this karate chop test the doctor conducted on my abdomen, both indicated my appendix was perfectly fine even though I couldn’t walk unless I hobbled like a 90-year old woman.

Ends up the pain was due to complications from the miscarriage.

But I think the real diagnosis is that I’m reading too many blogs! (click on the link and scroll down to Organ Update).

Anyhoo, it made for an adventurous trip.

Dissed

When I dropped my dog off at the kennel -- the one with the huge, grassy yard, the one where the staff bestow stuffed animals, chew bones, and tennis balls unto her feet (I mean paws), the one where she gets play dates with her friends Scruffy, Max, and Hunter -- she ran, RAN, inside.

She's giving me a complex.

Aromatherapy

When I told Ron about the image of a supportive group of women sprinkling rose oil onto my skin for healing (see Celebrating Women post), he dug out a bottle of massage oil and gave me a long backrub.

Heaven.

Suddenly my favorite phrase is . . . Honey? I’m still in mourning!

Decisions, Decisions

Writing this blog is like walking a balance beam.

How much to share? How much to share?

Too much and I come across as unprofessional.
Not enough and Zzzzzz (it’s boring).

Let me just say this: If you ever find yourself pregnant, and the sonogram technician tells you the baby’s heartbeat stopped, and your doctor says you have two options – to miscarry naturally or to schedule a D&C – opt for the D&C.

I hemmed and hawed over my alternatives.

“There’s something I appreciate about allowing my body to do what it would naturally do,” I remember saying.

Cringe.

Actually, I did arrange for a D&C. Other women convinced me it was quick, painless, and might be a good idea to give my uterus a thorough cleaning. But I never made it to the appointed date and hour. My body miscarried naturally late one night (well, over two nights, but that’s another story).

As I squirmed on the cold bathroom tile, gritting my teeth as my uterus squeezed with contractions, I had two thoughts:

1. I hope I never find myself at the mercy of a Python snake.
2. If I’m ever pregnant again and carry the child to term, I’m getting an epidural.

Last week the doctor told me the emotional pain of a miscarriage would far outweigh the physical pain.

He must’ve been talking long term.

Anyway, I’m fine now and relieved it’s over. To any women who have delivered a baby by any means (natural, drugs, C-section) – I have a whole new respect for you!

Celebrating Women

Thank you, each of you, for being so supportive during this difficult time. Losing a baby is sad and it’s amazing how many women have called or e-mailed with condolences and stories of their own. Too many know the ache inside my empty arms.

One woman reminded me there was a time in history when I would be surrounded by mothers, aunts, midwives, and other females who would rub rose oil into my skin, hold me, and cry with me over my loss.

It’s a lovely image and I’ve visualized it many times.

Even though our culture is that of the “virtual world” I’m grateful for the support via the Internet. Speaking of, if you haven’t seen Darlene’s blog, take some time to visit. Her son was in a car accident a few days before Christmas and she’s been sharing her journey. Tons of people have pulled together in amazing ways: holding vigils, coordinating dates and times for meditation, and just being generally supportive through words and prayers.

I’m working on an article that will run in May on how the Internet has brought women together in a day and age when our friends and families are scattered apart like stars. So if you have a story you would like to share for the article, please contact me.

Thank you again for all your kind words!

Leo

Little Leo,*

May the Lord bless you and keep you
And may his face shine upon you
May the Lord be gracious to you
May he lift up his countenance upon you

And give you peace.

~

*Ron and I suspected the baby was a boy. Of course it might’ve been a girl, and in that case, Leah.

Good News, Sad News

Well I’m not sure how many brides-to-be are reading this blog, but the good news is that Portovert, a new weddings magazine, has officially launched its publication. You can check out a handful of my articles by clicking on the links below.

Marry in the Buff
Shedding Light on Candles
Finding Sanctuary
Beyond Beautiful

My “Ask a Blogger” column is also online here (as usual I’m collecting questions on blogging, so if you can think of any please post them in the comments section or drop me an e-mail jenny.rough@jennyrough.com).

The sad news is that Ron and I found out we lost the baby. I had this idea in my head that if I could just make it to 10 weeks we’d be home free. Everyone I know who has had a miscarriage lost the baby before 10 weeks. I started bleeding at 9 weeks and 6 days. I’ve written a piece that shares the whole story – and I’m in the process of finding a home (publication) for it. I’ll let you know if/when it’s in print.

The Name Game

Me: What about Sienna?

Him: As in the minivan?

Me: As in a name for our baby.

Him: I don’t think so.

Me: Why not?

Him: Sienna minute? Sienna little while?

Me: Hmm…Jane?

Him: Me Tarzan, you Jane.

Me: Lizzy?

Him:
Lizzy Borden took an ax
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.

Me: Oh, fine. You think of a girl name.

Him:

Me: Should I ask the blogosphere?

Him: How about Blog?

Me: Blog?

Him: We could call her Bloggy.

Me: The best you can come up with is Bloggy (or Zen)?

Him: Tofu?

Me: I suppose it's better than the name my brother came up with.

Him: What was that?

Me: Mytoiletpaper Iz.

Clearly we need help here. We thought of a boy name we both love in two seconds. But we’re taking suggestions if it’s a girl.

P.S. Speaking of names, my mom doesn't want to be called grandma. So...what else do kids call their grandparents?

Adorable (and Admirable)

Meet Adora. She’s seven years old. She has written over 300 short stories. She has a website. She has appeared on Good Morning America, and she reads 2-3 books a day. She blogs.

I wrote a book when I was seven. It was about a lady who had a piece of hair that stuck straight up and no matter what she did she couldn’t get it to behave. It was titled That Dumb Old Piece of Hair. I knew back then that I loved to write – but I didn’t allow myself to be real and pursue my passion until I was 31 years old.

Adora started writing at age three and a half. You gotta love that!

Cravings

Chew. Smack. Lick. Chomp.

"What are you eating?" Ron rolls over in the bed to face me, but it’s dark.

“An egg,” I say.

“An egg?”

“Hard boiled. Want one?”

“Not at 4:45am,” he says.

What can I say? I have weird cravings at odd hours.

Zero Pain Tolerance

I thought I knew it all.

Even though I’ve never been pregnant (‘til now) or given birth (coming this summer), I read up like crazy about the entire ordeal and grilled other moms so that there would be NO surprises. So . . . I’ve heard all about prolapsed uteruses, episiotomies, and the amniocentesis. I’ve heard stories of clogged milk ducts and Pitocin and the fact that some women’s feet grow a size – and never return to normal. I know bellybuttons pop out and breasts leak and that when a woman pushes she often goes potty on the table. A friend of mine who witnessed a birth even confided in me that the placenta smells. Gross, I know. But at least I know.

The other day I was on the phone with a new mom and I learned a little factoid I’d never heard before – one that wasn't amusing considering the fact I have zero pain tolerance. Apparently when the doctor measures your cervix to see how much it’s dilated, it hurts.

I realize I’m only in my first trimester and this event is a looooooong way down the road. But at the risk of sounding like a baby myself, WAH!

Discovering Discovery

If there’s one thing pregnancy does to a woman, it makes her want to get her act together.

“No more television!” I announced one night.

We are not going to be one of those families that zone out in front of the tube, I declared. Our kids are not going to be addicted to video games! Instead, we’ll play Monopoly! Read Harry Potter! Talk about our day over an organic homecooked meal! (I’m still wondering where I’ll find a chef.)

I told Ron the television rule needed to be applied ASAP, because apparently the fetus already has ears (sort-of), and I don’t want Little Rough hearing all that clutter. But just as I was about to unplug the cord from the wall, something caught my eye. A pregnant mom. On channel 52. She was at a “birthing center” sitting on a potty type thing, laboring.

EWWWW!

I was hooked.

The Discovery Health channel has been “on” ever since (right now baby Enzo is learning how to breastfeed). In those rare moments when my eyes aren’t glued to the set, you can find me, um, playing Ms. Pac-Man. I haven’t touched a video game since Atari was hot, but Ron gave me a Ms. Pac-Man Plug and Play for Christmas and the rest is history.

Wokka, wokka, wokka, wokka.

Early Symptoms

I was a month pregnant in this picture and I already felt so BIG. Like a stuffed red pepper.

When I put on the top, I couldn't believe my eyes. "Look! I have cleavage," I yelled to Ron (you may have to focus but I swear it's there). "Wow," he said, aiming for my chest. "No, no touchy! They hurt," I cried.

Note: I can't believe I'm blogging about my boobs.

Anyway, that was the first night I experienced morning sickness (evening sickness?). It stuck with me 24/7 until this past weekend when -- poof! -- it disappeared completely.

I freaked.
Out.
Big time.

What if no more morning sickenss meant I was losing the baby?

Never fear, the queasiness returned yesterday. And now I want it to go away again.

Despite the nausea, I still haven't barfed yet. My Iron Stomach continues to reign.

What's in a Name?

I am leaning back on the examination table reading the cartoons that the doctor has plastered on the ceiling. One cartoon shows an elderly couple. The man is fumbling around inside his wife’s blouse, searching. “They’re not up there anymore, Walter.” The wife says.

Ron is by my side, sitting in a chair. We’re waiting for a nurse to come in and take my blood. Ron reaches up and strokes my hair. With his other hand, he flips through a pregnancy magazine.

“The most popular names for girls are Emily, Emma, and Madison. For boys, Aiden, Jacob, and William.”

“I saw that list the other day,” I say.

He turns the page.

“And the most unusual names . . . Nevaeh.”

“Nevaeh?” I say.

“Heaven spelled backwards,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

“Here’s another,” he says. “Zen. Hey, I like that. Zen Rough.”

“I like it too. If we were celebrities, we could totally get away with naming our kid Zen.”

“Do you think it’s a boy name or a girl name?” he asks.

“Boy,” I nod. “Definitely.”

“Really? It seems like a girl name. I’m not sure I’d want my son growing up with the name Zen,” he says.

“Oh c’mon! We’d make quite a pair – Jenny and Zenny!”

Hmm.

On second thought, maybe as a middle name?

Little Rough

Day 1

Ron: Why are you clutching your boobs when you run up and down the stairs?

Me: They hurt. I swear I’m pregnant!

Pregnancy Test Results: One pink line. No second line (translation = negative).

Day 2

Me: I must eat a pickle NOW. I swear I’m pregnant!

Ron: Do you want peanut butter on your pickle?

Pregnancy Test Results: One pink line. No second line.

Day 3

Ron (home from work): What are you doing in bed?

Me: I had to sleep in the middle of the day. I swear I’m pregnant!

Pregnancy Test Results: One pink line. No second line.

Fine, fine, fine. I’ll hold the diapers. I mean, the pregnancy tests are right, right? It’s scientific evidence. Body chemicals don’t lie.

Day 4

Me: Am I allowed to be mad at God for not sending us a baby? Or will God be mad at me for being mad at him and give me a barren womb forever?

Ron: I’m pretty sure God doesn’t work that way. Maybe you’re taking the tests too early. Why don’t you put them away for a few days and check again next week.

Following Week

Emerging from the bathroom, I’m armed with my pregnancy test, freshly peed upon. I set it down on the bathroom counter and Ron and I peer at the stick, waiting. One pink line. No second line.

Stomp, stomp, stomp. I plop back into bed.

Me: This is ridiculous. I swear I’m pregnant!

Ron (kissing me goodbye): I’m sorry it was negative, Pumpkin.

Me: Zzzzzzz.

One Hour Later

Blink, blink, yawn.

I went to the bathroom . . . and the second line had appeared.

Little Rough is on its way!