Blog-life balance is hard. And to BB, I’m sorry. Just sorry

One month postpartum. I’ve been DESPERATE to write a blog for a couple weeks and finding time feels hard.

Aside from that and BB being mad at me, things are good. Maybe it’s the placenta pills.

When my placenta came out covered in meconium, RB’s first poop in the womb, the nurse said,

“You don’t want this.”

I spent 9 months making and maintaining that thing and I’ve already paid $400 to get it made into pills, so I DO want it.

“Did you see your placenta? You don’t want it.”

“I do want it.” And considering it’s 2am, I want to save it until I can check with my placenta person and see if it’s still good to ingest.

“We need to send it to pathology.”

“Why do you need to send it to pathology?”

“When there’s meconium we send it to pathology.”

It avoided pathology and was allowed to go home with my mom who was kind enough to escort it out a day early.

And in case you were thinking:

‘Hey! Whatever happened to Jess’ varicose veins and those sexy tights?’

Well let me tell you.

Immediately after delivery the veins in my legs felt better. That or a million more important things were going on and I forgot I had legs.

I had 2 pairs of compression tights in my hospital bag and I didn’t think about them for a second.

The day after I delivered I woke up at 4am to intense pain. All my bulging veins had clotted. They were super hard, hot and painful. I could barely walk.

The irony of having an intact vagina but hobbling about because of my varicose veins was not lost on me.

At the time I didn’t realize there are all different types of thrombosis and what I have is painful, ugly and not life threatening. The blood clots are superficial and can’t move anywhere in my body, unlike deep vein thrombosis. That’s the deadly one.

At 4am we alerted the powers that be, but no one was alarmed. After multiple calls to the nurses, they told us that the doctor isn’t concerned and someone will be in to see us eventually.

Captain and I did the only logical thing to do if you’re in a hospital and think you might have something deadly going on. We consulted Google. It was unclear what signs of imminent death we should be looking for, but to be on the safe side we didn’t go back to sleep.

The nurse put a loose heating pack on my leg. I asked her for a way to strap it on. She said,

“Like an ace bandage?”

“Yes!”

“We don’t carry those on the maternity floor.”

“Ok.” I’m waiting for her to follow up with how she’s going to get one from somewhere else because we’re in a HOSPITAL. She proceeds to tie a baby swaddle blanket around my leg.

After an ultrasound to confirm what they suspected: nothing deep and deadly, we went home. They recommended I start wearing my compression tights again. A month later my newly found vascular surgeon tells me,

“Yes, wearing your tights after delivery definitely could’ve helped.”

Screw you people. I wore them my entire pregnancy, through JULY AND AUGUST. I could have worn them for one more day and maybe prevented or minimized the clots, but no one told me.

My vascular surgeon adds,

“It could be helpful to wear them now.”

Maybe, but now the pain is so minimal and the stockings are so annoying, that the pain-annoyance ratio is not in the tights’ favor.

Three months until surgery to remove the clots. I’m sorry BB and RB. It’s hereditary.

But BB has enough to worry about right now. She’s not happy. I’ve taken a lot of my love and attention that would’ve gone toward her or no one and directed it toward 10 pounds of screaming, helpless cuteness.

With the rainbow theme in full effect in RB’s room, BB informs me,

“You know I like rainbows too.”

“Yes! Of course you do!” There are plenty of rainbows for everyone.

Three days postpartum my placenta began the process of being turned into pills in my kitchen. The meconium did not disqualify it.

At this point I’ve swallowed about half of my placenta. And if you thought this would be free from the sting of sibling rivalry, you’re wrong.

BB had a lot of questions including,

“What did you do with my placenta?”

Sorry kid. We threw it out.

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My placenta print. You’re welcome.

 

Baby #3 for the win? TBD

If all goes well, we’ll see what happens, you never know, chances are, God willing, if we luck out, if the stars align, I don’t want to count my chicky before she hatches, BUT I’m 20 weeks pregnant!

I can’t believe I’m halfway through. Between this pregnancy and the last one I feel like I’ve been in some sort of first trimester purgatory.

I’m due early October. Twenty more weeks to go. A whole summer of being pregnant. I’m feeling hot thinking about it. Not sexy hot. Sweat dripping down my enormous belly and settling in my crotch hot.

Or not since the sweat will be absorbed by the full length compression tights I’ve started wearing. These are $50 pantyhose that I got a prescription for. That’s how sexy they are. Not just anybody can get their hands on these.

When Captain saw me in them he said,

“Straight out of a J.C. Penney catalog!”

I think he meant it as a compliment.

My varicose veins are popping. And mostly it’s an aesthetic issue, but by the end of the day they are achy, throbby and uncomfortable. If I wear the tights, they’re not, but then I get to be uncomfortable in a bunch of other ways. So so far it’s a real toss up.

My main complaint is that the compression tights are so strong that they squish everything up and then the compression stops right below my butt/crotch and everything spills over the top.

There never used to be a line of demarcation on my leg. My thighs increased in width until they somewhat smoothly met up with my butt. That is no longer the case.

I called the pharmacist back and asked about compression all the way up. That’s not a thing. I tried adding some maternity spanx on top of my pantyhose. Not only was it not strong enough to contain the thigh spillage, the number of layers was getting ridiculous.

Yes of course I would accept a million varicose veins and 10 months of being pregnant in the summer if I can get my hands on a healthy baby, but I sure as heck am not about to do it quietly. Or at least not anymore.

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