The Big Reveal

June 22

We told our families this weekend about the pregnancy.

Mister L. wanted to wait ‘til after all the test results were in: the CVS, the nuchal fold, the first major ultrasound. I am 15 weeks this week, a bit later than when we told them with the first pregnancy.

The final CVS results came back and they were all negative: no increased risk for a variety of chromosomal problems and rare but terrible-sounding diseases that we Jews are more likely to carry. (The best question I was asked before giving blood for these tests: “Is there any way you and your husband are related?” I guffawed and said a hearty No.)

We told Preschooler L on the morning of a Father’s Day barbecue we hosted. I thought it was important to tell him first, before we told everyone else, because his reaction was more important than anyone’s. He came into bed with us early that morning, snuggled between us, and we told him that like his cousins (who each are two-sibling families), he was going to be a big brother. We’d have a new baby for the family, that the baby would be his baby, and that we’d be very excited for our new addition.

He sort of got it, said he was excited (this is a new phrase for him, telling us sometimes that he’s “so excited” to go to a birthday party, or to go swimming), but it was sort of in one ear and out the other. He is three, after all.

Later that afternoon, we had my parents, Mr. L’s father and wife, our siblings and their families over for Father’s Day. Mr. L. had this idea about printing up a photo of a cute baby from off the Internet, telling everyone I had an early Father’s Day gift for him, but that he’d have to wait for the delivery, and then showing the picture to everyone. I’d just thought we could have Preschooler L tell people brightly, “I’m going to be a big brother!”

So the Mister told everyone his story, and held up the picture wordlessly to the crowd.

“Is that (Preschooler L)?” one person asked.

“No! It’s the baby on the cover of your book, right?”

Finally one person was like, “Lyrehca is pregnant!”

After much coaxing, I then prompted Preschooler L to say “I’m going to be a big brother!”

I pointed out that I thought it was obvious, as I have very few maternity clothes for warm weather this time. I borrowed a lot of clothes the last time around, which I’ve since passed on to other people, and I was showing in the colder months last time. So I have plenty of maternity heavy sweaters and winter pants, but maybe one maternity tank top. I have a number of oversized non-maternity tops and elastic waist shorts (fat: it is my reality), but those haven’t been fooling some people over the past few weeks.

As mentioned earlier, my mom’s friend noticed my expanding ass way back around week five and asked if I was pregnant.

Around week 11, a little boy on the playground pointed to my oversize (non-maternity) sleeveless top and asked if I had a baby in there. “No, it’s just fat,” I told him. In the last week or two, close friends have either asked Mister L. out of my hearing if I was pregnant, or have revealed that they suspected it. I’m a good ten pounds heavier than I was before pregnancy, thanks to ongoing juice box consumption to treat low blood sugars, and to me it’s obvious I’m fleshier than usual. My own mother told me last week that, when she saw me in an empire-waisted-but-not-maternity-dress, that she couldn’t tell if I was pregnant or not, but that I was definitely putting on weight.

(Though in a nice twist for me, at my last doctor’s appointment on Friday, the day before when we announced our news, I learned I’d dropped three pounds in three weeks. Apparently, my weight gain is slowing down. Or perhaps I’m retaining less fluid. Either way, I still have plenty of weight on me, so there’s nothing to worry about, pregnancy-wise. The heft continues.)

Being out of the closet, finally, my mother insisted on taking me maternity clothes shopping for summer clothes. We went to one store and I tried on some stuff, but honestly, just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I want to look lame.

One dress was a floor-length sundress totally open on the top so my top half heaved out. “It’s the style to have your bra straps showing these days,” my mother said. “It’s not the style if I feel like I belong in a trailer park,” I retorted. I bought one dress that I hope to wear to my book reading this week, but it’s got three-quarter-length sleeves, so if it’s hot that evening, I’ll have to pray for intense air conditioning. I’m hitting a few other stores today, without my mother but with Preschooler L, so we’ll see how successful today’s efforts turn out to be.

Author Photo: The Final Decision

Apologies to the curly-haired supporters, but I went with a straight shot.

Now which is better? I've got to decide this TODAY, Tuesday the 9th....

Black shirt or scoop neck?

Blog Poll: Potential Author Photo

I didn't keep up with writing about all my fertility stuff because work got busy, but we had the embryo retrieval and transfer last week.

Now it's a waiting game, amid work deadlines, freezing cold weather, family stuff and ever-shrinking bank accounts.

My latest question occupying my mind is an author photo and hair texture: curly or straight?

I'm having a photo taken this week.

I've never run pictures on this blog for anonymity, but the truth is, people can find my photo online if they look hard enough.

So I'll make it easy.

Should I go straight, which requires more prep time, looks sleeker, and is what I did often before I had my kid:



Or do I go curly, which is my typical style these days, and maybe makes me look more like an "I can relate to her!" fellow mom with diabetes who has a child and doesn't spend an hour on her hair:



Of course, I'll be standing up straight, dressed appropriately, and not at a party (unlike these two shots) when the author photo will be taken.

And agewise, the curly shot is closer to how my face looks now, save for whatever retouching magic my photographer can wrangle.

What's your take?

High Points and Low

Some days, there are just great highs and great lows. And for once, I'm not even talking about my blood sugars.

I was all set to blog about the fact that I cleaned out my closet today and for the first time in a few years, I fit into clothes I last wore before I was pregnant. Work ensembles fit me well. These great red and green and brown pants... all fit like a glove.

(And to be clear, I'm talking about three *separate* pairs of pants. Not one multicolored one).

So Woohoo! for losing the baby weight a mere 18 months after the kid came out. As I've said before, some women just nurse and their baby fat slips away. I have to train for a couple of triathlons to get pounds moving. Whatever works, right? 

Rock on.

I even thought about fashion philosophy as I tried on clothes this morning. How I've never been into fashion in the way that women's magazines showcase the topic, all because I've never been the size or shape that these magazines cater to. Plus, I tend to shop at TJMaxx and Ann Taylor Loft, rather than Burberry or Saks or Marc Jacobs (three stores that figured prominently in the fashion pages of the last magazine I worked at). But going through these clothes in my closet made me realize that it's not just skinny rich people who can enjoy style. Us larger gals who don't spend triple digits on one pair of pants are just as capable as dressing well and looking good. 

Then I wondered how long would this clothing euphoria last, anyway, if I'm trying to get pregnant and if history is any sign, I will likely balloon right out of those green pants a week or two after a positive pregnancy test? And how many years will it be before I can shoehorn my ass back into these clothes, anyway?

(Though can I just say how excited I was that I *did not* need a shoehorn to get into these pants this morning? Last fall, I did. Today, ne shoehorn pas.)

And then I thought, who am I kidding? It took me a year to get pregnant before. Who says it won't take a year, or longer, or never, to get there again?

While I last wrote about the Mister and I going to the doc's to get the go ahead to try conceiving again, there's already been a red flag. Apparently my thyroid meds aren't working hard enough, and my TSH levels are way out of line. Conceiving at this time wouldn't be good. So now I've upped my dose and need to wait another five weeks or so to see if they kick the TSH levels back to where they should be.

(And hello, what else is new? Something isn't working right in the body of Lyrehca. Ho hum. Is this even worth mentioning? But at least this particular ailment should be easily remedied.)

And this isn't even the low I was talking about earlier on. The low point of the day today was getting thrown up on. 

For the second time. 

Out of the mouths of babes. Or in particular, my Baby L. Who isn't even a baby anymore, but will be a year and half later this week. The kid has picked up some sort of stomach bug. Just a week after he finished taking penicillin for an ear infection. And just a week before the Mister and I planned to set him up with two days of day care so I can get some solid work done during the day. 

(And in my neurotic state, I have thought about how kids in day care tend to get sick more. Which makes me wonder if Baby L will get something bad that will stress his immune system, and have him develop Type 1. Which I don't even know if he's genetically inclined to get. Because I could find that information out, but if he is genetically inclined toward Type 1 diabetes, what am I going to do with that information, other than think about it all the time? And aren't I already doing something like that if I'm thinking that daycare may trigger a type 1 diagnosis?)

It's not like diabetes doesn't already permeate Baby L's life, in a way. He's never had a sip of juice, but he looks at me quizzically when I suck down a juice box to treat a low. ("It's Mama's medicine," I explain.) I keep a bottle of Ketostix by his changing table to try to see if he's ever spilling sugar in his urine (though every time I try to get some of his pee from a particularly full diaper onto one of those strips, I usually fail and the strip remains pretty dry.) And while maybe you know Metro Station's catchy "Shake It," I bet I'm the only person who sings it while waving the Ketostix bottle at her son to distract him during a diaper change. Baby L is at the point where he would rather squirm on the diaper pad than lie serenely as I work a Pamper onto his tush. So I grab the bottle and sing "Shake, shake, shake, shake the Ketostix!" 

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But I always manage to get the diaper fastened.

Now if I could only figure out what to sing and shake so my Boy doesn't ralph all over me again. 

Tri Training: One Week Left

The sprint triathlon I've been training for is next Sunday, July 27.

The past seven weeks have really been great with the training. I joined a team that's been really supportive. The workouts have been structured, so I know exactly what to do on each day.

I think the best thing is that I've been able to seriously exercise at least an hour nearly every day. The first week was more about "getting comfortable swimming laps in the pool" and things like that.

Yesterday, I biked more than twelve miles on the hilly, hot course for the tri itself. On Friday, I half-jogged, half-walked a 5K, which is about 3 miles and the length of the run/walk portion for next week's race.

These workouts are really a far cry from what I used to do for fun.  

But even when they are tough, I keep thinking "I will feel great afterwards, and will probably be able to fit into clothes I haven't worn in a while." And I've been able to see my endurance improve. I can now swim and bike farther without huffing and puffing. And I can now jog without pain and can maintain it for a bit of time before I have to walk. Running before starting this training was just out of my realm before.

All this keeps me going.

Diabetes-wise, I haven't had any bad lows during the workouts, and if anything tend to underbolus. I started yesterday's bike ride around 250, took 1.5 units, and ended up at a nice 120. I usually take 50 percent of my normal amount of insulin before a hard workout, which I try to do after eating breakfast (usually oatmeal, fruit, and some almonds). 

My weight had actually gone up at the beginning of the training, in part because I was overtreating reactions in the middle of the night (old habits die hard) and because I am sure I was building muscle, which weighs more than fat. Yesterday, after the bike workout, I was down a few pounds. I don't know if this is because I needed to drink more water to replace what I sweated out, or if I'm really down a few pounds.

I will say that I wore a dress (and bra) the other night for my high school reunion that I hadn't fit into since before I got pregnant. 

So that was awesome.

Typical Advice? Bah!

Reading another blogger's post about what shoes she wears made me think about the ways I flout conventional diabetic advice.

1. I wear what shoes I want to, particularly open toed shoes and flip-flops, all the time in warm weather. I never wear shoes that are uncomfortable, but that's because I walk a lot and pain is annoying. It's not because of my fears of cuts healing slowly. And inside the house I am often barefoot. Outside, I am not, but that's because I stepped on a slug when I was a child (two years pre-diagnosis) and it grossed me out.

2. Along the footwear lines, I love getting pedicures. At those low-cost, there's-one-on-every-city-corner nail shops. I don't bring my own equipment. I think these shops do a better, longer-lasting job than high end salons do. And I've never gotten an infection from one. Ever.

3. I haven't changed a lancet in months. Probably close to a year.

4. I eat what I want and bolus accordingly. If my sugar is high two hours later, I bolus again to bring it down.

5. I eat Life Savers (and now juice boxes) to treat reactions instead of GlucoTabs. Those things are just nasty.

6. I've reused a pump reservoir and carry a used reservoir needle in my meter bag in case the insulin in my pump goes low and I am away from home. I'd rather just fill a reservoir with insulin quickly than have to change out the whole set while out of the house. I did that once while in a restaurant with a friend. It took forever for my tubing to fill with insulin and my friend thought I'd died in the bathroom because it took me probably ten or 15 minutes to do the whole infusion set change, along with filling a reservoir.

7. I carry a recycled insulin syringe as well, for the same reasons.

8. I can't remember when I last used an alcohol swab to clean my finger before testing my blood. And I always lick my finger afterwards.

9. I don't change my pump batteries the second they beep that they're low. I've been able to get two more days' worth of pumping out of them after the first low-battery alarm goes off.

10. I've tested my blood sugar while driving (though usually while stopped at a stop sign or a red light, and always with my eye on the road. I test my sugar blindfolded if I had to). I've also tested while standing in line to order a sandwich somewhere, while on public transportation, while on the elliptical trainer, and just about anywhere else I can carry it. And I gave myself an injection once while on the New York subway.

I can't think of anything else off the top of my head. The flip side is that I've never gotten any kind of skin infection from reusing my supplies. My A1c is admirable. I feel pretty good most of the time, and I don't resent equipment meltdowns or refilling issues when I am out doing something. And whatever bacteria is floating around is probably strengthening my immune system, since I don't usually get sick.

I think taking care of the bigger picture, by making sure glucose levels are where they should be and that nutritionally, I'm eating the things I am supposed to be eating most of the time, is a better way to live than stressing about every last iota of detail. So what if I haven't changed a lancet in months? My sugars are usually pretty good.

How do YOU flout conventional diabetic advice?

It's February Already?

I used to be a great blogger--back when I was in the throes of infertility and pregnancy.

But things are afoot over in the land of Lyrecha. To wit:

1. Baby L is ten months old. Where'd the time go? He crawls backwards. He's starting to tolerate solid foods. He smiles like a sunrise. He is chatty in that baby jibberish way. ("Bah bah BAH," he explains. "Guh. Khuh.")

He is super awesome.

2. My book proposal for my book about type 1 and pregnancy, written from the perspective of actual type 1 women and not medical professionals, IS FINALLY DONE.

Did you ever make a list of goals that you wanted to do in your lifetime and actually feel the exhilaration of checking one off?

That's how I felt last week when I read the thing for the last time and hit SEND.

It's literally out of my hands now. I'll keep you posted should something big transpire. In the meantime, if you want to be interviewed about type 1 and pregnancy, if the book actually becomes a reality, shoot me an email (Lyrehca AT gmail DOT com) and I'll keep your info on file.

3. After doing postpartum Weight Watchers since June, today I learned that I have officially lost ten pounds. While taking this long to lose weight is not ideal, I frankly blew it off much of that time. Since the new year, though, I've paid far more attention to eating and exercising than I have in awhile. I actually make time to walk for an hour on certain days of the week, and I can see it's paying off. Last week, when it was super grey and snowy, I got myself and Baby L over to a local mall in my town and traipsed the place for an hour. It was good... except when the Apple store beckoned. But at least I lost weight this week.

4. To celebrate my ten pounds gone, I decided to buy myself a skirt. I haven't worn a decent cute skirt since before I got pregnant. (Wearing a few maternity skirts during and post-pregnancy do not count as cute.) While it is still a larger size than I would like to be wearing, and I bought it from a department I wish I didn't have to shop in, I was pleased to find one that looked good, was simple enough to be a basic, and was on sale for a glorious twelve dollars. Down from an original price of $48.

Nice.

5. Tomorrow night, Mister Lyrehca and I are hiring a babysitter for the evening (A first! Night time help!) and going out for an early Valentine's dinner. I'm definitely wearing the skirt.

6. I've heard about a number of new and not-so-new resources for the diabetic women looking for pregnancy info. There's a new group on Tu Diabetes called Oh Baby!, a new site with a pregnancy section called Diabetes Sisters, and although it's old news already, I finally got a chance to read Kelsey's pregnancy diary and it was great. It's nice to see new resources sprouting up in the past year or two, but as my book proposal urges, more are always needed.

7. Personally, I'm not slated to see my Endo for a general diabetes checkup til April, but I am so looking forward to talking to her about going on Symlin. I'd always been told to stay away from it in the past few years when I was either trying to conceive, pregnant or pumping breast milk. Now that I'm just a plain ol' type 1 again, I'm eager to see if the stuff will help me lose weight and keep the postprandial meals spikes to a dull roar.

Random Thoughts

1. I often wear nursing tank tops. The ones I bought at Target fit me much better than those made by a company called Glamourmoms. I bought the Glamourmoms ones in the hospital and wore them the first week, but Target's are much better. Cheaper, too.

2. My blood sugars are pretty shot to hell these days. When I can remember to test at all, I'm often high.

3. During pregnancy, I used to test about 12-15 times a day. I'm lucky to test 5-6 times a day these days.

4. I haven't been great about doing Weight Watchers. As a result, I haven't lost a lot of weight.

5. Just walking with my kid in the stroller isn't much of a workout for me. But I don't like the babysitting setup at my current gym. The room where Baby L would be watched in is down the hall and I can't keep an eye on him. Plus, he's so little and the room is filled with bigger-kid toys.

6. I checked out another gym nearby yesterday that has a Cardio Mom session. This means you can bring your baby into the workout room and keep him in his car seat parked next to your cardio machine while you work out.

7. This is ideal, except the time of day they do this (12-2pm) usually coincides with other things I'm already doing during the day (new mom chats, Mommy and me classes, baby-friendly movies, and such). Why don't they have these sessions in the mornings?

8. This gym is also a farther (20 minute, versus 10 minute) drive from home.

9. But I clearly need to do something more vigorous to get back into the exercise game. An hour on the elliptical or bike would do it. Several times a week.

10. I still make big to-do lists like I did pre-baby. It takes me weeks, rather than days, to complete them.

11. I actually finished a big portion of my book proposal on my type 1 pregnancy book. Now all I have to do is write up a sample Table of Contents.

12. Here's where you come in (that is, if anyone still reads this blog...). If you're type 1, what exactly would you want to know about the pregnancy experience? I have a ton of thoughts and need to organize them in a table-of-contents way. Would love to hear what others think.

13. Baby L has been sleeping alone in his crib for the past two weeks. He's doing pretty well, sleeping about 4-5 hours at a time.

14. Was too tired to pump last night at 1:30 (Baby L's last feeding), so am doing it now, typing with my left hand, and entertaining Baby L with shaking a stuffed animal that makes a rattle noise with my right hand while Baby sits in a bouncy seat on the floor. Motherhood is all about multitasking.

15. I have freelance work projects due next week and my mother has come over this week to watch the baby so I can work uninterrupted. Except the first day she came, I really just wanted to take a long nap, something I usually don't do.

16. Yesterday, however, I was alone with the baby, and he fell asleep on my chest for a delicious three-hour midaftternoon nap for both of us. No work got done, though.

17. My old boss emailed last week, telling me my replacement and another colleague worked til 1am recently during the latest deadline week at my old job.

18. I am glad it wasn't me. The magazine's biggest issue of the year comes out in August, and next week there's a huge party going on for it. Mr. L and I got invited to the party, and I'd be fine skipping it, but Mr. L wants to go and bring the baby. We'll see how this goes over.

19. Last week, Mr. L. and I went to a jewelry store (he's been promising to buy me swanky earrings in honor of Baby L's arrival) to check out possibilities. While there, I saw a woman with a Minimed pump at the same jewelry counter. We chatted (she was there scouting out swanky options to celebrate her upcoming 50th birthday). She had a later version pump than I do (who doesn't? Mine's three years out of warranty already), and we exchanged emails. I had a weird moment when I realized the business cards in my purse are out of date, but managed to write my email address on the back of one of her cards.

20. I haven't emailed her yet, but suppose I should.

21. I should also make up new business cards for myself, explaining I'm an independent editorial consultant, rather than a staffer at my last job.

22. There's one more thing for the to-do list.

Good God, It's Week 35

I have the rest of the week off from work because I supposedly didn't use a few vacation days from 2006 that need to be used by the end of March. (Um, OK, I'd bet that's incorrect, but who am I to argue with the HR woman at work? Enforced days off--sign me up!).

As a result, I spent yesterday doing some nice things:

1. Got a pedicure so my feet finally are worth baring in public. (The pedicurist took pity on me as I contorted around my belly to take my socks off. It was like running a marathon. She gave me a fancy smoothing serum on my callouses-of-death heels without charging me extra.)

2. Got a prenatal massage that felt terrific. I highly recommend these if you are pregnant and achy. The therapist was sweet, did a hardcore Swedish, and knew her way around the pregnant form. ("God bless you, honey, you weren't kidding when you said your ankles and legs were swollen.")

3. Bought some baby clothes.

That last one actually felt the most indulgent. All along, people have asked if I'm excited, if the Mister is excited, about the baby's arrival. Honestly, excitement isn't the word I'd use. Cautious is much more like it.

"We're taking everything one day at a time," I say. "Knock wood, the baby will be healthy and happy."

The whole religious tradition of not tempting fate, not having any baby showers, heck, being casual about where we registered, has really seeped into my being. The one time I mentioned to Mister Lyrehca, "Oh, it should be a quick 20 minute visit" was the heart rate scan a few weeks back where I was sent to Labor & Delivery for two more hours of fetal heart rate monitoring.

Truly, I'm trying to not take anything for granted.

But I had time to shop a bit yesterday, and was close to some baby apparel stores. So I figured I'd scan the sales racks and see what was there. Besides, as of yesterday, the baby had only two items of clothing, and both were gift onesies that would be too big for a newborn to come home from the hospital in. (Unless the kid comes out of the hospital the size of a three-to-six month old. But I digress).

God, baby clothes are cute.

Two credit card charges later, Baby Lyrehca is set to be a very well-dressed kid. Onesies. T-shirts. Socks. A soft hat. All in colorful shades and hip patterns.

I came home and showed Mister Lyrehca, who typically balks at updating his wardrobe from high school. (He proudly wore a Members Only jacket in recent years despite my taunting him; thankfully, friends of ours also mocked him and he finally got rid of it). Even he thought the items were cute and fun. I'm trying not to think of what it'll be like to have to change these clothes because they're covered with spit up and other bodily fluids. Instead, I'm trying to picture the oohs and ahs Baby L will get for being just so fashionable. So baby-stylish. So great.

But you know I can't just relax. I asked both stores what their return policies were. Just in case.


Also saw my Eye Doc yesterday for a follow-up visit.

Apparently, the part of my eyes could be considered "severe non-proliferative retinopathy" while other parts are plain old "proliferative retinopathy." However, since last October's laser treatments, they've been "quiescent" or "quiet." This means that while there is new blood vessel growth in the back of my eyes leftover from whenever, the laser stopped some of it in its tracks. The laser did not stop all of it, because I only had limited laser treatment. The idea is that the limited laser treatment may stop everything forever from growing, but if it doesn't, I'd need more.

"Why didn't you just laser everything you saw?" I asked.

Because that may have affected your vision, Eye Doc said. The idea is to do as little treatment as possible to minimize vision changes while getting the desired effect of stopping the new blood vessel growth in its tracks. The whole time, I might add, my actual eyesight has remained unchanged (i.e., I see things just fine) and the optometrist who analyzes the vision in the front of my eyes told me yesterday that everything looked "brilliant." (I liked her immediately.)

I was more annoyed at being told I was "proliferative" versus "severe non-proliferative." These are semantics most people don't even understand, and even Eye Doc seemed to think the difference was a casual one, but I said that should I ever actually qualify to get life insurance, the difference in my eye damage might make me uninsurable.

"Actually, you're less likely to have eye problems because you've had the laser," Eye Doc said. "That makes you a better candidate."

That seemed like a glib way to summarize things. Eye Doc, who I used to enjoy chatting with during my visits, and I are becoming a bit less chatty. I still have to go back there in three months for a follow-up, though she tells me I can aspire to have visits every four months, then every five, and then maybe taper them back to twice a year.

Mister Lyrehca and I are are pulling together our tax paperwork and receipts to get things filed before the baby's scheduled arrival. I save every single receipt and itemize whatever I can because I freelance on the side. Our medical expenses, we've figured out, amounted to more than ten percent of our combined income last year. According to our accountant, anything more than two percent of your total income is deductible. While this past year included fertility expenses that are not a typical year for us, hearing that my eye doc appointments may cut back from four to two a year didn't exactly thrill me. It's still way more than the general population pays to have its eyes checked.

And frankly, eye appointments are just one of a myriad of things. Parking at the hospitals where I get checked out. Gas for those trips. Filling prescriptions. Mileage. The time spent waiting.

Although I passed a milestone on Tuesday that should hopefully keep us from racking up another round of medical bills: babies born after week 35 don't automatically go to the hospital's Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I hope Baby L. never needs to see the inside of a NICU ever.

But if it does, my kid will be the best-dressed one there.

Week 30 update:Chap Ass, No TV? An Observation

Oh, it's been so long.

Another 60-hour workweek last week kept me from even reading the blogs I follow, let alone blogging myself. I've finally caught up with things and am out from the work (and home after dealing with the crap wind and snow and rain where I live. Why, why do we live here? The Mister and I ask ourselves this every winter, and it's always because "our families live here." I wish we could all move, en masse, to a warmer location. With a hipster city. But I digress.)

In the last two weeks, what's happened? Well, I've gotten myself to week 30 of this pregnancy. My maternity jeans I bought around week 10 officially don't fit anymore. My skin is dryer and more chapped in weird places than I've ever noticed before. Like, my thighs and back near my underarms--dry as a desert. I call myself Chap Ass when I get out of the shower. My belly, though--smooth and (knock wood, can't believe it myself) still stretch mark-free. I've taken to rubbing massage oil all over my body to try to relieve the dryness and on the thighs and tush, but there's been no change. I think it's just winter doing its thing, not pregnancy-related, though.

Went out of town last weekend to celebrate my brother's son's second birthday. The young'un is a Total Cutie, but watches Baby Einstein, it seems, all the time. It's like kid crack. I see the benefits, as in when my sister in law needed to cook and prepare dishes for the actual party, the nephew was glued to the TV and she got stuff done. But on the other hand--doesn't the Association of Pediatricians recommend no TV until age 2? Personally, I'm not a big TV fan myself, so I'd like to think I can entertain my kid with books and activities and whatever. But the truth is, I'll likely want some time to take a shower or check my email or heck, pee, without someone whining or crying in the background. I'd like to say I won't stick my infant in front of the Baby Einstein, but like everything else, I'll have to see how it goes. An online friend just gave me a bit of good advice, too: you don't have to drop everything as soon as the baby cries. It's ok for them to fuss a bit, particularly if you're trying to pee. I'll need to remind myself of that over and over again, I'm sure.

Today we are interviewing the first of two potential pediatricians for Baby L. Due to the crazy ice and snow outside, I'm technically "working from home" but I'll likely end up doing not that much work today. But at least I'll be able to get to the (local) pediatrician's office without leaving work early, schlepping home, and feeling like a slacker because I'm leaving before my coworkers do.

In fact, because I have workaholic tendencies, I've wondered if having a baby and staying home might even be easier than all the schlepping and commuting and late hours in an office I've put in. Every friend I've had with a baby has told me how hard it was, and believe me, I've never had to deal with diaper changes or incessant crying at the office, but in terms of not having to show up in an office and deal with deadlines and multiple personalities and stuff like that, I wonder if being a mom might be a welcome change.

Along those lines, last weekend, I tried to play with my nephew as much as I could whenever his attention strayed from the Baby Einstein. We sat and colored with magic markers, and I had to help him pull off the cover of the marker and put it on the opposite end. At one point, I taught him how to pull the cover off himself. Mr. L watched with a klempy look on his face. "You're going to be a great mom," he smiled.

Of course, not all was klemp and roses. My mother and brother, not known for their quiet tact, saw me on Saturday wearing a long wraparound maternity sweater that I wore because I knew it would keep me warm.

"Are you sure you're not having triplets?" one asked. The other just cackled.

"Shut the fuck up, you idiots. I'm seven months pregnant."

"That sweater isn't doing you any favors."

"What favors? Again... I'm pregnant!"

When I peeled off the sweater to reveal a maternity t-shirt and black maternity pants underneath, my mother seemed relieved. "Oh, you don't look so big underneath the sweater."

I mean, seriously, this is my family here. It's a good thing I can defend myself against their indignities. Shrinking violets don't thrive with these people.

Mr. L., on the other hand, tells me I continue to look beautiful. He just downloaded two years of photos from our digital camera last night, and it's clear to me that my face and body have gotten rounder and rounder since we got married. I'm pleased he's not into the waif look, because with me, that ship sailed back before I hit puberty. But hey, it's not like I can do anything about my current zaftig look until this kid comes out.

But then it's the quest for Lyrehca as Yummy Mummy in '08. I can't wait to join Weight Watchers and do hard workouts again.

In blogosphere-related news, Namaste commented awhile back that she was meme-ing me to reveal six weird things about myself. Honestly, I feel like I'm always writing about something odd I've worried about/said/done, so I open it up to the crowd. Want to know something weird about me? Ask a question in the comment section and I'll address it in a future post.

And Watson, probably the Funniest Blogger Ever, had a little competition asking her readers what to name her first IVF cycle as a subject on her blog. While the very talented Serenity won the contest with "IVF #1: Leggo My Eggo," Watson kindly commented I was a runner up with "IVF #1: Vote For Pedro." (Who doesn't love Napoleon Dynamite?)

Which brings me to another blog-related issue. Reluctantly, I upgraded to Blogger Beta, which is now just the current version of Blogger. (And crap, I just realized that many of my commenters now are listed as "Anonymous," which is totally lame.) So this means I can put my posts in subjects or labels, which might make it easier for someone new to actually read about topics which interest her (what? My entire life doesn't interest you? Pshaw!). So now I have to come up with my own subjects and of course want them to be snarky and funny. So the general categories are Diabetes, Infertility, Pregnancy, TTC, Food, Medical Care--Bad, Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News, and Working. At some point I'll figure this all out, but if you have any suggestions for category names, comment away.

And on a final note, I commented to a (non-blogging, but very close in real life) friend that I read a ton of blogs these days, mostly diabetes-related and infertility-related, with a few outliers thrown in. It may be because the infertility blogs are women my own age, typically dealing with the parade that is infertility treatment, but they tend to be snarky and smart and funny to read. The D-bloggers cover more ages, more genders, and even more relatives (like, no one's mom is writing about her daughter's attempts to get pregnant). As a result, perhaps there are more worldviews and perspectives being covered in the d-blogger world.

But I sense a lot of underlying anger and despair (which is perhaps too strong a word) and sadness from the D-bloggers. The infertiles are full of anger and sadness too, but it seems to dissipate. I suspect it's because for a good chunk of them, the treatments either end up working (they get pregnant and go on to write about that), or don't, and then they reassess (do we try again? consider and pursue adoption? decide to be child-free?) and move on. The diabetics write about another high reading, another low, another annoyance, another scary eye appointment... but perhaps not enough about the moving on from these issues, likely because there is no resolution but to learn to live with the condition and be happy in spite of it. I'd like to think I've done that (and hopefully done it well). I don't know, I'm just saying I don't see as much humor and fun in the posts from the d-bloggers (at least, what I can relate to. Not being an animal-lover, pictures of people's pets don't get me all happy inside.) And while 29 years of the D hasn't been a picnic for me, I still like to think I have a sense of humor about things and try to laugh whenever possible.

What do you all think--am I being too hard on the d-bloggers? Do I just relate more to women in their 30s dealing with infertility than I do with other diabetics? Is my sense of snark and humor just not in tune with most of the d-blogging world? Let me know (nicely, please!).

Out at Work

I told my boss yesterday about the pregnancy.

It went well.

I told her because I feel it's super obvious that I'm larger than ever, wearing big long maternity tops that cover my stomach, and that I have a doc's appointment next Friday in the midst of my busy week at work that I can't reschedule.

My boss is someone I get along with really well. She used to be a freelancer at the publication where I work, and she got hired to be my boss after one woman in the job left the position after having twins, and her temporary replacement decided not to apply for the permanent gig when she announced SHE was pregnant.

(Boss, for the record, is a single woman as far as I can tell, and isn't planning on having a kid anytime soon).

I'd been stressing about how to tell my work about the pregnancy for awhile now. I'm usually able to skip out of the office during the slow weeks to take the subway to the doc's offices, and I've been able to explain it away by my usual excuse: "Diabetes: it takes a lot of doctor's appointments to stay healthy."

On the flip side, I really love working, like my job a lot, and when I'm not dealing with something annoying, am generally in a good mood about my career.

However, I'm months overdue for an annual review. This is not unusual in my office, but the top boss who is supposed to give me the review is himself waiting for news about his own position. (There have been a number of "acting" and "interim" roles in my office, including the top boss's. Thankfully, I'm not one of them. Solidly on the masthead full-time, I am.)

So my question was, do I wait for the review to announce the pregnancy? While I had no reason to think that a pregancy announcement would change the scope of my review at all... you just never know. I know I do my job solidly, my department runs without major incident, and all that. But my coworkers aren't my close friends, so I guess one never knows when something odd could pop up.

But I have no idea when the review might actually happen, and my burgeoning belly seemed to be dictating my announcement. I mean, I walk around the office with my jacket fully buttoned up, and when I have to carry papers from one side of the office to the other, I'm always covering up my midsection. Plus, and I know no one has noticed this but me, but ALL my old clothes just don't fit me anymore. Has anyone noticed I don't wear the sharp black raincoat anymore (it's about 20 pounds too small now) or the cool hot pink pants that fit me perfectly two years ago (again, about 20 pounds too tight)?

Behind the closed doors of the conference room, beyond the cubicle farm with no privacy where we typically sit, I sat and told my boss privately that I was expecting in April.

Boss congratulated me, and told me it was up to me about how I wanted to tell the bigger (review-bearing) boss, as well as other coworkers. She was surprised yet another woman in the office was making an announcement (as mentioned, I'm the third in a year, in a pretty small editorial office). I pointed out that I'm part of a trend of 30-something women getting older, and while I didn't say this to the Boss, honestly, of my same-aged friends, Mr. L. and I are the last (save for one other couple) to announce we're having kids. Everyone else already has them.

I didn't tell anyone else in the office that day, but I'm glad at least one person knows. Boss claimed she'd had no idea, but I know that won't last long.

The belly will out me soon enough.

Five Things

1.


One of my coworkers gave me some things to compare my next bout of laser eye treatment to.

Because the light flashes are going right into the depth of the eye, prison torture was my first thought, but here are some alternatives to such negative-thought:

I’m a celebrity in the middle of being photographed by the paparazzi. The flashbulbs are blinding.

I’m center stage in the middle of a huge production, starring me, and the spotlight is shining directly on me.

I’m playing hide and go seek at night with flashlights. (I personally have never done this, but it’s sort of comforting.) Then again, I’m full-of-myself enough to enjoy the thought of the first two scenarios. The right eye’s skedded for late next week, so I’ll keep my celebrity thoughts at the forefront of my mind.

2.

Just got back my latest blood work from my endo: A1c was 5.6, but my TSH, the numbers that regulate my thyroid, were a tad high at 3.2. The IVF clinic had wanted them under 3, so now I’ve emailed my endo to ask if I should worry. I was 1.7 a few months ago, and am not sure why the numbers might be increasing, or even what that means. But I’ll up my dose one day a week and keep an eye on things.

3.

I’m running out of regular clothes to wear. Seriously. I’m 12 weeks this week and a lot of my clothes that fit OK or were perhaps a tad snug from gaining ten pounds in a year of TTC are now just not happening.

I wore a pair of maternity jeans yesterday for the first time, and they were comfy. Today I just have large pants on (to accommodate said weight gain before the pregnancy,) and they fit fine, but the sweater set I’ve been wearing for years today feels… a bit short. Like I have to keep pulling it down to cover my belly.

And while I’ve read on other blogs that people feel their tummies are tight and hard, mine, already covered with a pillow, still feels pillow-like. I do suspect that maybe something hard is pushing the pillow out a bit, but I still think I just pass for fat and soft.

4.

Yesterday I was craving a trip to Manhattan, land that I love. Mr. Lyrehca was like, “pick a weekend and go. I don’t mind!” and I was making lists of people I’d like to see (Violet, you were on there) and how I could tell friends I was with child. And then there was the crazy news of the plane crashing into a building and the death of the Yankee pitcher. I was glued to my monitor at work. My former eye doc’s office was four blocks from where the plane hit. Thankfully, the people I know/knew in the neighborhood are either just fine or have long since moved out of town.

5.

I’ve actually chilled out a bit about being pregnant. I don’t think every moment that something bad could happen (though it still could!), nor do I wonder why I don’t feel all that different (though I still don’t.) I’ve also been checking my blood sugars regularly (clocking about 15 times a day, which isn’t unusual for me) and looking forward to next week’s High Risk Ob appointment, where we’ll have some tests to find out how this fetus looks chromosomally. Perhaps I’m not thinking too closely about it and how it may have devastating news, but I’m eager to hear exactly what the results say. Mr. L. and I haven’t talked about whether we’ll tell people if the news is bad, but have focused more on how to tell people we know should the news be all positive. I hope I don’t end up looking back on these words with horror or regret, but instead with happiness and pleasure.

101 Things

Inspired by recent events and Kerri's NYC pedicab experience, I just thought of 101 things to write about:

1. I’ve left my meter in strange places.

2. Once I left it in either a dark NYC cab or in the bathroom of the Nederlander Theatre, where I took Mr. Lyrehca to see Rent while we were still dating long distance (he in Mass, me in NY).

3. I went back to the theatre after we’d headed uptown for dessert, but never found the meter.

4. I have also left my (replacement) meter in the back of a cab when I was heading home to my then-uptown apartment at the end of a night.

5. I had my receipt because I was freelancing full time then and therefore deducting anything I could for tax reasons.

6. I was able to call the NYC Taxi & Limo Commission listed on the taxi receipt, get them to call the cab driver at his home in New Jersey, and he returned my meter (with a vial of insulin and a just-opened bottle of test strips) to me the very next day.

7. “Go on, open it,” he told me. “It’s all there.”

8. “I trust you,” I told him, grateful he’d brought my meter back to midtown where I was working. Besides, why would he want a bottle of insulin and a meter if he wasn’t diabetic?

9. I gave him an extra $20 to thank him.

10. Before I went on my pump, I once took insulin while sitting on a (nearly empty!) subway car because I’d just eaten a container of yogurt and needed to take a shot for it.

11. I didn’t look at anyone, and injected into my arm.

12. A woman sitting a few seats down from me apparently watched. When I was done, she declared that “Jesus loves you.”

13. Since I'm Jewish, I am pretty sure he doesn’t.

14. I used to read the Insulin-Pumpers.org emails religiously.

15. Mr. Lyrehca asked what was so intriguing about them, and asked if we diabetics had a secret code, like a word jumble.

16. “Do you all sit around and talk about your “TERMEs,” meaning meters, he asked.

17. To this day, I don’t read the emails quite so closely, but Mr. L. still calls my meter a Terme.

18. We’re dorks like that.

19. I thought of this last night after I got home from work and couldn’t find my keys in my purse, so I dumped the whole thing out on the floor of our back hallway.

20. There were the keys.

21. A bit later, I couldn’t find my meter, and although I searched the back hallway for it, I didn’t see it.

22. I wondered if I’d have to call the local commuter rail service to ask if they’d found my meter.

23. I shuddered.

24. I looked one last time and found the dark meter case behind the back door, shrouded in darkness.

25. Our back hallway doesn’t have a light, if you haven’t guessed.

26. We honeymooned in Hawaii, and the first night there, I thought I hadn’t packed half my supplies for my insulin pump.

27. I searched the bottom of the bag I was *sure* I’d packed them in, and couldn’t find them.

28. I called Minimed’s customer service and begged them to send me the supplies directly to the hotel in Hawaii that day.

29. They did so.

30. After they arrived, Mr. L. looked in the bag and saw a second smaller bag, also a dark color, jammed into the bottom of the larger bag I’d frantically searched.

31. Voila! There were my supplies I was so sure I didn’t have.

32. Honestly, I was finally glad I had more supplies I needed, rather than less.

33. I mean, it’s not like I wouldn’t use them up eventually.

34. Which I did.

35. And when I called Minimed to re-order the next batch of pump supplies, do I have to tell you where they were sent?

36. That’s right. To the Hawaiian hotel.

37. Where we definitely do not live.

38. Sadly.

39. That place was awesome.

40. They eventually shipped my supplies to our frigid Massachusetts home.

41. The frigid home is living up to its name, since I prefer things “tropical” and the Mister prefers them “bracing.”

42. My New York apartment used to be tropical without effort.

43. It was in a building where they turned up the heat, without fail, from October to May.

44. I didn’t have a thermostat, so I often walked around the house in a t-shirt and my underwear after I got home.

45. I didn’t pay extra for heat.

46. Our current frigid home doesn’t work that way.

47. We most definitely pay for heat.

48. Hence, the bracing effect.

49. It’s the first day of fall, officially.

50. This means we should probably close our windows.

51. The windows the Mister likes to keep open.

52. Our house has something called “a whole house fan.”

53. You turn it on and a giant fan built into the ceiling starts to whir.

54. When the windows are open, it will suck cool air from outside into the house.

55. It was nice in the summer, and at night, we didn’t need air conditioning if there was a breeze outside.

56. Now that’s it’s September, it’s contributed to the bracing effect.

57. I love summer, love wearing shorts and sandals, and sincerely miss it when it’s over.

58. I hate being cold.

59. Fall to me just means the beginning of nine months of cold.

60. Should this pregnancy continue on in a healthy and positive way, it means our kid will be born in the spring.

61. And I’ll have the summer to hang out with the kid.

62. If I take a full 12 weeks of maternity leave.

63. I’m undecided about whether I’ll return to my job.

64. I love working, and love making money.

65. But I have an hour commute each way and with a young baby at home, will I want to spend that much time away from her/him?

66. Particularly when it was such an effort to get pregnant in the first place.

67. While some of you have charmingly called this fetus “Baby L” or “Baby Lyrehca,” the Mister continues to call the baby “Hod.”

68. I continue to point out that the name is a disaster in the making.

69. Odd and fraud rhyme with Hod.

70. So does God, Mr. L. retorts.

71. “What if Hod was watching us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a baby on the bus, trying to make his way home,” Mr. L. actually sung to me recently.

72. I couldn’t stop laughing. (See 18.)

73. We couldn’t remember the singer who sang that song.

74. Then I remembered: Joan Osbourne.

75. She had a fake nose ring and curly blond hair in the video for the song.

76. Where is she now?

77. Thank you for your nice comments about Mr. L’s convalescence.

78. We saw a local doc on Tuesday, who talked to us for two minutes, then said the Mister had a bulging disk in his back and needed surgery ASAP.

79. Like, next week.

80. Being medical snobs, we want to get a second opinion from a bigger-city hospital where we think the doctors are better.

81. Trying to get an appointment with one has been a production.

82. I am pushy and unyielding when it comes to getting my way into a doctor’s appointment.

83. Mr. L. is less so.

84. He refers to me as his pushy wife who is much better at these things than he is.

85. I had to call his primary care’s office, the preferred specialist’s office, and calmly explain, yet again, that I was calling because my husband was in agony, on drugs, and needed to get a surgical second opinion ASAP.

86. Doctor’s offices tend to remember when I call them.

87. The latest is that I’ll get a call tomorrow telling me exactly when next week the Mister can be seen.

88. The Mister thanked me for doing all the legwork, and said he would be very grateful when it was all over.

89. I told him I could be thanked properly if we could paint our kitchen a more interesting color and replace the horrific country-klatch wallpaper that currently hangs there.

90. I am partial to bright colors, particularly on the walls of my living space.

91. My New York apartment had a turquoise living room, a bright green bathroom, and a bedroom with two walls painted fuchsia, and two painted hot pink.

92. I loved it.

93. I called it the Rainbow Treehouse, because it was on the seventh floor.

94. Our current house does not resemble a rainbow at all.

95. The Mister’s favorite color, before he met me, was beige.

96. We painted a few rooms a few colors “between beige and bizarre” of the apartment we first lived together in.

97. I’m thinking that if we have to make one of our current rooms into a nursery, it’ll necessitate painting that room.

98. And the bathroom next door, which I’d like to paint the same shade of green as my last bathroom.

99. The kitchen would be gorgeous with a light green. Or a yellow. Or a blue.

100. I’ll get my surburban rainbow house someday, I swear.

101. And the Mister will love it.

New Babies, New Clothes, New Eyes?

In light of the crazy hours I worked last week, yesterday's eye doc's appointment, and a new baby bris scheduled for yesterday morning, I took a comp day from work yesterday.

The bris was quite nice. For those who don't know, Jews who have boys typically have a circumcision ceremony eight days after the baby's birth. It's considered a big celebration because the baby is being welcomed into the Jewish community. The new father gave a beautiful speech about the meaning of his new son's name, and people were crying--it was *that* moving. While I honestly have a few reservations about the procedure (it seems barbaric, the babies always cry, and while I know about 90 percent of all American males are circumcised anyway, couldn't a doctor just do it in a hospital so it's not so publicly barbaric?), it's considered a positive thing among the Jews we affiliate with.

On the positive side, I was able to see the new baby and a bunch of our friends, and the baby thankfully fell asleep after the procedure. The women there my age all had their babies or toddlers with them, (two are about to give birth with their second ones), and while I'm still in the closet about sharing my pregnancy news, I felt fine about being there (and admired one woman's pregnancy sweater and wondered if I could fit into it when I'm eight months pregnant myself. Yep, that's me. Look how self-centered I am).

The rest of the day entailed picking up items for Mr. Lyrehca's belated birthday gift (his big day was Monday) and, um, checking out a few maternity clothing stores to see what that scene is all about.

I'm of two minds about this. One, I'm only at week eight today, so couldn't I just get away with hiding myself in clothes I already have? It's not like I'm really showing, but jeez, my waist is definitely thickening. I come home every night and slip into elastic-waisted pajamas. It's one of the highlights of my day.

But then again, I put on about ten pounds in the year I spent trying to get pregnant, what with all the insulin fine-tuning and treating lows. Many of my clothes are tight anyway, and some that looked fine a year ago really need some creative layering to hide the unsightly parts. So it's not like I have bigger items lying around I can just burrow into (and sadly, wearing pajama bottoms to work might raise a few eyebrows).

I have learned a thing or two from those general-audience pregnancy bulletin boards that I mocked in my last post. There's a fancy mall near me that has both a Gap Maternity and a store called BabyStyle that featured nice but expensive clothes. So I spent the afternoon trying on stuff at both places.

What did I learn?

1. Despite my fears that maybe this pregnancy thing might end badly, I really shouldn't waste time trying on extra large stuff in say, Ann Taylor Loft. While I adore that longer tops are big this fall (a cropped top looks terrible when you have a belly bulge even without being pregnant), it doesn't make sense to buy anything non-maternity when I don't know how I'm going to look in the future. I did find a stretchy-waisted skirt that I could wear with an expanding body, but it wasn't a style I loved or would typically wear. And why buy anything like that if I don't have to?

2. Gap Maternity is still a small storefront. This particular mall I went to had FOUR different Gap stores: Adults, Baby, Kids and Body. I had high hopes because Gap is like the McDonald's of the clothing world. But the Maternity stuff was tucked into the back of the Baby stuff. And while there were scads of pants in sizes 2-10, the larger-assed sizes were few and far between. The sales rack had, inexplicably, a size 20 on sale for $3.97, but precious little else above size 10. (I tried on the size 20s and yes, they were too large. But had they fit even a little, I would have scooped them up for four dollars.) And while the store had slogans about "This is the stuff you'd wear even if you weren't pregnant," I had to disagree. While I've lived in Gap stuff ever since high school, some of the non-basic stuff seems juvenille, twenty years later. No surprise, huh? I did get a sense of some basic pants that fit me, so I suppose I could order it online.

3. BabyStyle, a place I'd never heard of before reading a pregnancy bulletin board, caters to the sort of upscale mothers to be that likely shop at this mall on a regular basis. Typically, I'd probably keep my distance from a place that charges the prices they do, but I went in and tried a few things on. Wouldn't you know, they fit the best (and they had plenty of things in my size to try), and the dressing room even had one of these pillows you can stuff into your clothes to get a sense of how you'll look when you're really showing. I was surprised, though. Does pregancy mean my arms won't get rounder? My ass won't expand further? With the faux-belly, I didn't think of myself as all that huge. And the pants all had stretchy waistbands without this odd sweatshirt-material panel in front (many of the Gap styles had such panels) so the BabyStyle pants all seemed flattering and fit me even at eight weeks.

But I still left all those stores and didn't buy anything. I just think I'm going to wait. We have another ultrasound scheduled for later this week, and I just want to see how that goes. Plus, I keep hearing that you shouldn't spend too much on maternity clothes because you don't wear them for long and will want to get rid of them as soon as you don't have to wear them anymore. I'm also starting to check out eBay to see what maternity styles/brands pop up there. Just research, mind you.

I then went to my eye doctor's appoinmtent, where I was told when I walked in that I was scheduled to have laser treatment that day.

Um, what?

"I drove myself here today and no one told me I'd be having treatment today," I told the tech. "I'm going to have to just have a regular appointment today and come back for the laser."

"Well, it says right here you're scheduled for laser," the tech insisted.

"No one told me this when they called to remind me of my appointment," I countered.

So the tech went and got my eye doc, who is a kind woman, and agreed to reschedule the lasering. On one hand, I knew laser would be in my future, and when I found out I was pregnant, this office was one of the first I called. But if I'd known I'd be having my retinas burned today, I wouldn't have driven to the office myself.

The rest of the appointment was uneventful. My eyes are the same as they were a few months ago when I wasn't pregnant: severe non-proliferative retinopathy in both. There are a few spots that might become troublesome (although it's not like having "severe non-proliferative retinopathy doesn't sound troublesome; it does. But my vision is fine, so if I didn't see the doctor, I wouldn't even know I had it) as the pregnancy progresses, which is why the doc wants to do the laser treatment (one session for each eye) now, and not hold off. She reiterated that this lasering could be uneventful, that I might not have any vision loss at all (as mentioned previously, the potential for night and/or peripheral vision loss is a possibility, while the possibility of eventually losing central vision if I don't have the lasering is also a factor).

We also talked about the pregnancy and she kept saying how exciting it was. I told her that we hadn't really told anyone besides doctors so that it's all still a big secret. As a result, I don't feel all that excited yet. I'm still in the tentative stage.

So now I'm scheduled for two separate treatments later in October. Mr. Lyrehca will accompany me. In short, I hope it'll be as uneventful as possible. And as the only positive to the eye treatment, the eye doc said again that if I do laser once in each eye, it may quiet everything down and I might not have to see her so often and I might never need laser (or have as many tiny popped blood vessels in the retina) again.

Wouldn't that be nice?