~Monday, April 10, 2017

The Worst Day of My Life

Author's note: For every piece of advice there is on the Internet regarding anything to do with pregnancy and child-rearing, there is equal and opposite advice. It narrows down to two different schools of thought: those who treat their pregnancies naturally, and those who desire medical supervision. While I agree that pregnancy isn't an illness, it has been proven that pregnancy is inherently riskier than non-pregnancy. For this reason, I am and remain pro medical supervision. Also give me all the drugs.

The day I gave birth was the worst day of my life. "But you got a baby out of it!" the nurse justified. I don't care. Everything that I had to go through to get there was the worst thing to ever happen to me.

I was overdue and in my doctor's office. He pulled off his gloves after the examination and leaned back. "Why don't we talk in my office?"

I dressed slowly and waddled to his office down the hall. "Uh oh," Abe breathed.

"No, it's fine. We do all of our talking in his office," I explained. We took our seats.

"So you are past your due date. With your age and your gestational diabetes, you are now at an increased risk of stillbirth."

I inhaled sharply through my teeth. It wasn't anything I didn't already know--I had done my research--but hearing it acknowledged shocked me. At a certain point past your due date, your placenta breaks down and no longer delivers nutrients to your baby, causing stillbirth. Additionally with gestational diabetes, it is possible that your baby grows so big that it can outgrow the womb and die. It happened to a friend of mine. And I was not going through this, this 9 months of wrecking my body, to not get a baby out of it.

He continued. "For this reason, I am recommending for you to be induced. The bad news is that I am not working at the hospital for another week, and that is too long to allow for you to go. I won't be your doctor. Sorry." I nodded in agreement, although my mind was reeling. "How's Saturday?" he asked.

Saturday? Saturday is a week away! I burst into tears. "I don't want to be pregnant another week!" I wailed.

Abraham touched my shoulder. "Saturday is tomorrow," he said gently.

Oh! That Saturday! The one before the one next week. I laughed through my tears.

My hospital is nicknamed "The Baby Factory" because it delivers more babies per year than any other hospital in the country. We arrived at night, after having a big meal. It was New Year's Eve. The nurse wore a Happy New Year tiara as she handed me a stack of paperwork to complete. Abe stood in front of the TV, trying to find the ball drop.

"This is the best they could do for New Year's programing?" I asked. "I don't even know who these people are."

Abe shrugged.

Something wasn't right with the program; it felt off. I kept watching TV. "Abe!" I screamed, "YOU HAVE US WATCHING CARSON DALY!" I ripped the remote out of his hands. "How is that guy still a thing?" I muttered as I flipped to Ryan Seacrest.

The ball dropped and Abe pecked me on the lips. I changed the date to January 1 as I continued signing the paperwork.

The nurse missed her New Year's party as she put an IV in my hand. The vein rolled and she dug to find it. That hurt. I was fighting tears about the pain, then I was fighting tears that I was complaining about the IV when THERE'S A BABY INSIDE MY BODY THAT HAS TO COME OUT.

"It's okay," she consoled. "This really is one of the most painful parts." I'm pretty sure she was lying but it made me feel better.

She gave me the first of the induction cocktail and I went to sleep. When I woke up, my water broke. Then they started the Pitocin, which causes contractions. I slept for a few hours until I woke up in pain. I could have crawled the walls with how much pain I felt. It radiated within me and felt stabby at the same time. I cried for the second time that day until I got my first fentanyl injection. Then I texted my friends now I understood why Prince died.

I had the epidural placed by the time I had dilated to three centimeters. I certainly didn't last long. The relief I felt was glorious, and I don't understand why these are not given as soon as you walk in the door. ("Placing the needle in your back is more painful when you are not yet in other pain," the nurse explained.)

And then I slept again. They turned out the lights and I slept all afternoon. When I woke up, it was 8:00 PM and I was fully dilated.

I'm going to have the best birth story ever, I thought. I slept through labor and now I'm going to push three times and have a baby. I'm going to sit on my sofa with my baby in my arms and smugly tell people how wonderful my birth experience was. That IV in my hand really was the worst.

And that's the exact moment things went to shit.

~Sunday, January 1, 2017

Ways I have Already Ruined this Baby's Life: Continued

For the first 28 weeks of pregnancy, I was the picture of health. Despite being high risk with my Advanced Maternal Age (eye roll) and complete lack of thyroid, I was having the most average pregnancy possible. It seemed like all of my friends were in scary, high-risk-in-that-they-were-life-threatening pregnancies that involved specialists, bed rest, and hospital stays, I was firmly in the camp of No News Is Good News.

Then I got diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The diagnosis was a complete shock to me. I didn't have any of the symptoms: rapid weight gain, swelling, etc. In my picture of health, I was second trimester and had only gained four pounds! FOUR POUNDS. I was eating no more than I was pre-pregnancy. Sure, type 2 diabetes runs rampantly in my father's side of the family--in that everyone has it--but it was going to skip me because I am normal.

GD is the most inconvenient of diagnoses. There's nothing truly wrong with you: your placenta just makes your pancreas a little sluggish. It's temporary. All you have to do is CHECK YOUR BLOOD SUGAR 4 TIMES A DAY AND FOLLOW THIS SUPER SIMPLE DIET THAT INCLUDES NO FUN AT ALL. Remember using pregnancy as an excuse to eat whatever you want? Well not you, missy.

Long-story short: I rocked it. I followed the diet to a T and remained in my assigned blood sugar levels, which I would like to add are way below type 2 diabetes levels.

Me: Hey Dad, what does your fasting level have to be in the morning?

Dad: Anything under 130 is good for me. Why, what does yours have to be?

Me: (grumbles) 95.

Dad: What a conspiracy. I wouldn't even have diabetes if my fasting was 95.

I'm now including a list of food I haven't eaten in the last 80 days because of this bullshit diagnosis because it makes me so sad:

  • Hamburgers
  • French fries
  • Pizza
  • Milkshakes
  • Ice cream
  • Chinese food
  • Chips, any kind
  • Cupcakes, at any baby shower, including my own
  • Cookies
  • Rice
  • Cereal
  • Hot dogs, not that I've wanted to eat them, but I can't
  • Pasta, any kind
  • Fruit, FRUIT
  • Milk, MILK
  • Juice
  • Smoothies, any kind, including the gross vegetable kind
  • Tonic water
  • Gatorade
  • Muffins, including English
  • Bagels
  • Pastries, including doughnuts, which has made me cry more than once
  • Pumpkin coffee
  • Any holiday drink at Starbucks
I would just like to point out that this is in addition to the pregnancy diet, so no sushi or alcohol or deli meat, rare steaks, etc. This is basically the biggest pain in the ass, and I am really unhappy about it. What have I been eating? A lot (A LOT) of breaded chicken. Chicken wings, chicken fingers, chicken nuggets. Some potatoes. A little Chex Mix. I am single handedly keeping the Greek yogurt business alive in Georgia, spending about $20 a WEEK in yogurt. A lot of cheese sticks, which I don't even like. If I never eat another peanut butter cracker, it will be too soon. 

But my levels have been great and the baby isn't measuring giant-sized, which is the goal. The doctor complimented me last week, telling me that I've done really great this pregnancy, and it felt like winning an award, I was so proud of myself. 

A lot of people want alcohol brought into the hospital. I asked for champagne, a milkshake, a hamburger, and a box of doughnuts.

~Friday, December 30, 2016

Ways I have Already Ruined this Baby's Life: An Incomplete List

  1. Having a due date so very close to Christmas, according to one stranger. (It seems like this one has passed.)
  2. Having an MRI (without contrast, thank god) done on my ankle during that waiting period between ovulation and a positive test.
  3. Taking ibuprofen during this same period for this same ankle. 
  4. Following the saying, "Drink until it's pink."
  5. Stopping at a friend's house in Georgia in May and not wearing any mosquito repellent. It was during the height of the Zika scare and I got eaten alive.
I was keeping this list until Harvey patted her own pregnant tummy and passed on the best advice that was given to her. "It's hard to screw up a good pregnancy," she told me. " Women don't randomly flush healthy fetuses out of their bodies. Miscarriages happen because there is something amiss with the chromosomes of the embryo. They don't develop correctly, and it becomes non-viable." So a couple of doses of ibuprofen aren't great, but it won't ruin a good thing.

~Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Baby Daddy

After I saw the faintest of pink lines, I smiled to myself and went to sleep. I did not tell Abe. Partly because it didn't feel real yet. The other reason was that we were getting up in the morning to travel to be with 26 of his closest family members for Passover, and so help me if they are the first people to know because he's too excited to keep a secret.

This plan worked well until about 7:30 in the morning when I was standing in the security line at the airport, staring at the full-body scanner. I know they say it's safe, but I also know that I've spent the last 7 years of my life working in research, and I don't know for sure whether they've done long-term studies.

I hopped on one foot to another. I didn't know what I was going to do. It would certainly be suspicious to refuse the scanner and ask for a pat down at this point in our marriage. But fate smiled at me and a metal detector line opened up as soon as I dropped my bag on the conveyor belt. (Interestingly enough, it was the only time I went through a metal detector while pregnant. At every other instance, mostly at concerts and the like, they've pulled me out of the line and ushered me to the other side, which totally reinforces my decision to skip the full-body scanner.)

And then the plan finally went to shit that same day at 4:00 pm. I went to the bathroom and saw some light, very light, spotting. Aww no, I had been pregnant for less than 24 hours. I texted a coworker and she said it could be one of three things: a chemical pregnancy, a miscarriage, or implantation spotting. Two of the three did not result in babies. I was stuck at his family's house and could no longer sneak around. My choice was to drive myself crazy or I could trust my husband and use him for support.

He was outside playing baseball in the street with his cousins. "I need to go to Target," I said,

"Sure, What do you need?" he smiled.

"Um. A pregnancy test."

His smile vanished, "Okay. Let's go."

In the car I explained the last day to him, including the 2-out-of-3 chance that I'm not pregnant after all. At Target, I looked for the tests my coworker told me to buy, the ones that are sensitive before a missed period. The exact kind escapes me now, but I remember her telling me to get the ones with the pink lines, not the blue lines.

I hemmed and hawed at the selection. "This one is $1.19 and it has pink lines," I said.

"Oh for god's sake, please don't scrimp now. I will buy the most expensive test there is," Abraham exclaimed exasperated. It was cute.

I picked a box that contained two for $7.00, and then impulsively plucked a flower for a dog collar off the clearance rack. "For the dog," I said.

Those tests came back positive too. "If you tell your family," I threatened, "I will leave you here in New Jersey."

So Abraham spent the night covertly drinking my wine during the Seder dinner. I think he enjoyed being in on the secret.

The next day we were sitting at an Italian cafe in New York City. My doctor's office finally called me back. "He doesn't see pregnant patients until they are 7.5 weeks along. You are 3 weeks and 6 days," she told me. A whole another month away.

So we never got to celebrate. We went from the scare to not even getting medical confirmation for a solid month.But I am glad I told him when I did. What's the point of being married to someone and knocked up with his baby if you can't even trust him to tell him? I guess that's my first advice to my unborn child: marry someone who will lessen your problems, not add to them.With Abraham, I can tell him anything and he listens and tries to carry some of my burden. He's a wonderful person, and I know he's going to be a great dad.

Me? I'm still neurotic.

~Thursday, July 21, 2016


One of the first Christmases my sister-in-law attended, she scoffed at us.

"Christmas is so much different at my house."

"How?" My mother asked.

"It's joyous."

She probably had a point. My mother's grandparents were farmers during the Great Depression, and they would save every penny and buy more land. There was some story about how a Pizza Inn was built in town, and her grandmother never got to go because they were always saving for land. As a result, gifts given from my mother are always modest and practical in nature. My brother and I would take turns opening our towels and smile and say thank you. You don't really jump up and down like you would if you got the newest gaming system.

So maybe it's because my great-grandmother never got to go to Pizza Inn. Maybe it goes deeper with our German roots. Maybe it's as simple as the terrible divorce my mother went through when we were kids, but we are not a joyous family. I used to write about that a lot.

I remember when we signed the wedding venue. All I wanted was to have the wedding in one of those antebellum homes. Inject a little bit of me into what would be a Jewish ceremony. And we found the perfect house. It was painted white and had 2-story columns on the front porch, and the flooring was so old that it creaked when you walked in the house. The curtains were green velvet in the front parlor, just like Scarlet O'Hara's Tara. And the bar had been refinished in glorious mahogany wood. It was magnificent. It was perfect. And that's where I had my wedding.

My dad and mom and I sat around a 10-person table. My parents were writing checks for the deposit. "Smile!" my dad ordered.

I did. I think he wanted the reaction when you get a new gaming system on Christmas day. He was writing a large check; he wanted me to jump up and down and kiss his neck with appreciation. I must have given him the towel smile.

"That's Sarah," my father said to no one in particular. "Sarah isn't a happy person."

I was happy! I was also nervous!

My mother freely admits that we are a reserved people. She also thinks I had my thyroid disease for much longer than anyone had realized and that it kind of shaped my personality. Always moving at a tone softer than everyone else. There are a thousand more explanations I could come up with if I sat here long enough.

So when I peed on the stick and the pregnancy test turned positive, I shrugged.

That's Sarah, my father's words had echoed. She's not a happy person.

I smiled the towel smile.

~Friday, June 10, 2016

Tales of a Technical Write Part 1

  1. Doctor mentions a specific drug that cannot be taken while taking the main drug. 
  2. Google the drug. Never heard of the drug. 
  3. Flip through entire protocol while looking for drug name. 
  4. Flip through protocol again while looking for generic drug name. 
  5. Scratch head.
  6. Google the drug again. 
  7. Four sites down, read a blurb of meaningless words that describes the drug's mechanism of action.
  8. Reread protocol looking for gibberish words.
  9. Find one said meaningless word.
  10. Realize the doctor made things a whole lot more complicated than needed. 
  11. Insert generic language. 
  12. Done. 

~Tuesday, March 29, 2016


His name was Johnson, although Johnson wasn't his real name. The rumor throughout high school was that he acquired the name Johnson because he masturbated too much.

I realize now that this probably isn't true.

But the rumor was that he couldn't stop touching his johnson. He bragged about the mark on his car windshield where one time he came so hard that he couldn't clean his semen off the glass.

I realize now that this probably isn't true either.

Johnson was older than me, but we were in the same social circle. The details are fuzzy now, but I think we were in the same math class. Either he had failed or I was in advanced math, but he was a senior in my class. We were also in the same after-school club.

I was always a little intimidated by Johnson. I considered him more popular than me and infinitely cooler than me. Despite these terribly awkward rumors about Johnson, people liked him. Teachers even liked him. I was shy, friendly, but mostly unconfident in myself. I never really talked to Johnson because what could we ever have in common?


One afternoon after school, I hefted my book bag on my shoulder and began my daily walk to my job. It was a short walk. The movie theatre was probably three-fourths of a mile down the road, on the other side of the park. Two traffic lights away.

Johnson pulled his car up next to me on the sidewalk.

"You need a ride?"

"Oh! No thanks! I'm just going to the theatre."

"I know. Just hop in and I'll take you there."

I looked at Johnson's beater car. "It's really not that far," I hesitated.

"I'm going that direction anyway."

I got in Johnson's car, bewildered. We've never been alone together. I'm not even sure we've spoken directly to each other, despite spending a lot of time in each other's presence.

Johnson pointed to the milky spot on his windshield. "That's the stain," he said.

"Really? Um, that is a far distance from your lap," I managed.

"Yeah, I really blew my load that time."

I looked out the window uncomfortably. I wish I didn't get in this car. I don't know how to talk like this. I've never had a boyfriend. I've never been French kissed with the exception of Spin the Bottle in eight grade. I'm pretty sure I didn't do it right then anyway. No boy has ever wanted to kiss me.

Johnson stopped at the first red light. I turned and looked at him.

His pants were open, and he had his penis out, stroking it.

It was the first time I had ever seen a penis.

"I have to go!" I screamed as I got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride!"

I ran from the car into the park. I would walk through the trees where the car couldn't reach me. I cried without being able to articulate why. I felt violated even though he never touched me.

Later that night I saw Johnson's beater car pull up to the curb in front of me. I was working the box office, so I was alone on the street surrounded by glass. I was exposed. I had no choice but to see him.

Johnson walked up to the glass. His face was full of remorse and I could tell he felt like shit. I wondered if I was the first girl he pulled this stunt with, or if I was just the first girl to react badly.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm... I'm so sorry. Please forgive me," he croaked.

"It's okay," I whispered through the glass, unable to use the microphone.

Except I didn't feel okay.


I never spoke to Johnson after that night. We avoided each other until he graduated and went off to college. I worked my senior year at the box office in peace.

Johnson reappeared 18 years later as a Facebook friend request. The next week a prank he pulled went viral on the Internet. He's married now, with a son.

He added my email to his work contacts and now sends me business newsletters. He also added me to his charity fundraising page. He runs for kids with cancer.

Fuck you, Johnson. It's not okay.