Playing by the Rules

Every once in a blue moon, I have to admit that I am not in control of my own health. I have to hang my head and succumb to the fact that as much as I like to believe it, I cannot will my body to behave. I do stand by my beliefs that I can sense something is amiss and that I clue in to things much more readily than the average person, but I still am not a doctor, and I need to consult with a professional.

I try not to take medications. That’s no secret. I don’t need them, I can just make my body fix itself. (Seriously, it’s how I’ve thought for years) I was devastated to learn that I needed thyroid pills for the rest of my life. How can that be? I took them before, when I was pregnant last time, but my body saw what it needed and started making the right hormone, didn’t it? It was a betrayal in my eyes. And the worst part was that it wasn’t Chiari or allergy related. It came from nowhere.

When you’re pregnant, your body is not yours anymore. You are a host to a being that uses your resources, and depletes your energy. I’m not good at being pregnant. In fact I hate it. And I feel guilty that I hate it. I should feel lucky that I can carry a baby. Especially at my age. One of my dearest friends has struggled with fertility, and can’t have a baby. How can I complain when it happens so easily for me. How can I complain when I feel the little nugget moving inside of me, when so many women long for that feeling and will never get it? But I do. I complain constantly to the poor hubs. I’m seven weeks away from the finish line and I feel like I am on my hands and knees crawling and clawing my way to the end. It’s not pretty, but I suppose it’s worth it.

I’ve had a few hiccups along the way. Asthma being the biggest. I was put on medication for it (technically I have been supposed to have been taking it all along, but let’s not get into that) and things were still not well. I called my allergist’s office and was told by a new nurse that it was my OB’s “problem to deal with”. Obviously no one had told her that I was Dr Awesome’s favorite patient. So I figured of let it go and it would fix itself. Only it didn’t. The baby got bigger, as they tend to do, and I could breath less and less. Finally, after one and a half trips to the ER, I say “half” because I was told to go, but after my mother driving me up there, I used her rescue inhaler, sat in the parking lot, and then decided I didn’t want to pay the $500 for a breathing treatment. My first trip to the ER was earlier in the week, and I was a thorn in their side, refusing most of what they wanted to do, and warning the respiratory therapist that I’ll would do the breathing treatment, but that I’m sensitive to albuterol. He basically blew it off, and assured me that it was in my head then watch my pulse jump up roughly thirty points in under a minute. He told me he’s never seen it affect someone like that. I told him I’m sure I’m not the first, but maybe the first he paid attention to.
So I’m back in Dr Awesome’s office, and I was scheduled to see his PA like I did the previous time, and Dr Awesome walked through the door. I said “wow, I must really be in a bad way if you’re jumping in here”.
I’ve mentioned before that I adore him right? He’s kinda got a Michael J Fox thing going on, plus the whole “he saved my life” thing, makes me listen to him.
He gave me prednisone to get me breathing again, and prednisone scares me. My dad took it when he had leukemia and it was rough stuff. I asked if it was safe for the baby and he sternly looked at me and said “NOT BREATHING is not safe for the baby”. Ok. Point taken.
So now I’m breathing again, taking my asthma medication, keeping my rescue inhalers on me, and going back monthly to make sure I can breath.