I really am on the countdown now. Theoretically I have 5 weeks of pregnancy left, as I hit the 35 week mark yesterday. But considering I’ve never reached a due date with either previous pregnancy, I’m expecting it’ll be a few days short of the 40 week mark. I’m well aware there’s a 5 week ‘guessing period’ of due-datedness from 37 weeks to 42 weeks, ish. So I’m thinking I’ll start a sweepstake? So far in labour history I’ve got a 38+4 and a 39+3. Therefore I’m officially predicting my own baby’s gestation to be aboooout… 37+6… I don’t know why but I just think it might happen slightly earlier, or maybe that is just wishful, begging, desperate thinking as I’m SO uncomfortable.
Nothing fits. I even hate leggings and no one hates wearing leggings.
In the past few weeks I’ve had my first few belly measurements and they are consistently above average size, but still within the normal range. I’ve had blood taken again – which actually went swimmingly for a change because everything is swollen and I feel like I have Hulk-like veins. I don’t, but compared to how they normally cower within the depths of my skin so no medical professional can access them, it’s quite a treat.
What else? Oh yes. We got engaged!
Tom and I went down to Cornwall for our anniversary and shipped the children off to granny’s on the way (first time I’ve been away from them over a night or more, seriously!) and stayed in a hotel. It was brilliant, and very relaxing despite some completely inaccessible areas but we just worked things out ourselves, as we have a habit of doing. Tom carried me up and down spiral staircases to the posh swimming pool with staff watching, wondering what on earth we were thinking. We’re not stupid. We couldn’t NOT go swimming, child-free!
There were no accessible changing rooms either so we improvised by sneaking into the empty gym so I could change into my swimsuit top. Well actually, the changing rooms were pretty accessible but it was a toss-up between Tom coming into the ladies’ room and risk getting shouted at, as all men are obviously predators, or me having to go in the men’s and watch other, hairier men changing or dare I say it, ‘flossing’. Neither filled me with ease so I opted for the sneaky gym-change. I guess a disabled person needing access, and then a place to change just doesn’t come into consideration when they refurbished this old hotel building.
Challenges aside, it was lovely to stay in a hotel and just be us, without small children asking for breakfast at 5.52am for a couple of days. My mum had that pleasure. We even took a drive-yourself boat trip in the bay. Again, we faced challenges with this before we’d even gotten in the boat, with the operators of the boat-hire saying they were concerned for my safety. (We’re always being irresponsible and risking our lives). It transpires that their concern was more that I might try and sue them… Apparently they “had one the same, before”, who tried to claim against them after they hired the boat, even though nothing went wrong. It never gets old you know, being referred to as ‘one of them’, those vicious disabled people. What are we like, passionately waving copies of the Equality Act around and sueing people left, right and indeed centre.
See look, I survived the trip. And I’m pretty sure Tom was quite comfortable with me being in control of the boat, just look at his calm face. In the evening following the boat ride, I decided I might be in labour- I was having Braxton-Hicks contractions, which I’ve had throughout all pregnancies but these were every two minutes and getting quite uncomfortable and slightly painful. We finished our restaurant meal and went back to our apartment and after sitting in bed for a while the pains eased off. Tom then decided he’d quite like to marry me, and conveniently he had a ring in his pocket and so the evening got a lot less stressful! Although before that moment Tom was imagining having to propose in the labour ward of the nearest hospital.
It was the best weekend.
So as far as birth preparations go, I’ve washed babygrows, bought some, but not all things for my hospital bag, and discussed a few birth plans with my midwife. It’s mostly a waiting game now.
It’s all getting very near…
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My partner has been away abroad with his dad (man holiday) for the last 10 or so days and during this time I’ve had an assortment of family (2 whole different people) coming to stay to help me. It always seems to involve a lot of preparation and planning when this happens, although aside from Tom’s occasional work trips, his father-son trip away is only alternate-yearly, so in reality it’s not a big thing.
All the same, I love having people come to visit. I just never feel totally comfortable having to rely on other people to come and stay with me just because I can’t look after myself so to speak, even if they have previously fulfilled that role in years gone by, such as my mum. Mum has known me for…erm, *most* of my life I believe, and so is pretty comfortable with knowing what kind of things I need assistance with. Only it’s not the same as it used to be.
I am majorly less independent than when I lived at home pre-uni, I can’t do many of the things I used to be able to do and nothing makes that more of a reality than being in these couple of weeks where I become the daughter of the household once again, being looked after by my mum. I start to question and analyse my every move, wondering whether I’ve always crawled from the bedroom to the bathroom on my hands and knees, and then remembering -no, this is new in the last few years. Before that I could walk upright on my knees holding on to available furniture and walls, and before that I could still walk in bare feet, carefully. Just picturing the backwards transition of my movement-abilities in my head… Oh god, am I reversing evolution? Am I going to turn into an ape and start carrying my babies on my back?
I then start to wonder if I’d tried harder, could I have held on to some of my old abilities? I hope not, is the answer. As my muscle wastage has progressed since childhood, things have got a lot more difficult and/or dangerous and so quickly learning new techniques is the only practical way of getting on with things without just laying on the floor like an upturned turtle yelling ‘hellllp, I can’t hold A hair brush the same way I used to!’ I used to be right-handed for writing and using cutlery, that got too difficult so now I use both hands at the same time. I’m not ambidextrous as such, multidextrous maybe? I quite like that, a little more comic-book heroin. Bidextrous? Hmm. I’m not sure.
There was a time where getting in and out of the bath was nothing too taxing. Now it has become something else. I don’t possess a new-age sci-fi hoist type contraption (we are intending to move house sooner rather than later) so first time I showered after Tom went away last week was when my mum and our family friend were here to stay. Getting me out of the bath was quite the spectacle. It wasn’t exactly far removed from a Search and Rescue winching operation and I was half expecting to see a helicopter hovering above the house full of confused looking air-medic type folk. The operation was carried out in stages, successfully, each one with me being the only naked person amongst 3 grown women hanging out in my bathroom. I have come to the conclusion that being dressed doesn’t make it any easier being the person in need, so I think I might move to a commune and chill with some other wobbly naked people.
I’m 27 now and I still consider myself a novice to the whole ‘wheelchair-user’ thing. I’ve only really used a wheelchair most of the time since aged about 17, which is maybe why I’m still so acutely aware of people’s reactions to seeing someone in a wheelchair when I’m out in public. I’d like to think most of my family still see me as just ‘Lizzy’, not ‘Lizzy, the one in a wheelchair’. Unfortunately, and I suppose I am probably just as guilty of this presumption at times, I can immediately see that people see me as a wheelchair before my actual person. Amongst our family and close friends, we are allowed to make jokes about my bind to the chair on wheels and what purpose it serves in my life. I think making jokes makes it more acceptable that this is what my life is now, and when people know me I am also happy for them to take a stab at risky disability satire. What I find a bit unnerving and a little surprising is moments when strangers attempt this, not knowing at all how it might be received by said person-on-wheels. Luckily for the gentleman at the beach at the weekend, he came out unscathed. Mostly. When my stepdad was loading bags of towels and picnic food onto the back of my electric wheelchair he made a joke about finding a place to stow his other shoes and some beer. The man, who’d been sat there for all of three minutes with his dog, said “good idea, what else would she be useful for otherwise?”
My mental jaw dropped a little. I quickly retorted with “and providing grandchildren”, in a distinctly defensive tone with the agreement of my Mum and stepdad, but I don’t think he even heard anyway. Bugger. Oh well, stereotypes aren’t that bad, are they?
On the beach, not being very useful.