You would not believe how great it feels to have an acupuncturist hold a tuning fork against the soles of your feet. It's one of those things that makes you think: Huh. How did this idea happen and how much magic bark had been consumed beforehand at that solstice bonfire?
Doesn't matter. The fact remains, it feels amazing.
Between the well-place needles and the hum of vibration, something in me unwound and I found myself 100 percent headache free for the first time in more than a week. Not only headache free, but also lazily happy and carefree. A portrait of barefoot, pregnant summer living. "Why does this work?" I asked this woman who was surrounded by a perfect cloud of calm. She was a week less pregnant than me and making my membership in a CSA a laughable level of fake earth friendliness. She explained something about channels, but none of it stuck in my head because I was just too calm and pain-free to retain information.
"Where are you giving birth?" she asked me, her own belly one of those high and adorable orbs built from person plus placenta and none of the pizza-ice cream-I'm stuffing my face in the Arby's parking and yes that's Horsey Sauce on my nose bellies someone like me might try to fit behind a steering wheel every day.
"Essentia," I told her. "And you?"
But I knew the answer.
"Right here," she said, indicating a room with an acupuncture bed, a wall of herbs and, I guess, a tuning fork or two.
Anyway, this feeling only lasted two hours -- same as two Tylenol -- but it was a level of comfort that felt worth it. Not to mention I've been able to stave off serious headache attacks three times. In fact, I've only cried once. It was one of my favorite things that has happened to me, headache-wise, in ages.
I now have the ability to look at the portraits of OBs and nurse practitioners who work at the hospital where I will be delivering and to rank each one's dexterity with checking a cervix. They all fall on the spectrum between Ninja and Stranger Rooting Around in Your Pocket for Your Car Keys Because You're Too Drunk to Drive. Is it weird to have a favorite? That, if I had a choice, I would say: Hm. You know what? Her hands are just ... less invasive. No offense.
As you know, hyperboles are just about my favorite form of communication. But I truly mean this: Week 39 has been the worst-most comfortable week of my life. The sleeping is horse shit, the headache is horse shit and the feeble feeling of watching Chuck use the household's daily allotment of nesting hormones is horse. shit. I can't even laze about eating grapes and reading Chuck Klosterman or watching the Netflix Original Series D'Jour because I'm only pain-free in about hour-long increments.
I keep thinking: This is the week you take to the local junior high, fill an auditorium with impressionable young girls, and say "DO I LOOK HAPPY THAT I'M FINALLY GOING TO HAVE SOMEONE ALL OF MY OWN TO LOVE ME AND DEPEND ON ME, OR DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO WOULD STAB YOU FOR AN OSCAR MEYER CHEDDAR HOTDOG WITH MUSTARD?!"
Then I remember that if I was 14, this would all be easy peasy. My tiny little bod would be ripe for this business of procreating, rather than this old bod that checked the expiration date on the cartoon of eggs, winced, gave them a good whiff, shrugged and forged tentatively ahead, whipping the results into a light yellow froth with soon-to-be arthritic wrists.
In other news, I've temporarily eliminated my daily obligation. I planned to continue going to my daily obligation until the baby fell out. Then I planned to stop going on Friday. Then I was hospitalized for two days and never went back. So. There is no longer that for the next three months.
Do you know how weird it is to respond to the "When is your due date?" question with not an abstract number in the future, but an actual day that is identifiable as occurring this week?
Q: When is your due date?