Are You Fucking Kidding Me, Insurance Lady?

Remember like a million years ago, when Peeper had her teeth capped, under general anesthesia, at the hospital?

Yeah, we're still fighting to get that bill paid.

When we set it all up, the dentist's office told us that our dental insurance would paid the dentist, and our medical insurance would pay the hospital.

(Note: When I say "our insurance," what I really mean is "Shrike and Peeper's insurance" because, oh yeah, I don't actually get to be on that insurance policy. Fuckers.)

The dental insurance did its thing, but we've been getting calls from the hospital for months, about the roughly $2500 for the use of the operating room and the anesthesia.

First, they said that the claim had been denied, so they needed a "letter of medical necessity" from the dentist. When I called the dentist's office, they said, "Oh, you have Blue Cross, right? Yeah, they do that. They always deny it the first time. We'll send the letter and it will be okay."

Twice more the hospital called and asked for that letter, and twice more I requested it from the dentist's office.

Finally the dentist's office called the hospital to say "We've sent this twice, why do you keep asking for it?" and that's when they found out that the hospital had gotten the letter the first time. And the second time. And, they'd sent it to the insurance company. And they'd still denied it.

So, I called the insurance company and yelled at someone, who totally agreed with me that, "My God, there's no way you could've done that to a kid that age while she was awake. Of course it was necessary, I'll send it back through."

Since then, I've gotten two more calls from the hospital asking about the status.

Same as the last time I talked to you. Waiting to hear from the insurance company.

So, tonight, as Peeper and I were walking through Lowes with a roll of vinyl bathroom flooring in our car, the insurance company called on my cellphone to say that the claim is being denied because her policy only covers accidental dental issues. They don't care whether it was medically necessary or not, if the problem wasn't the result of an accident, she doesn't have any coverage.

(Well, it's not like we gave her cavities on purpose!)

So, now we've got to write some sort of letter stating why we think it should be covered and saying that we want to appeal on those grounds, and maybe the appeals department will feel differently about it than the claims department.

I will be calling the dentist's office tomorrow to discuss it with them, because they are the ones who said ". . . and your medical insurance will cover this. . . " as though they knew what they were talking about.

Did they tell us that without even checking on the coverage?

I know that at some point either they or the hospital said that Blue Cross "doesn't do preauthorization" but does that mean that they called and asked for a preauthorization and were told "Oh, we don't do that. Just do the procedure and file it" without being told "but, by the way, when you do that? We'll deny it because their policy don't cover that?"

And why doesn't the dental insurance cover the hospital and anesthesia, since it was medically necessary, in order to perform the dental work - which they did cover.

Oh, and get this - the bill in question is for the use of the operating room and the actual anesthesia meds and equipment and what-not.

They have already paid the anesthesiologist himself.

So, they are saying that the doctor who knocked her out is covered, but the medications he used to do it, and the room in which he did it are not.

Does this make any fucking sense to anyone? 

My Breastfeeding Story

This post was written for submission to the May Carnival of Breastfeeding, the theme of which is "Share a Story," but like the big dumbass that I am, I'd made note of the carnival date, not the submission deadline, and missed my chance to participate!

So, I will go ahead and post it now, and if there's another appropriate carnival topic down the road, maybe I'll resubmit it.

Perhaps "Overcoming Breastfeeding Challenges" or "If I Knew Then . . ." or "Breastfeeding Support and Lack Thereof."

Much of this story is old news for my regular readers, but there are also some things that I didn't blog about as they were happening, because it was just too painful at the time.

It still is, but it's part of what I need to do before I can let it go and move on.

---

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a mother.

When I became pregnant at the age of thirty-nine, by in vitro fertilization using my partner Shrike’s eggs and anonymous donor sperm, one of the things I looked forward to most was breastfeeding.

It was something I've always found fascinating, so I’d done a good bit of reading and I had also learned a lot about it from my older sister, LadyKay, whose children were breastfeeding when I was in my late teens and early twenties, so I went into it thinking I knew pretty much all I needed to know, and expecting that we would have no problems.

Boy, was I wrong.

Our daughter, Peeper, was born four weeks early. I delivered her vaginally, with no pain medication. Shortly after her birth, we were told that she weighed five pounds, four ounces, and that she was doing very well, especially considering her size and age.

I gave her an opportunity to nurse fairly soon after birth, with the help of my doula and La Leche League leader, DoulaK.

She latched a bit, and DoulaK said that her technique looked good, and her suck looked strong, but she wasn't especially interested. DoulaK told me not to worry, because she had twenty-four hours before the doctors really expected her to do much nursing.

That night, and the next day, I gave her several opportunities to nurse, often with the help of one of the midwives or labor and delivery nurses. She had a couple of pretty good sessions, but was still very sleepy and not especially motivated.

Her mouth was so tiny that it was difficult to get around my nipple, let alone to get the good, deep latch that she really needed.

Another problem she was having with latching was that my areolas were swollen, making the nipples stand out less, so there wasn't much for her to grab on to. One of the nurses commented that, "Oh there's often some swelling after delivery, that will go away."

I learned later that the swelling was probably exacerbated by the IV fluids I'd received during labor, and a couple of days later, from engorgement as my milk came in, but that a simple reverse pressure technique would have temporarily relieved it, and made my nipples more accessible to her.

One of the lactation consultants stopped by to see us the morning after she was born, but Peeper had just finished nursing, so we didn't put her to the breast for the LC to observe.

One of the first things she told me when she walked into the room was that, "Most of our preemies need to be supplemented. I recommend a breast pump and a nipple shield and she may need some formula."

A while later, both devices were delivered to my room, with little or no explanation of how to use them.

When Peeper was about twenty-four hours old, she was weighed again, and was now four pounds, four ounces.

The pediatrician who saw her that night said that he didn't believe she had really lost almost 20% of her birth weight, because she “looked too good.”

I also later read that babies whose mothers have received IV fluids during labor are often born retaining quite a bit of fluid, and can easily lose 20% with no ill effects because they started out ahead of the game.

The doctor told us that he suspected Peeper's birth weight wasn't accurate, but that we'd have to assume she had lost a full pound, and go from there.

I agree that the birth weight wasn't accurate - or, possibly, was elevated because of the fluids. I'd had very frequent ultrasounds during my pregnancy, and we'd known since 17 weeks that she was small, about 2 - 3 weeks behind her gestational age.

Based on the 10% of birth weight that babies are "allowed" to lose, combined with extrapolating from my ultrasounds, we suspect that she actually weighed about 4 lb 12 oz. That's the weight that we put on the birth announcements, and it's what we tell strangers in the grocery store, who are surprised to hear how old she is, because she is still quite small for her age.

But, assuming she had lost 20% of her birth weight, the doctor said that we would have to start supplementing her, with breast milk if possible, or formula if "necessary."

I was adamant that she not get any artificial nipples, so we were told we could finger feed her using a supplemental nursing system, and could also try using the SNS at the breast, when she was willing to latch.

I was also adamant that she not have any formula, but the pediatrician insisted that she must take in X amount of food (the amount per feeding increased over the next few days) and if I couldn't pump enough, we would have to give her formula as well.

I had received essentially no instruction on how to use the pump, so I just stuck it on me and turned it on for about ten minutes.

The insides of the bottles were foggy when I finished, but not even a drop of colostrum could be collected to give to her from that first session. It was incredibly disheartening.

I knew that I was producing some, because I was able to express a few drops when trying to get her to latch, but there wasn't enough to pump yet.

I don't remember the exact amounts, but the next time I pumped, I think I got about five or six milliliters, and the doctor wanted Peeper to have fifteen, so we mixed it with about ten milliliters of formula.

I was crushed.

By the next feeding, I was able to pump enough to match the amount that she was required to take, so we didn't have to add any formula, but the pressure to produce enough for her was unbelievable.

Each time I pumped I could see that what I was producing was slowly changing over from colostrum to true milk, and I was getting a bit more each time, but the amounts were still tiny, and I was absolutely obsessive about capturing every tiny bit.

I wasn't at all confident that I could make as much as she needed, but I knew that I wanted her to get every drop that I made, and if we had to "top her off" with formula after that, I could live with it.

That is a lie.

I actually hated the idea of her getting any formula at all, but I told myself I could live with it, because I was being told that Peeper couldn't live without it, so I felt I had no choice.

Peeper was born on a Monday afternoon, and on Wednesday afternoon, I was discharged and she was transferred to the Pediatric ward, where Shrike and I were able to room in with her.

The routine at that point was that, every three hours, I would put her to the breast and attempt to get her to latch, usually using the SNS.

She sometimes nursed a tiny bit, but more often, she refused. She would sometimes fall asleep at the breast; other times, she actively fought it.

These attempts usually involved at least three people - not counting Peeper. I would hold her body with one arm and support my breast with the other hand, a nurse would grab her head and shove it onto my breast (very counterproductive, in retrospect) and Shrike would try to thread the SNS tube into her mouth at just the right moment.

She absolutely hated the SNS tube, and it would fall out or she'd let go or she wouldn't latch at all.

This would go on for about fifteen minutes - later, I was actually given a time limit for how long we were allowed to work on getting her to latch before supplementing - and then we would give up, and Shrike would finger feed her expressed breast milk while I would pump for the next feeding.

This process generally took about an hour. Then we'd rest or, if we were lucky, sleep for a couple of hours until it was time to do it all again.

At some point on Wednesday, it was determined that Peeper was jaundiced (as is to be expected with a 36-weeker) and she was put under bililights, which meant that she had to stay in her bassinet, and we could only hold her during feedings.

That evening, the doctors were worried that she was "working too hard" to eat, and expending more calories than she could afford.

They checked her blood sugar and it was a low. After being fed some breast milk, it had not come up enough so they gave her some glucose water (also finger fed with the SNS) and it came right up, but they were now more concerned and started testing her blood sugar at the beginning of each feeding routine (three hours after the last meal).

This continued through the night, and in the morning, Shrike's mother called to check in on us. I don't remember her exact words, but she essentially told me to not be "so hung up about the breastfeeding" and that "it's just important that she eats, and at least she's getting the milk," but "if it doesn't work, it's not the end of the world."

I know that she was speaking out of concern for Peeper, and I'm sure that she genuinely thought that she was being reassuring and comforting to me about “not being able to breastfeed,” (which I’m sure she assumed was going to be the case) but the effect was the exact opposite.

What I heard was that I was putting Peeper’s health at risk by depriving her of the food she needed, in order to satisfy my own whims; that it really didn't matter whether she breastfed, and I was being silly to be so upset about it; and that I should just stop this and do what was best for Peeper.

But I knew damn well that what was best for Peeper was to breastfeed, and I knew that to me, it would be the end of the world if she weren't able to, and I'd be damned if I was going to give up on her – and myself - this soon.

All day Thursday, I asked for a visit from the lactation consultant, but she was tied up on the labor and delivery floor, so it was evening before she made it over, and she'd not been there very long when the pediatrician came in to talk to us.

At this point, Peeper had been having trouble keeping her temperature up, while laying under the bililights in just a diaper, so the heat in the room had been turned up to about eighty degrees. I was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, right under the ceiling heat lamp, Peeper was in her bassinet, and Shrike was somewhere on the other side of the room. In the tiny room with us were the lactation consultant, the pediatrician, Shrike's mother and sister, and one or two nurses.

I will forever think of this conversation as "The Nipple Intervention."

The pediatrician started by saying that "I know that breastfeeding is important to you, and it is the best thing for Peeper, so we definitely want her to do it, but . . . ."

But.

Both breastfeeding and finger feeding were too much work for Peeper, and she still wasn't keeping her blood sugar up like she should, and we had to get milk into her more quickly, so we were going to have to give her bottles.

I think I asked if there were any other options, but I was told that no, she must take bottles, or she was not going to be able to get enough food.

I probably express a concern about using artificial nipples, because the lactation consultant said that we could use Nuk nipples which "are much less likely to cause nipple confusion."

I'm not at all certain, though, what I actually asked about or what concerns I expressed, because I did not feel as though I was in a position to do or say much of anything other than agreeing with the pediatrician's plan.

What I believe I said was, "Of course, I want to do whatever she needs. It’s not ideal, because I was hoping to avoid bottles, but I have no problem with them if that's what she needs at this point. If we can use the Nuks, that's fine with me. But of course, we'll do whatever you think is best for her."

What I know I was feeling was that I was being completely ganged up on and intimidated and bullied into doing what the doctor wanted.

I felt very much like I was being told that it was time to stop my silliness and selfishness, and listen to the grown ups, and get serious about actually taking care of my child.

I felt like I was being judged by everyone in the room for my hesitance to agree to bottles before that point.

I felt like I had to agree, without any argument, in order to convince them all that I really did care about Peeper and I really did want her to be okay.

I felt like all of this was about them – the doctors, my in laws, even the lactation consultant – telling me what we were going to do.

And I felt like Shrike was neither being consulted by them, nor was I even allowed to consult with her about it, because she was on the opposite side of the room the whole time.

I also felt, very strongly, that this was not the right thing to do, for me or especially for Peeper.

I made myself be okay with it at the time, because I had no choice, but I knew there had to be another answer.

I knew there had to be other, better ways to get the milk in her without introducing artificial nipples.

I knew I hated everything about the idea of giving her bottles, and I was terrified that they were going to be the beginning of the end of any hope I had of her ever breastfeeding.

After the doctor left, Shrike and I went down the hall with the lactation consultant, and talked with her about it, away from the crowd, out of the heat, just the three of us. She made me feel somewhat better about the decision, but I still was very uncomfortable with it.


DoulaK stopped by that evening to visit, and we talked with her for a long time. She was very reassuring, but also suggested some other possible feeding options, which the lactation consultant dismissed as not being appropriate in our situation.

While DoulaK was there, Peeper nursed for quite a while - probably the best session we'd had since the first day.

Over the next day, Peeper's blood sugar stabilized, and her weight continued to go up, and we were discharged on Saturday.

The bottles had done the trick, I suppose, in getting the milk into her more quickly and easily, but they'd also done their damage, and she was almost completely refusing the breast by that point.

For weeks, I pumped and Shrike bottle fed Peeper, and we slept in two and three hour bits in between.

My nipples got incredibly sore, and I was in constant pain, not only when I was pumping.

I'd started with pump flanges that were too small, and used too high a suction setting on the pump (because of a lack of training) and that started the damage, which just got progressively worse.

Feeding wasn't Peeper's only health concern. She was born with a congenital heart defect (two holes in her heart, which were surgically repaired when she was twenty weeks old) and she had some questionable results on her metabolic tests, so there were weekly trips to the cardiologist an hour away, and one train trip to a Children's Hospital four hours away.

For every trip, we took the breast pump along, and I pumped in the hospital lactation room, and parking lots, and riding down the interstate.

When we were at home, I still offered the breast at almost every feeding, but it became harder and harder to deal with her refusal to latch.

It was impossible to not take it personally, to not feel like she was rejecting me.

The worst part was that not only would she not latch, but she would fight against it, and would wrap her tiny little hand around my very sore nipple and push it away, saying what sounded all the world like, "Uh-uh! Uh-uh!"

I don't know how many times I handed her to Shrike for a bottle, crying, and asking, over and over, "Why won't she do this? Why doesn't she like me?"

I can't even begin to count the number of times I talked to DoulaK on the phone during that time, and she always had a recommendation for something I could try to ease my nipple pain, or to encourage Peeper to latch, or just to help us to bond, in the absence of an actual breastfeeding relationship.

Most importantly, she always listened to my concerns and my feelings and validated them, she always encouraged me to keep trying and she always assured me that Peeper would eventually get it.

She reminded me that Peeper still wasn't even supposed to be outside of me yet, so of course, she was having trouble. Many full term babies take a couple of weeks to learn to nurse well; I just had to be patient and give her time to mature.

She also told me, over and over, that she had faith in Peeper and that it might take a while, but that she knew she would be breastfeeding eventually.

Her confidence in our ability to work through this was invaluable at a time when I had none of my own.

I also can't tell you how many hours I spent on the computer researching nipple confusion, and breast refusal, and nipple pain, and everything else I could find.

In my research, I found very little information on how to solve nipple confusion, only information about how to prevent it - warning after warning to avoid introducing artificial nipples.

This is when I learned that syringe feeding or cup feeding would have been viable options for us, had our doctors and our hospital been willing to do either.

Both techniques are used in NICUs with babies much younger, much smaller and much sicker than Peeper, and I am still very angry that neither was made available.

We were very lucky that Shrike was able to take a month off work when Peeper was born, because as hard as things were those first few weeks, at least she was there the whole time, doing all of the bottle feedings, and most of the diaper changes, and a lot more of the hands-on baby care than I was.

I felt at times like actually parenting Peeper was Shrike's responsibility, and my job was to pump and hand them milk.

Shrike was incredibly supportive through it all, and never once suggested that I give up on trying to get Peeper to breastfeed.

In fact, there were many, many feedings when I just wanted to have Shrike give her the bottle and get it over with, but she encouraged me to "give her a try" first.

I know that, even though she usually turned me down, if I'd ever let myself get away from offering Peeper frequent opportunities to nurse, we'd have had no hope of getting her back to it.

And, as much as I was missing the opportunity to feed Peeper, and as much as I was not bonding with her, she and Shrike were able to bond in a way that would not have been possible if she had been breastfeeding from the beginning.

That, I suppose, was the silver lining in the very dark cloud that I was living in at the time.

It doesn’t make sense, but as jealous as I was of their relationship at the time, there was also nothing that made me happier than to see them together, and to see Shrike holding her, and talking to her and caring for her.

When Shrike returned to work, though, things got much more difficult for me. Now, for ten hours of the day, I had to do it all myself.

When I'd try to put Peeper down long enough to pump, she would cry. Then I could cry, telling her, "I am doing this for you!"

Several times, I pumped while holding the bottles to both breasts with one hand and elbow, as she lay on my lap, taking a bottle from my other hand.

"You know," I'd tell her, "There's really a much simpler way to do this. How about we cut just out the middle man, huh, Kiddo?"

I was using a Medela Pump In Style, and anyone who's used one will tell you that it "talks." The noises that it makes are incredibly voice-like and when you add in a dollop of hormones and a heaping helping of sleep deprivation, it becomes something of an auditory Rorschach test.

I'd heard the pump say all kinds of crazy things, from "Loser McCain, Loser McCain," in the days following after the presidential election, to “We're losing control, we're losing control," after failing for a third time to catch a urine sample for some metabolic testing that Peeper needed, but now, the bastard really turned on me.

On the first or second day that I was home alone with Peeper all day, I was pumping while she lay in her bassinet and we both cried, and the pump was saying, "It's such a pain, it's such a pain."

Well, yes, I couldn't argue with that.

Then it changed to, "It doesn't pay, it doesn't pay."

And, for a moment, I started to believe it, and that is the closest that I ever came to giving up.

I knew I needed help to get past that, so I picked up the phone and called DoulaK, and told her, through my tears that, "We're having really rough day, here. Do you have a minute?"

We talked for hours, and she told me that I sounded much like every mother of a newborn that she talked to.

Not necessarily a mother of a one-month old, mind you, but a newborn, because that's what Peeper really was at that point.

She was just starting to "wake up" and realize that she was no longer a fetus but an actual baby.

She'd learned how to cry. She wanted to eat all the time. I was pumping as often as I could, and barely staying ahead of her.

I was exhausted, I was discouraged and I was devastated.

All my life, I’d looked forward to having a baby, and now that I had one, nothing was going the way that it should.

My baby was early, and she was tiny, and she had a hole in her heart, and she might have a metabolic disorder (she doesn’t) and I couldn’t even feed her.

For four weeks, I'd been holding on to the lactation consultant’s prediction that Peeper would pull it together and learn to nurse by her due date. Now that date had come and gone and she was no closer than she was at a week old.

Yes, she'd had a few days here and there when she'd suddenly decided to latch, and a couple of times she'd even nursed several times in a day.

But each time I thought she'd turned a corner, the next day, we'd be right back where we'd started.

That was almost worse than if she'd never latched, because I would get my hopes up repeatedly, only to be disappointed time and again.

But, I did have that glimmer of hope that she was not completely refusing the breast, she did still know how to latch, and she was still willing to do it on occasion.

In the hospital, I'd been given a couple of different nipple shields, but Peeper wasn't able to latch with either of them, because they were so much bigger than her mouth was at the time.

LadyKay had told me that a nipple shield had done the trick in getting her son over his nipple confusion (after having been given bottles in the hospital, when he was jaundiced), and suggested I might think about giving one a try.

I was hesitant, though, because it hadn’t worked before, and I also knew that they can often cause more problems than they solve, so DoulaK had been hesitant to recommend that I use one just yet.

This day, though, she suggested that I consider it.

The main concerns with a nipple shield are nipple confusion - a moot point, since we were already there, and nursing with a shield was better than no nursing at all, and that the nipple doesn't receive as much stimulation as it would if the baby were latched directly, so it can cause a reduction in milk supply. However, my supply was well-established at this point, and I would still be pumping, so I wasn't too concerned about that

I thought about it for a few days, and when Peeper was just over five weeks old, I tried the nipple shield.

She latched immediately.

And nursed.

I was very careful not to get my hopes up, because she'd tricked me before, but I kept offering the breast, with the shield, and she kept taking it.

I believe it was a Wednesday that we first used the shield, and from Thursday afternoon through the day Friday, she did nothing but nurse, nap, poop, and nurse the other side.

For about thirty-six hours straight.

Her tummy was full enough that she didn’t fuss for a bottle, and my breasts were empty enough that I felt no need to pump.

I called DoulaK on Friday and said, "You told me to call you with some good new for a change, so I am!"

This time, we really had turned the corner.

We gave her a couple of supplemental bottles over the weekend, mostly because I was freaking out each morning that "She's not eaten in five hours! If she won't wake up and nurse, make her take a bottle!"

Of course she was sleeping longer, she'd been cluster feeding like crazy, and if I'd waited thirty minutes or an hour, she'd have been awake and asking to nurse again, I'm sure.

On Sunday, Shrike's parents watched her for an hour or so while we went out to get a Christmas tree, and gave her a bottle while we were gone.

She turned six weeks old the next day, and (with the exception of the day after her surgery, before we were allowed to pick her up) she's not had a bottle since.

Within two or three weeks, I had weaned her off of the nipple shield, and we were home free.

It's hard to believe, as I sit here typing, while Peeper naps and nurses in my lap, that this is the same kid who refused to latch for six weeks.

Now, she refuses to unlatch!

She is still small for her age, but all her doctors have been thrilled with her growth - especially considering her heart defect, which often causes babies to grow slowly.

Her growth has been a huge thing for me.

Especially in the early days, I was so worried that if Peeper wasn't growing as fast as her doctors wanted her to on breast milk, they would insist that we give her formula.

Even now, every single time I put her on a scale, I hold my breath, as I wait for its verdict, as I wait to see whether it will say that I am doing my job, that I am a fit mother for her.

In those first days and weeks, all we were asking of her - all they were asking of me - was that she eat and that she grow.

If she couldn't do that - I couldn't do that - I felt like I would be failing her.

As it turns out, she could. And I could. And we have.

She is almost seven months old, and she is thriving.

With the exception of about two ounces of formula in her first eight days (the 10 cc I mentioned above, and a couple of times that I was away from her briefly and she ran out of the pumped milk available) she was exclusively breastfed until she was six months, six days old.

Now almost seven months old, she continues to breastfeed on demand, but we've also started offering her finger foods, taking a baby-led approach to the introduction of solids. She's loving her "chewin' food," but is still nursing just as much.

I know that it's only a matter of weeks before she's getting enough nutrition from the solids that she starts cutting back on her nursing, and I'm a little sad about that, but I’m also proud of what a “big girl” she's getting to be.

Of course, our nursing relationship will be changing significantly over the next several weeks and months, as she eats more and more solid foods, and will continue to evolve as she matures, but I'm looking forward to breastfeed as long as Peeper wants and needs to.

Peeper and I got off to an incredibly rough start with nursing. We were dealt some bad cards, and, I now realize, we were given some bad advice from the pediatricians and some other people at the hospital.

I also now realize that we encountered some people who claimed to be, or perhaps even truly thought they were being supportive of our efforts, but were, in reality, sabotaging us.

I am still very angry about that, and am still very, for lack of a better word, traumatized, by the whole situation, especially the "nipple intervention."

But, more importantly, we also had some very, very good advice and support and encouragement all along the way.

We got great technical advice from DoulaK, LadyKay, MidwifeK and LeaderH, and incredible emotional support from all of those people, as well as Shrike, of course, and Anonymama, Dr. T, and many friends.

Without their help, we never would have made it through those first six weeks, and I would have been absolutely devastated if Peeper had not learned to breastfeed.

I went into it probably knowing a lot more about breastfeeding than most people who've never done it, I was absolutely committed to making it work, and I had a great support system.

And I still doubted, everyday, whether we would be able to do it.

I totally understand, now, why women give up on breastfeeding, especially if they are not lucky enough to have that kind of support.

But there is no excuse for them not having that support. There's no excuse for hospitals pushing formula when a baby doesn't need it. There's no excuse for them not offering alternative feeding methods to avoid the introduction of artificial nipples and there's no excuse for women not being told where they can turn for help.

Shrike tells me that Peeper wouldn't be nursing today if I weren't so damn hard-headed, and I like to think she’s right.

I've done a lot of things in my forty-one years, some of which I'm pretty proud of, but there is nothing that I'm prouder of than sticking it out and having enough faith in Peeper, and in myself, to give her the time to mature and trying one thing after another until we finally hit on the answer, and doing what it took to get us through those first six weeks to bring us to the point where we are today.

As awful as those early weeks were, and as hard as some of the other things we've been through with Peeper have been, from worries during my pregnancy about a possible neural tube defect, to her open-heart surgery, I think that I am a stronger person for it, and I am a better mother for it, and Peeper, Shrike and I are a stronger family for it.

I spend a good portion of my day (and night) with Peeper at my breast, and sometimes I get tired, and sometimes I need a break, but I never, ever take it for granted.

And I never will.

Overheard at Our House Tonight

Shrike: So, let's take MortgageBank, and this stupid fucking social worker, and my insurance fucks . . . .

Whozat: . . . and my insurance fucks?

Shrike: Yeah, and throw them in a ditch, and pour gasoline on them, and burn them alive.

Whozat: Oo, can we throw in some Republicans, too? Just for fun?

Shrike: Only if they don't block my view.

Making Me Crazy

Shrike had her big crazy test (MMPI) today, and was supposed to meet with the social worker afterward, but things got a little confused on that.

First, she got to the clinic earlier than her appointment time, then it didn't take as long as expected to do the test (because she's a smartypants that way), so she finished up well before the social worked even got into town. (She's only at that location on Tuesday afternoons.)

I had a meeting this morning with BigBoss, during which I received numerous calls and voicemails on my cellphone.

When I checked them around 1 pm, the first message was from Shrike, saying she was done and killing time, and already annoyed with the social worker.

Then there was one from the social worker, thinking she was talking to Shrike, talking about how "you got done early, and I won't be there for a while" and yada yada, "but I'll try to call Whozat, too" (then she actually called Shrike).

And then, another message, from Shrike, saying that she's talked to her, and the social worker told her that we can talk with her together, afterall - next week.

Aaarrrggghhh!

I won't repeat the things Shrike called her on my voicemail.

Is it becoming obvious why we wanted to just do this with a letter from Dr. T?

I had even asked if Dr. T's office could administer the MMPI, and just send them the results but, no, "there's a very specific way it has to be administered."

Yeah, a super-secret way that I'm sure a psychologist would know nothing about.

The "very special way" as it turns out? Shrike shows up, tells the "girls up front" that she's there for the test, they had it to her and stick her in a room.

Yeah, Dr. T never could have done that.

We actually had an appointment with Dr. T this morning, and I had even scheduled Shrike's test so that she could head over right after we were done, but she was up early yesterday and couldn't handle two early mornings in a row, so she sent me on alone.

(That's fine. We talked about her. Well, a little bit.)

So, I told Dr T all about this stupid test, and she agreed that it was pretty ridiculous that she couldn't have just given it to her there.

Oh well, at least we'll get to be together when we talk to this damn woman next week.

Well, sort of. I think she wants to talk to Shrike for like forty minutes, and then both of us for, I don't know, twenty or so?

Yeah, that's worth driving all the way over there, and missing two and a half hours of work for.

But, once that's done, we can get started, so I guess we'll get over it.

The other pressing matter is getting this home equity loan thing ironed out. The catch at the moment is that I can't seem to get MortgageBank to tell the Credit Union that we've requested that the old line of credit be closed.

First, they couldn't "process" the fax that I'd sent, and send a fax to her in under 24 hours.

Walk across the damn room. Pick up a fax. Read it. Mark it "received" and forward it.

How hard is this?

Then, they said the account number that I'd given LoanLady from the Credit Union was wrong, and they couldn't look it up using my social security number unless I was on the phone to say it was okay.

Then, once I got her the right number, they said they can't tell her anything because my "letter does not specifically state that they can disclose information to" her.

Good gravy, people!

What part of "As soon as you receive this fax, please contact Loan Lady at Our Credit Union by fax or email and let her know that you have received my request to close the line of credit. . . " and "It is imperative that they receive this information today (last Thursday!) . . . " do you not understand, you stupid fucks?

So, tomorrow, I will call and yell at them again. If I can get a human on the phone.

That as been quite a challenge, in and of itself. One day last week, I made, I think six separate calls to them, in an attempt to get to a person.

This was after leaving at least three voice mails, over a course of two weeks, for the woman to whom I'd originally spoken about upping our credit limit.

After I finally found out how to go about closing the line, I then demanded to speak to someone in her department, and gave them an earful about all the messages I'd left.

I said, "I don't know where she is - maybe she's on vacation, maybe she's sick, maybe she's dead, but whatever it is, somebody needs to go check her damn voicemail and wait on some customers."

Bitter and Resentful

It think that it really is a bit early in our whole journey for me to be bitter and resentful of women who are pregnant or have babies, so I am trying to restrict it to the immediately post-negative-beta days.

That would have been this past weekend.

Friday, after picking up my "you are officially not pregnant" papers, I met Shrike at Taco Bell for dinner.

Afterward, we were standing by our cars talking, when we saw a group of kids leave the restaurant.

Two girls, two guys, none of whom could have been a day over eighteen, and a teeny baby.

Granted, they may have been babysitting (I know I used to get quite indignant when people assumed that my sister's kiddos were mine - especially #1, when I was 16) but that possibility really didn't make me feel any better about it.

But, here's an even better story:

During our beach trip, the whole family was at dinner Saturday night when Shrike said to me, "I know it may be rubbing salt in the wound, but look . . . " and gestured to a girl outside (waiting for a table), who was holding a teeny-tiny baby, all in pink.

A little salty, yeah, but she was precious.

The girl holding her was of indeterminate age. She was kind of maturely shaped, but looked awful young - and was about fifty feet away, and in the dark. It was really hard to tell.

Twelve? Sixteen? Eighteen? Not a "real grown-up,"for sure.

But there was another woman near her; were they together? Maybe she was actually the baby's mom? On the other hand, she seemed kind of old to have one that small.

(Says the woman who will be at least forty when she gives birth.)

I said something to Shrike along the lines of, "Please tell me that's her big sister or her aunt, holding her, not her mother!"

Shrike's sister said, "Who? Oh, that little baby girl outside? She was cute!"

All of which is to so that there were three of us who'd seen this baby, and commented on her cuteness.

As I was going to the restroom, the family was finally being seated.

I got a closer look at the girl as she walked in the door.

Carrying her doll.

Drug Woes

So, once again, I spent ten minutes on the phone with Nurse E, speculating as to when I should schedule by monitoring ultrasound, based on when I might start the cycle, then got off the phone, went to the bathroom and . . . oh . . . ok. Now.

I will have the ultrasound on Thursday morning, and start Clomid that evening. Just like last cycle, I'll do five days of Clomid (days 3 - 7), followed by FSH injections on days 7 and 9. The next ultrasound will be day 11, Friday October 12.

I'm hoping I'll be ready to trigger that evening, for IUIs on Saturday and Sunday. It would be nice to not miss any work, and Shrike is off all weekend.

The phone call to Nurse E wasn't all about scheduling, though, it was mostly about insurance.

You know it's bad when your nurse coordinator, who deals with insurance and pre-authorization and pharmacies and the such on a regular basis, sends you an email that says, "Your insurance company is the DEVIL!"

She's trying to get my pre-authorization for the FSH, and get the prescription to the "specialty pharmacy" that has to dispense it, in order for it to be covered.

I believe I've already discussed the run-around that they've been giving me about this, and how, when the pharmacy that's connected to the doctor's office submitted the claim for the Bravelle (FSH), the insurance company just told them that it wasn't covered, so they charged me $300, when what they should have told them was, "Go get preauthorization, then get it filled at our very special pharmacy, and we'll only charge her $50."

We're trying to make that happen this time around. And, Dr E has written this prescription for an extra box, because the regular pharmacy has agreed to buy a box back from me, for the $300 that I never should have paid them.

So, poor Nurse E talked to the insurance people, and the pharmacy and the insurance and I don't know who else. At one point one of them asked her, "So, your office is going to be providing this medication?"

"Um, no, that's why I'm getting pre-authorization to order it from the pharmacy!"

She's going to check tomorrow and see if they've gotten it straightened out yet. Luckily, I don't actually need that until next Monday.

In the meantime, on Sunday, she called in the prescription for Clomid to my local pharmacy.

I called them yesterday to check, and they'd never heard of such a thing. So, I emailed Nurse E and asked her to call them again, which she did.

I called back today, and asked if the prescription had been called in. "No, we haven't gotten it."

I said, "Well, my doctor's office says they left you a message on Sunday, and they called again today."

"Oh, well let me check on that." (. . . bad Muzak . . . ) "Oh, yeah, we have it. It just hasn't been filled."

So, why didn't you go "check on that" in the first place, instead of just telling me that you didn't have it?

And I'm one of the lucky ones, because I have health insurance.

Shitty News Item of the Day

ACLU and Equality Maryland Denounce 4 to 3 Decision by Maryland High Court Denying Marriage Protections for Same-Sex Couples

ANNAPOLIS, MD – The American Civil Liberties Union and Equality Maryland today denounced the divided Maryland Court of Appeals decision upholding a state law that bars same-sex couples from marrying and accessing the hundreds of family protections provided to married couples and their children under state law. The organizations vowed to take their struggle for marriage for same-sex couples to the General Assembly, where Sen. Gwendolyn Britt (D-Prince George's County) and Delegate Victor Ramirez (D-Prince George's) have vowed to sponsor bills to extend marriage to same-sex couples.

Read Full Press Release

Ruh Roh

There's an odd little tickle in my throat.

I've sneezed several times today.

I was feeling a little fevery earlier.

Oh, pleeeaaaase nooooo!!!

I hate, hate, hate being sick.

I'm sure it's just a cold, but you see, I am a freak.

(No, not because of that. Or that. Or, ok, just shut up and let me explain.)

You see, I am crazy allergic to all antihistamines, decongestants and cough suppressants.

When I say "crazy" I'm not kidding. They totally flip me out.

Well, I don't really know exactly what they do, because I've only taken any of them once since I was tiny, but when I was tiny, they totally flipped me out.

(I took a few half-doses of benadryl for hives once as a teenager, but very carefully. After a total of about two or three doses, over a couple of days, I was a bit loopy.)

I was too young (and, of course, totally flipped out) when I had the serious reactions to remember them (once to an adult Sudafed that I accidentally got hold of, I think, and once to cough syrup?), so Anonymama and LadyKay might have to fill in some details (check the comments for that) but I know it wasn't pretty.

Speaking of LadyKay, she does the same thing. Not only did she have some cough syrup experiences as a wee tot, but she also had a reaction to something similar, as a teenager.

She was old enough then to identify the hallucinations, and to recognize that they were the same thing she'd experienced before.

So, yeah, I avoid that kind of stuff.

Which means that when I have a cold, about all I can take is Tylenol for the fever and aches, and hot, steamy showers for the congestion.

For the cough, there is an "expectorant only" version of Robistussin (now available as a pill, instead of that awful, awful liquid) but it's really pretty much useless.

So, mostly, I just suffer. And whine. A lot.

And I am not looking forward to it.

(And, I'm sure, neither is Shrike.)

A Favor, Please

Dear Adam, the Spammer-Guy:
(If that is, in fact, your name. I mean, really, couldn't you think of something more, I don't know, original?)

I really do enjoy your helpful employment tips, and I do understand your need to post them as frequently as possible, seeing as you get paid for typing (. . . spam comments on my blog) and I'm sure it takes a lot of typing to afford all those plane tickets.

But, please, if you don't mind, I'd appreciate if you'd show a little class and save them for some of my, oh, I dunno, less emotional and angsty posts.

Maybe something about a stinky dog or a cheesy casserole or even a photo of a flower.

Thanks ever so much,
Whozat, the maaaaaybe but almost definitely not pregnant - and, yet, somehow still a little bit incredibly crazy and emotional - lady chick dyke.

I Fought the Law, and the Law Won

Evidently, in WorkState, being clocked going over 80 mph on an interstate is "an automatic citation."

And, evidently, 81 counts as "over 80."

And, it's a good thing that I've got a $300 prize coming for a contest that we're doing at work, because $160 of it just got spoken for.

Crazy Insurance Rules

Tell me how this makes sense:

My OB/Gyn is "in network" for my insurance, but the only hospital at which she practices is not.

What the hell?

Appliance Woes

You know, I wasn't too happy when the coffee maker suddenly stopped working a couple of weeks ago.

And I was quite annoyed that I had to make a special trip to the Dollar General and shell out ten whole dollars for a shiny new one.

Um, yeah. That was nothing.

I'm thinking we'll be spending about forty fucking times that tomorrow, when we go to pick out our new washing machine.

Yup, the washer, she is dead. It was so sudden, we're still in shock. One load everything was just fine, and the next, well, I walked in to find Shrike bailing water out into the sink.

The wash cycle still seems to work and, evidently the rinse, but that's as far as it gets. It won't drain or spin.

And those are kind of necessary components to the whole washing process.

Shrike consulted with a guy at work who knows how to fix things and he said that it could either be the belt, in which case, she should be able to fix it herself, or some other thing, in which case we're fucked.

"I think he said it might be the compressor, maybe?" she told me. "Something like that - I wanted to say 'transmission' but I knew that was wrong!"

We had a good laugh over that, "Ha ha, transmission, washing machine, we're silly girls!"

So, she got some tools or something and opened up a bunch of panels and exposed some parts that didn't look like they were supposed to see the light of day.

I offered to help, but realized it might be best if I just kept my distance. I did check in a couple of times when I heard a lot of banging - or spraying water.

She never found any belts that looked problematic, so it's evidently that other, "fucked" thing.

She did, however, find the owners manual. As she was looking over it, she said, "Hey, it does have a transmission! Son of a bitch, how 'bout that!"

But, wishy-washy-transmisson or no, we're getting a new machine tomorrow.

I've listed a request on Freecycle, but we don't have a lot of hopes there.

There are several used ones listed in the CountyShopper for $100, but Shrike's been doing some research and says we can get a new one for around $400, so I think we'll probably go that route.

It will be warranteed, and won't be so old that someone else is getting rid of it, and burly men will deliver it, hook it up and take the old one away.

So, that will be the big plan for tomorrow: decide between Lowe's and Sears and order us up a new washing machine. Yippee.

The whole washer thing has also reminded us that we need to figure out how to get hot water to the damn thing some time in the next year or so.

If I'm remembering correctly, nothing comes out of the hot faucet that it's hooked up to. Or maybe cold water comes out of both. Or something like that.

We gave up and have just been washing everything in cold water. I think there might have been some hose-swapping that was required to make that work?

But, if we're going to be washing poopy cloth diapers (which we're considering, but not yet committed to) or even poopy everything else, regardless of which variety of diaper is insufficient for the job at hand, I'm thinking we're going to need some hot water.

When we're done buying the new washer, we'll reward ourselves with a trip to Red Robin, where we'll use Shrike's birthday coupon to get a free burger and sundae!

Week in Review

Hmm, it looks like I've been memeing all week, but there's not been a lot of talk about my actual life. I should probably do something about that.

Wednesday was a busy day for me. I, along with a handful of the other muckity-mucks in my local Democratic Party had a breakfast meeting with a statewide elected official (not the Governor; don't be too impressed), who was in town to talk to the local newspaper. We had a nice schmooze, and afterward, a couple of us stuck around to discuss some upcoming local events.

At the end, it just was myself and another woman, whom I've told about our baby plans. I was filling her in on the whole job / insurance / baby situation, and she told me that, when the time comes, she wants to throw us a shower!

I don't think that I sufficiently expressed my appreciation at the time, because I was kind of caught off-guard, not that she'd be interested in hosting one, but that anyone would offer before we even start trying! I emailed her today, to thank her again and tell her how much that means to us.

Then, after a quick trip home, Shrike and I met a new friend and her daughter for lunch. That was very nice, despite the bitch at the next table who seemed to have a problem with the fact that when not-yet-three year olds hurt themselves, sometimes they cry. Even if other people are trying to eat lunch.

She actually stopped by our table on her way out and said something along the lines of, "Next time I go out to lunch, I'll wear my earplugs."

What the fuck?

I think she noticed me looking at her, incredulously, and tried to turn it around into a joke, teasing the little girl about her "sad face" and "Don't you let me see that pretty smile . . ." but it sure didn't sound like she was kidding at first.

Shrike noticed that she was wearing rather pointy shoes, so we've decided that she must be a witch. She certainly acted like one.

Unbelievable.

After that, I drove down to TutoringCenter to meet my immediate supervisor (Director) and the owner (BigBoss), and to sort out my schedule for the next couple of weeks.

It looks like that's going to work out pretty well, in that the one day Director definitely likes to work the late shift is Monday, when Shrike is off, so I'd rather work early that day, anyway.

I've offered to work late Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday, but we'll have to see if that's ok with the bigger bosses (BigBoss, but mostly the executive directors, ED1 and ED2), because they may prefer that we do two late nights each.

So, for now it will be Tuesday/Wednesday, but if it's only two, I may try to switch to Wednesday/Thursday. Next week there's a staff meeting on Thursday evening, though, so I will be working last all three of those nights.

As luck would have it, that week, Shrike is working Monday and off Thursday and Friday (for her birthday). Oh well.

I also learned a couple of things that are good to know, if I'm still working there after we have a baby:

1. They offer partial reimbursement (50% up to $95/week) for childcare expenses.
2. I shouldn't get any hassles about making time for breast pumping at work - Director's wife is a lactation consultant!

The word on the insurance isn't as encouraging. I guess it's still possible that it could be effective immediately, but it's most likely going to be a sixty day wait. Ugh.

Last night, I ended up visiting with the same new friend, when we were two of a whole three people who showed up for Drinking Liberally, which is just getting off the ground here, in our not-so-liberal little town. Again, lots of fun.

Not too much excitement today, but I had my second tutoring session with a guy who's taking Trigonometry, via a distance learning class. I don't think I've mentioned that before, have I?

A few weeks ago, around the same time that I sent my resume to TutoringCenter, I also sent it to the department that does such things at the local college, which is not too far from our house.

It turns out that they only hire students to tutor, but the woman I spoke with was very nice and offered to give my name to anyone from the community who contacted them looking for help.

I heard from this guy a couple of weeks ago, and we've had two sessions so far. He lives about five minutes from me, and is paying quite well, so it's definitely worth wracking my brain and trying to shake the rusty remnants of Trig loose from the back corners.

(Good thing he's got a book for me to look things up in!)

Last weekend, he came over to our house and today I went to his. I'm pretty comfortable with that, but we've gone out of our way to make sure that I was safe - what with him being a strange man and all.

(I mean, a man who is a stranger. He seems pretty normal.)

When he came over here, I made sure that the dogs were in the house when he arrived so they could intimidate him at the door. Then, I had Galoot stay in the room with us. He settled down pretty quickly, curled up at the guy's feet and went to sleep. But he was there, if he'd made any false moves.

Then I said something like "Oh, I wasn't sure if that was you at the door or a friend of mine. He's supposed to be dropping something by this afternoon, but I don't know when. So, he might interupt us, but it will only take a second. . . ."

(Not completely untrue; I was expecting a male friend to drop something off, sometime that weekend.)

Shrike also called and checked in a couple of times while he was here.

Shrike also called to check on me while I was there this evening, and I pretended to be annoyed at the interuption, "Well, I'm kind of busy. . . ."

Later, she told me that she'd realized after the call that she didn't know where the guy lived, so if she had interupted an ax murder, she would have had no idea where to send the cops to save me!

I suppose we should've thought out that plan a little more fully.

He's a very nice guy, actually, and I'm really not worried about my safety, but I think she'll probably continue to check in and will definitely expect me to call her when we're done.

And that's fine with me.

About the Photos

I can't believe I've neglected to post anything about our photo shoot a couple of weeks ago.

Actually, I do know why I didn't mention it. I'll get to that in a minute.

First, the photos.

A while back, I was poking around CraigsList and saw an ad looking for gay and lesbian couples to pose for black and white photographs, in exchange for free prints of the photos.

Ever since I started my journey to gastric bypass surgery, I've been talking about getting some "real" photos taken of us when I reached my goal weight, but we'd not done it yet.

Of course, we could go to Sears or something, but I'd really rather have them taken by someone who's not going to try to pose us like we're sisters. We were considering a lesbian photographer that we know of in CapitalCity, but were waiting til we felt like we could afford that kind of an extravagance.

When I saw this ad, I figured it was a perfect opportunity for us, so I contacted the photographer and set it all up.

It turns out that she's planning to study photography in college and is applying for a scholarship for gay and lesbian themed art.

Her entries included photos of us, photos of a gay male couple and a collage including some of each.

(Good luck!!!)

We met her at a park in CaptialCity, since she lives about an hour from there, in a different direction. It was a beautiful day (back when it was Spring - before it became Winter again) and we spent about an hour walking around the park and posing in a variety of locations, then treated her to lunch.

Shrike says it was a little wierd, but I thought it was fun - kind of like being movie stars!

She sent us proofs a few days later and we're trying to decide which ones we'd like prints of. There are a lot of really good ones.

Now, the reason I didn't mention it before . . . .

I knew that if I talked about the photo shoot, I'd feel obligated to talk about the other thing that happened that day, and I was too upset about it.

Don't worry, it wasn't anything truly awful, but still quite upsetting.

On the way there, we stopped at a gas station to use the restroom, and I took off my rings to wash my hands, putting them in my pocket.

When we got to the park, I put my hands in my pockets, felt my college ring in there and said, "Wow! I'm glad I put them in my pocket, and not on the sink!"

I reached back into my pocket to get my wedding and engagement rings (taped together because they've not been resized since my weightloss) - and the pocket was empty.

I assume that when I pulled my keys out of the pocket at some point, the rings went flying. We were hoping it had happened there at the park (I'd put the keys in, taken them back out, put them back in) but we looked all around the car and didn't find them.

When we finished with the photos, we went back to the gas station, but they weren't there either. I left my phone number and a description with the clerk and placed a "lost and found" ad on the CapitalCity CraigsList, but it's been more than two weeks and I've heard nothing.

The only bright side of the whole thing is that Shrike took it really well and was more worried about comforting me than being mad at me.

I guess that we'll replace them someday, but it just won't be the same.

Good Fences . . .

Here's a little quiz for you:

1. When deciding to have a child, one should consult:

a. One's "gut"
b. One's partner
c. No-damn-body else
d. All of the above

2. When someone tells you that they plan to have a child, acceptable responses include:

a. "Congratulations!"
b. "Good luck!"
c. Anything in the entire universe other than "I think that's a really bad idea."
d. All of the above

Scoring
If you answered anything other than "D" to either question, you are not our across-the-street neighbors."Adventures+In+Baby+Making" "Pissin+Me+Off" Neighbors