Of course my anxiety has taken off into the stratosphere since I had the hutzpah to write a post about how happy I am. It’s been a rough couple of days including a stupid, unnecessary, and unusual fight with Z and an absolute weep-fest in couples therapy last night. The story of T’s birth and it’s aftermath had never really been discussed in our therapy. Both Z and I thought we’d covered it at some point, but our therapist didn’t understand why I kept referencing T’s birth as a reason for my huge anxiety about the birth of New Guy, and asked what happened. I really thought I was over it, but as I started telling the story the waterworks just took over until I was an incoherent mess. I hate crying in therapy. It’s such a fucking cliche. And it makes me feel terrible about myself. I think those who witness the tears must think I’m just being manipulative by turning on the water works. Being that vulnerable is so distasteful to me I’d rather think people believe I’m an evil manipulative ass than simply weak. So yes, I’m in a bit of a funk. And clearly I have a ways to go in the getting well department.
I’d really like to get out of this gross mood so it feels like a good story is in order.
Back when I was still pregnant with the babies I miscarried (I know it isn’t a great start, but seriously I promise this isn’t a sad one) my father-in-law sent Z these:
“Do you know what these are?” Z excitedly asked me. I did not. He explained they were antique umbilical cord cutters. My father-in-law is a retired ER doc and a collector of antique medical equipment. Turns out these cutters weren’t just any antique. Z’s great grandfather, who was also a physician, owned and used them.
I could see the wheels turning in Z’s head. “If I take these to a tattoo parlor and have them sterilized in an autoclave I could ask the doctor if I could use them to cut the baby’s umbilical cord! How awesome would that be?”
Z, “Why not?”
Me, “Are you fucking insane? No. Just no.”
Z, “Well it doesn’t hurt to ask.”
Me, “DO NOT embarrass me at the doctor’s office. Do not do it! I will kill you dead!”
We all know how that pregnancy worked out, so the conversation didn’t happen and I forgot all about it. Until almost a month ago when Z pulled the cutters out of his front pocked during my doc appointment. I felt my face get very very red and said, “I can’t believe you are doing this.”
Z explained what the deal was. My doctor was clearly excited by the snips and asked to hold them. He was giving them the once over as I was composing in my head exactly what I planned to say to Z on the ride home. Let’s just say it was a good thing that T wasn’t with us. I’ve been doing a really good job of not swearing in front of him.
“Here’s the deal,” the doctor said. “The part of the cord attached to the placenta is just going to be thrown away. And the part of the cord that’s attached to the kid is going to be clamped and recut within about 20 minutes.”
There was a pause in which I almost started to apologize for my insane husband. But I shit you not, the doc said, “So if you brought these into the delivery room, yes. Yes, I’d let you use them.”
It would be an understatement to say Z has been triumphant about the whole matter. Insufferable might be a better word for it…Although he did not float the nuttier part of the idea to the doctor, the part in which he took them to a TATTOO PARLOR to be sterilized. But as Z has pointed out to me (numerous times) you really never do know until you ask. And he hasn’t said, “I told you so!” to me, not once. Speaking as the sorest winner in the world, I can honestly say he really is a good guy.