At 33-years-old and after 18 years of therapy I am just now learning that I go through life fully expecting everyone to be disappointed in me at all times. I can theorize about where this comes from (familial alcoholism, two decades in a business filled with rejection, laziness, low self-esteem... I can't imagine how many auditions I went to with "You're going to hate this!" oozing out of every pore in my body.), but really, it doesn't matter where it comes from.
It was with this attitude that I went to our first appointment with our awesome midwife, Davi last week. I was fully expecting to be chastised for everything. How much weight I've gained. How little I exercise. What I'm eating.
About a week after Thanksgiving, Dr. Yamaguchi told me I had gained more weight than I needed to at the point. I think what she said was, "You're one or two pounds over." What I heard was, "You're heading into Jessica Simpson territory, you fat cow." So, I became slightly more conscious of what I was eating. And when I say "slightly more conscious" I mean that when I ate fast food I was like, "I totally shouldn't be eating this."
You know that whole "eating for two" thing people like to bandy about? Apparently the second person you're eating for really only needs 300 calories a day. All your life when you've heard people say, "You can eat WHATEVER YOU WANT when your pregnant"? Turns out those people actually have no idea what they're talking about. I mean, technically, you can do whatever the fuck you want when you're pregnant (Except in those states where you'll be arrested for drinking or doing drugs while pregnant because that hurts the baby Jesus's feelings. Or possibly soon in New Mexico where you'll BE ARRESTED for having an abortion after being raped.). But it's best to stay away from ice cream if you don't want to give birth to a giant baby. And go ahead and scarf down those cookies and candy. As long as you don't mind Gestational Diabetes. And then there's fried food, and empty carbs and basically all the things you actually WANT to eat when you're pregnant. You know how when you're not pregnant you should really be eating things like fruits and veggies and complete proteins and foods high in "good" fats and, like fish and nuts and shit like that? When you're eating for two, you should just be eating more of those things. Not cake and ice cream and french fries. Crazy, right?
As it so happens, having a human being inside me is actually the best motivation I have ever had to eat right and not be such a lazy slob. Yes, I've been an actor for over 20 years which you would think would have been enough motivation to keep fit. Oddly enough, the promise of thousands of dollars and a career has never really inspired me to keep myself in tip top shape. Ironically I had only just finally succumbed to the pressure to be skinny in April, losing a total of about 15 pounds right before getting knocked up. At any rate, I actually have cleaned up my act quite a bit. Something about not wanting to push a watermelon out of me or have a baby with completely avoidable health problems has made me forgo the drive thru a good 99% of the time I'm compelled toward it. Also, I have been blessed with a savory tooth instead of a sweet tooth (The cake incident from the last entry notwithstanding.), so skipping the cookies and ice cream is really not that difficult. Put a salt lick in front of me, though...
Turns out, everything is right on track. Davi couldn't be happier with where we are at this point (Except when she asked me to sit on the floor and try to touch my toes. I couldn't even reach my knees. Because basically I'm an 80-year-old man.). She was happy with my weight and my goal weight (though it occurs to me that gaining only 8 pounds in the next 15 weeks is going to be a Herculean undertaking.). She was pleased and impressed with my exercise habits (though admittedly I may have overstated things a bit.). And best of all she said I have a "roomy pelvis" (hiya, fellas.). She said the baby is going to come sliding right out of me which, if it doesn't, I'm totally suing her.
She handed us a binder filled with checklists, guidelines, expectations and information on everything from early labor signs to the debate on circumcision. I have a lot to do to prep in the next three months, including taking a child birthing class, learning baby cpr, eating every two hours, setting up a nursery, stretching various parts of my body including my taint...
In the midst of all this, Kurt and I are in the extraordinarily slow process of moving to an apartment just upstairs from where we were. Neither of us are very good at moving and the whole thing is taking way longer than it needs to. We have too much crap and we don't seem too willing to get rid of much. But I've finally come to the realization that I don't need copies of Tess of the Dubervilles or Emma or The Picture of Dorian Grey collecting dust on precious space on my bookshelf. So, to the library they will go and if I ever get a bug up my ass to read The Count of Monte Cristo, I can walk the one block to our local branch and check it out. Something tells me I will go my entire life without ever reading The Three Musketeers and be perfectly fine.
On our first morning in the new apartment I woke up to the sound of sobs and quickly realized they were my own. It took me a full minute to recover enough to tell Kurt I dreamt I was robbed at gun point. When the assailant realized I was pregnant he pointed his gun at my belly and threatened to kill the baby unless I gave him all my money. I had no money.
And it is on that note that I will leave you tonight. We are on day seven of the move and my brain is beginning to seep out of my ears. I'm having trouble maintaining my train of.... Wait. What?
This is where I spout my brilliance.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
(Not so) On My Own
Firstly, I need to thank my readers for your awesome support following my last entry. Not only did I receive lots of helpful and encouraging comments, but I'm proud to report that the entry was picked up and syndicated by BlogHer.com! So, we're making headway here, folks. Any day now, that book deal is going to appear in my inbox... I put it on the vision board in my mind, you guys.
Secondly, my good friend, Tom Viola at Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, whom I've known forever, read the blog and contacted The Actors Fund on my behalf. I am relieved to say that The Actors Fund has come through for me in a major way and I will be forever in their debt.
If you would like to help me in thanking either organization, please click one of the links below to send a tax deductible donation! Think of it as a baby shower gift!
In other news, all the baby books say it's common for pregnant ladies to have vivid dreams. I've had extraordinarily bizarre dreams all my life. When I was a teenager I dreamt once that I was giving a 20 foot high devil a blow job. Please don't ask me about the mechanics of that. I have no idea. Generally, my dreams have been epic and complicated.
I've only had a handful of dreams about my mother in the nearly 20 years since her death, though, which is disappointing and somehow ends up making me feel guilty. Like, if I were a better daughter I would dream about her more often. Early on the dreams were about seeing her on the subway and trying to get her attention only to catch up to her and realize she was a little, old Chinese lady (she had a similar build to the little, old Chinese ladies I used to see in China Town.). And, of course I had a couple dreams in which she was inexplicably back in my life and no one wanted to address the impossibility of that.
Oddly enough, the past six months have proven largely quiet on the dream front. In the week after we decided to go through with this whole thing and have the kid I dreamt I gave birth to a perfectly viable three inch baby. I swaddled it and carried it around in a pocket protector. That same week I dreamt we had a sonogram that was like a perfect snapshot and we found out the baby was half Japanese. . . When I reported this to Dr. Yamaguchi she said, "You didn't tell me I was the father!" She was a great O.B. Otherwise I've had a couple apocalyptic dreams in which I had to fight bad guys (or zombies) while carrying a newborn. Kurt had a dream in which someone gave us a baby Orangutan to care for. One of it's arms was longer than the other. I'm really hoping these dreams aren't prophetic. Otherwise, I'll be giving birth to a three inch, Japanese, lopsided Orangutan during a zombie apocalypse. Here's a picture my good friend, Angie O'Neal made for me upon reading this entry:
Next week is our first official appointment with our Midwife. I started keeping a food log so I could report to her how amazingly awesome my diet has been. But once I realized how often I was writing "One piece of cake with buttercream frosting", I abandoned the log. A friend told me about a 25-year-old model client of his who only gained 16 pounds during her pregnancy and now I hate her with a passion that is indescribable.
Our Midwife recommends walking five miles a day in order to facilitate an easier labor. But seeing as how I'm not completely insane, I'm not walking five miles a day. At best I'm doing two miles. I know when Krumholtz is pushing his enormous head through my extremely slender pelvis (I'm so skinny, you guys) I will rue all the days I didn't walk five miles. But, really, who has time to walk five miles a day when there's all this cake with buttercream frosting to be eaten?
Secondly, my good friend, Tom Viola at Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, whom I've known forever, read the blog and contacted The Actors Fund on my behalf. I am relieved to say that The Actors Fund has come through for me in a major way and I will be forever in their debt.
If you would like to help me in thanking either organization, please click one of the links below to send a tax deductible donation! Think of it as a baby shower gift!
In other news, all the baby books say it's common for pregnant ladies to have vivid dreams. I've had extraordinarily bizarre dreams all my life. When I was a teenager I dreamt once that I was giving a 20 foot high devil a blow job. Please don't ask me about the mechanics of that. I have no idea. Generally, my dreams have been epic and complicated.
I've only had a handful of dreams about my mother in the nearly 20 years since her death, though, which is disappointing and somehow ends up making me feel guilty. Like, if I were a better daughter I would dream about her more often. Early on the dreams were about seeing her on the subway and trying to get her attention only to catch up to her and realize she was a little, old Chinese lady (she had a similar build to the little, old Chinese ladies I used to see in China Town.). And, of course I had a couple dreams in which she was inexplicably back in my life and no one wanted to address the impossibility of that.
Oddly enough, the past six months have proven largely quiet on the dream front. In the week after we decided to go through with this whole thing and have the kid I dreamt I gave birth to a perfectly viable three inch baby. I swaddled it and carried it around in a pocket protector. That same week I dreamt we had a sonogram that was like a perfect snapshot and we found out the baby was half Japanese. . . When I reported this to Dr. Yamaguchi she said, "You didn't tell me I was the father!" She was a great O.B. Otherwise I've had a couple apocalyptic dreams in which I had to fight bad guys (or zombies) while carrying a newborn. Kurt had a dream in which someone gave us a baby Orangutan to care for. One of it's arms was longer than the other. I'm really hoping these dreams aren't prophetic. Otherwise, I'll be giving birth to a three inch, Japanese, lopsided Orangutan during a zombie apocalypse. Here's a picture my good friend, Angie O'Neal made for me upon reading this entry:
Next week is our first official appointment with our Midwife. I started keeping a food log so I could report to her how amazingly awesome my diet has been. But once I realized how often I was writing "One piece of cake with buttercream frosting", I abandoned the log. A friend told me about a 25-year-old model client of his who only gained 16 pounds during her pregnancy and now I hate her with a passion that is indescribable.
Our Midwife recommends walking five miles a day in order to facilitate an easier labor. But seeing as how I'm not completely insane, I'm not walking five miles a day. At best I'm doing two miles. I know when Krumholtz is pushing his enormous head through my extremely slender pelvis (I'm so skinny, you guys) I will rue all the days I didn't walk five miles. But, really, who has time to walk five miles a day when there's all this cake with buttercream frosting to be eaten?
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
On My Own
My health insurance ran out on December 31st. The nice lady with Cigna quoted me in the ballpark of $750 a month to maintain my insurance through Cobra for 3 months which wouldn't have gotten me to my due date. No insurance company will take me because pregnancy is considered a pre-existing condition. Like cancer. Not that that matters since I can't afford self-pay coverage anyway. Any plan I can afford has a deductible so high that if I did find myself in a situation in which I needed to use the health insurance I'd go bankrupt, so, in the end, I don't see the point.
Kurt has insurance through his job as well as USAA insurance because his father was a pilot in the Air Force. But even if we were married, the cost for dependents on his insurance through work is more than we can fork over and, get this, USAA doesn't offer maternity coverage. I guess Veterans don't have babies.
So, yesterday I had the immense pleasure of spending a couple hours at the social services office in Pasadena. The Pasadena branch was recommended by friends when I told them about my experience at the Wilshire branch at which a lady who looked like this:
told me that I should arrive at 8am and be prepared to spend the entire day there. The Pasadena office, my friends assured me, would be much quicker and less painful. And it was quick, relatively speaking. Two hours beats a whole day, especially when the bulk of that time will likely be spent waiting on a hard plastic chair in a waiting room filled with screaming babies and generally freaked out people with seemingly no concept of public decorum. It's not that I expect people to sit quietly with their hands folded in their laps, but listening to music on your phone without headphones (and by "music" I mean something that had some kind of beat and a lot of sounds of gun shots and wolf whistles) or whistling the same two (flat) notes over and over again just seems to me to be, you know, not behavior to engage in in a crowded room filled with stressed out people ready to snap. Then again, I'm sort of an asshole, so, who knows.
A woman sitting across the aisle from me with an extremely new baby in her arms and a crying infant in a stroller handed the infant AN EMPTY BOTTLE. I don't mean that there was a little milk or formula in the bottle. I mean the thing was bone dry. I don't think the inside of that bottle had EVER seen any kind of liquid. So, the kid sucks down some air for a minute or so until she realizes nothing is going to come out of that thing and she starts wailing again at which point her mother leans in and says, "WHY ARE YOU STILL CRYING??"
I'm called into the office where I follow a woman through a labyrinth of hallways into a back office. She sits down across her desk from me, mumbles her name and asks me for my I.D.
She asks me if I have pay stubs from my unemployment insurance. I explain that there are no pay stubs with unemployment insurance but hand her my latest Notice of Unemployment Insurance Benefits Determination form. One would think this form would kind of supersede a pay stub as it lists the benefit amount and how much total I will be paid over time in bi-monthly payments. But, no, they really need pay stubs.
"But there are no pay stubs," I repeat.
"Then what about a bank statement?" She asks.
"There's no bank statement, either, " I say. "There's no actual bank account. I get an EDD debit card. I withdraw the money from the EDD account and put it in my bank account. . . in cash. It's a government program. Kinda like... you know, what you guys provide."
She gives me an open-mouthed, vacant stare.
"Well, hopefully the determination notice you gave will be enough."
"Yes. Hopefully," I sigh.
Shy types what must be an opus into her computer.
"You're getting pregnancy only coverage," she tells me, finally.
"I'd like to get full coverage."
"You don't qualify."
"Pardon?"
"You make too much income."
"I'm on unemployment!"
"The cut off is $1,262 a month," she says.
I don't even know what I can possibly say to this. This woman doesn't make the rules. There's no point screaming at her, though that's what I REALLY want to do. But seriously? $1262? What kind of fucking demented douche bag is setting the poverty level?
"So, if I break my arm," I say, as calmly as I possibly can, "I'm not covered?"
"If you get sick beyond the pregnancy, you're not covered."
Sick beyond the pregnancy.
"Who's your O.B.?" She asks.
"I don't have an O.B. I have a midwife."
"But who's your doctor?"
"I don't have a doctor. I have a midwife."
"Is that where they have the baby at home?"
"....... I am planning on having the baby at home."
"We don't cover that."
"You don't say."
Someone else comes by to tell me that I have to put my boyfriend on the form if I want to apply for food stamps. I wasn't going to apply for food stamps, but I'd heard you get a free breast pump if you're on food stamps when you have a baby. I know immediately Kurt's income will make me ineligible for food stamps.
"But we're not married," I offer.
"It doesn't matter. You share meals together, right?"
"I mean, yeah."
"So we have to check his income."
"Fine. I won't apply for food stamps."
The next four forms I sign are for food stamps.
"Why am I signing this if I'm not applying for food stamps?" I ask.
"It's okay."
"Okay, but this form is for food stamps."
"Yes."
"And I'm not applying for food stamps."
"That's okay."
"Okay. I've always been told not to sign forms with incorrect information on them."
"This is the form."
I sigh again and sign the form at which point this woman actually says to me, "You seem upset. Are you okay?"
"No. I'm not okay. I'm pissed. I'm angry at this system."
The next form I sign is a sign stating I've changed my mind about food stamps and am not applying after all.
At the end of this I'm handed a form with a list of things I need to mail in including:
"You can apply for this to cover other medical issues," she says as she closes the door behind me.
I was so ready to get out of there at that point that I just folded up the flyer and shoved it in my purse.
I call The Actors' Fund to see about getting assistance to pay for Cobra. If I qualify, I can get a one time grant of $700. That's more forms and appointments. I suppose I can reapply for the assistance each month. I didn't ask.
I call my parents to fill them in. My dad says,
"Did you tell the person at The Actors' Fund how much money you've helped raise for them over the years?"
"I don't think that's a factor," I tell him.
I get home and before collapsing for a nap I rummage for the Healthy Way L.A. flyer. I figure I'll give myself the rest of the day off and call them the next day. Then I see the following two criteria for eligibility:
Will someone please explain to me how Canada's health care system is worse than ours.
In other news, here's a recent picture of me watching my dogs eat each other while I wear a t-shirt on my head.
Lastly, if you like this blog, please subscribe, share it with your friends and go here to nominate it for best blog from Parents magazine.
Kurt has insurance through his job as well as USAA insurance because his father was a pilot in the Air Force. But even if we were married, the cost for dependents on his insurance through work is more than we can fork over and, get this, USAA doesn't offer maternity coverage. I guess Veterans don't have babies.
So, yesterday I had the immense pleasure of spending a couple hours at the social services office in Pasadena. The Pasadena branch was recommended by friends when I told them about my experience at the Wilshire branch at which a lady who looked like this:
A woman sitting across the aisle from me with an extremely new baby in her arms and a crying infant in a stroller handed the infant AN EMPTY BOTTLE. I don't mean that there was a little milk or formula in the bottle. I mean the thing was bone dry. I don't think the inside of that bottle had EVER seen any kind of liquid. So, the kid sucks down some air for a minute or so until she realizes nothing is going to come out of that thing and she starts wailing again at which point her mother leans in and says, "WHY ARE YOU STILL CRYING??"
I'm called into the office where I follow a woman through a labyrinth of hallways into a back office. She sits down across her desk from me, mumbles her name and asks me for my I.D.
She asks me if I have pay stubs from my unemployment insurance. I explain that there are no pay stubs with unemployment insurance but hand her my latest Notice of Unemployment Insurance Benefits Determination form. One would think this form would kind of supersede a pay stub as it lists the benefit amount and how much total I will be paid over time in bi-monthly payments. But, no, they really need pay stubs.
"But there are no pay stubs," I repeat.
"Then what about a bank statement?" She asks.
"There's no bank statement, either, " I say. "There's no actual bank account. I get an EDD debit card. I withdraw the money from the EDD account and put it in my bank account. . . in cash. It's a government program. Kinda like... you know, what you guys provide."
She gives me an open-mouthed, vacant stare.
"Well, hopefully the determination notice you gave will be enough."
"Yes. Hopefully," I sigh.
Shy types what must be an opus into her computer.
"You're getting pregnancy only coverage," she tells me, finally.
"I'd like to get full coverage."
"You don't qualify."
"Pardon?"
"You make too much income."
"I'm on unemployment!"
"The cut off is $1,262 a month," she says.
I don't even know what I can possibly say to this. This woman doesn't make the rules. There's no point screaming at her, though that's what I REALLY want to do. But seriously? $1262? What kind of fucking demented douche bag is setting the poverty level?
"So, if I break my arm," I say, as calmly as I possibly can, "I'm not covered?"
"If you get sick beyond the pregnancy, you're not covered."
Sick beyond the pregnancy.
"Who's your O.B.?" She asks.
"I don't have an O.B. I have a midwife."
"But who's your doctor?"
"I don't have a doctor. I have a midwife."
"Is that where they have the baby at home?"
"....... I am planning on having the baby at home."
"We don't cover that."
"You don't say."
Someone else comes by to tell me that I have to put my boyfriend on the form if I want to apply for food stamps. I wasn't going to apply for food stamps, but I'd heard you get a free breast pump if you're on food stamps when you have a baby. I know immediately Kurt's income will make me ineligible for food stamps.
"But we're not married," I offer.
"It doesn't matter. You share meals together, right?"
"I mean, yeah."
"So we have to check his income."
"Fine. I won't apply for food stamps."
The next four forms I sign are for food stamps.
"Why am I signing this if I'm not applying for food stamps?" I ask.
"It's okay."
"Okay, but this form is for food stamps."
"Yes."
"And I'm not applying for food stamps."
"That's okay."
"Okay. I've always been told not to sign forms with incorrect information on them."
"This is the form."
I sigh again and sign the form at which point this woman actually says to me, "You seem upset. Are you okay?"
"No. I'm not okay. I'm pissed. I'm angry at this system."
The next form I sign is a sign stating I've changed my mind about food stamps and am not applying after all.
At the end of this I'm handed a form with a list of things I need to mail in including:
- Proof of rent
- Latest utility bills
- Car registration
- Checking and savings account statements
- The last two pay stubs from unemployment
"You can apply for this to cover other medical issues," she says as she closes the door behind me.
I was so ready to get out of there at that point that I just folded up the flyer and shoved it in my purse.
I call The Actors' Fund to see about getting assistance to pay for Cobra. If I qualify, I can get a one time grant of $700. That's more forms and appointments. I suppose I can reapply for the assistance each month. I didn't ask.
I call my parents to fill them in. My dad says,
"Did you tell the person at The Actors' Fund how much money you've helped raise for them over the years?"
"I don't think that's a factor," I tell him.
I get home and before collapsing for a nap I rummage for the Healthy Way L.A. flyer. I figure I'll give myself the rest of the day off and call them the next day. Then I see the following two criteria for eligibility:
- Has a monthly income at or below 133% of the Federal Poverty Level, which in 2011, is $1207 per month for a family of one
- Not pregnant and not eligible for Medi-Cal or Healthy Families
Will someone please explain to me how Canada's health care system is worse than ours.
In other news, here's a recent picture of me watching my dogs eat each other while I wear a t-shirt on my head.
Lastly, if you like this blog, please subscribe, share it with your friends and go here to nominate it for best blog from Parents magazine.
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