Archimedes Inside and Out:
Chronicle of a Pregnancy
by Yumiko Shinoda
Part 1 | Part 2 | next
Part 1: A Pregnant Liar
Month 2
I am a terrible liar. I stutter, start and stop, cackle like an enthusiastic witch, then say something completely ludicrous. Not pretty. Afterwards, I can never remember to whom I told what or why I decided I needed to lie. I hate being put in a position where outright lying or even omitting an important truth is a viable alternative. There may be a fine distinction between the two, but I think with friends in particular, omission makes one just as guilty as bold-faced lying.
Lately, I've found myself in this situational straitjacket a lot. It's because I'm nine weeks pregnant, which I'm overjoyed about but can't share with anyone because The Book says you're not supposed to. The Book is apparently the bible of the dos and mostly don'ts of pregnancy, and it dispenses laws more than helpful suggestions. I think if you violate the rules, The Book dispatches a large baby rattle that descends from the sky and whacks you a good one to get you back in line.
The reason for the gag order is that so many pregnancies end in miscarriage in the first trimester, and The Book cautions that talking about miscarriage is not fun for anyone. Ok, so I can respect that. But it's not like I want to hire a bi-plane to buzz by office buildings with a big red banner flowing behind it, advertising my joy to the world. And anyway, I may as well tell my close friends because if I were to miscarry (knock-on-wood-no), then I'll be randomly weepy – which will be creepy if people don't know why.
But The Book is The Book and not to be ignored. So my husband Liam and I made a pact. We would tell no one until the end of the trimester.
I cracked almost immediately. In addition to being a terrible liar, I am overly conscious that I am a terrible liar, so I pretty much throw in the towel the moment I'm put in an awkward situation. I'm glad that my husband loves me because he finds this frustratingly endearing instead of totally pathetic.
I cracked first to my friend Angela, on the day I found out. I cracked because I was in shock that day, and she asked me what was wrong. I couldn't lie. I admit it was an impressive display of spinelessness.
A few days later, my friend Ron kept asking when I was going to the gym to do kick boxing and spinning and all sorts of other high effort exercises. I hemmed, hawed, and my excuses were so pathetic, I soon got the "why the fuck are you wimping out, loser" treatment — he's a muscle-y guy from Staten Island — and cracked again.
It's not like I enjoy my spineless position on the food chain, right below jellyfish. But I can't stop myself.
Ron's sweet and innocent wife, Tina, kept asking me when I was going to get a puppy. And if I were going to try rock climbing. Or if I wanted to join them for sushi. Poke, poke, and timber! Away I fell. Again. Arrgh!
Same thing with Tim and Sharon who wanted to celebrate the holidays with some homemade eggnog (read: eggs, cream, booze). Ok, that one, I admit, was a total lack of willpower on my part because I did want to tell them and the eggnog was just a convenient excuse.
By then, in Liam's view my cracking had moved from endearingly frustrating to irritating. He had told no one, even though he was so happy when the pregnancy test was positive he did a victory dance around our bedroom. I detailed for him my reasons for each crack, and also added a new caveat that health care professionals didn't count. He looked at me blankly. So I explained that I had to tell Sheetal, my Pilates teacher, why I was skipping. You can't lie to your Pilates teacher, for God's sake! That relationship is tight.
Also, I had to tell my Brazilian facialist, Sonya, in case she was going to use that electro-zit-zapper thing. That's another tight relationship that should not be violated.
Liam was exasperated, but he hugged me sweetly anyway.
A few days later, I told him I had another caveat. He didn't look surprised.
"Ok, so if I happen to slip to a friend who lives in another city, it doesn't count, right?" I queried.
He held his head in his hands. "Who else knows now? Or rather, who doesn't know, since that number might be smaller."
My new indiscretions were apparently acceptable only because Liam likes my friends Tammye (who lives in London, which is not only another city but on another continent altogether) and Cindy (whom I had to tell because she convinced me to do this writing thing, which is really quite personal).
I have suggested that my one saving grace when I crack – flimsy as it may be – is that I start off with "I shouldn't be saying this but…" and end with "Please don't tell anyone – I don't want to jinx this." Liam says that while charming, these pre/suf-fixes don't really temper my inability to keep a personal secret.
But I still have a lot of people to tell yet, so I feel like I'm doing a lot better than I really am.
Liam hasn't told anyone because he doesn't want something to go badly and inadvertently broadcast his disappointment to the world. I understand, but I can't imagine holding the disappointment inside ourselves. So to avoid getting ahead of things, we are careful to say "Miko's pregnant," rather than "We're having a baby." It feels safer because where the latter is clearly an aspiration, the former seems like a temporary medical condition.
Unfortunately this logic breaks down when we need to refer to the future baby. Calling it "It" seems heartless, as does "The Thing." To get around this, we have pre-named the future baby a name that won't stick for real: Archimedes. It's fun to say (go on, try saying it ten times fast!) and every time we say it, it makes us laugh. And laughing about a name can't jinx things, can it?
I guess we'll find out soon enough. 
Part 2: Sanity Hijacked
Month 3
I get paid to be paranoid. I help corporate clients figure out how to manage the risk inherent in their trading organizations – that is, everywhere under the sun – but especially focusing on low probability/high cost eventualities. This is a cursed background to have as a pregnant woman, because the first trimester is all about not losing or creating congenital defects in your unborn embryo, then fetus. And of course my mind is racing at warp speed, thinking through all the potential negative outcomes. Trying to be rational and remembering that that probabilities are not additive does not help me one whit.
The Book, that almighty authority on pregnancy, doesn't have a whole lot to say about what to do in the first trimester, other than be happy, don't drink/smoke, and eat healthy. But it spends a lot of pages on every possible thing that can go wrong, with accompanying symptoms that are not only general but tremendously vague.
"Stomach pains on either side" suddenly translate to an ectopic pregnancy, which means it's gotta end via surgery. When I get up from the sofa after spending some quality time with my friends Ben and Jerry, I sometimes get that! Also, "lack of morning sickness" can indicate not enough hormones and poor embryo development. Holy shit! Some days I'm a vomit machine, other days I'm not. Does that mean that the embryo is going to have a big head and a wimpy body and be so unbalanced that it doesn't make it through the first trimester? The Book gets me super-freak paranoid, but I have only two choices: Run to the doctor every time I eat a burrito, or sit tight until the end of the first trimester – the first big hurdle.
Because I've had some bona fide difficulties already, my doctor ordered up an ultrasound and a shitload of blood tests. The days before the tests, my mind is hijacked by a band of wild horses, driven by the crazy Progesterone Brothers, hell-bent on flicking me expertly around. Unfortunately, the hijacking is interspersed with meaningful periods of sanity, so it is difficult to anticipate when a ride might jumpstart.
A trip to the grocery store is a prime example. In the produce section, I realize that most of these healthy veggies do not have homes in my refrigerator. Oh, no. Low grade anxiety sets in, and I know I'm on the on ramp to the great ride.
Stop #1: Panic and Paranoia. I am consuming nowhere near the recommended dosages of leafy dark green vegetables. Even if I bought a JuiceMan, there's no way could I down all the stuff I need to. Shit! I'm starving the fetus and possibly creating congential defects by the dozen, right now!
Which takes us to Stop #2: Impatience, Frustration, Rage and Insanity, conveniently in one stop because the progression through these emotions is nearly and scarily instantaneous. I need to eat a huge salad, with a boiled egg or a hunk of peanut butter, right now. Is there a café here? I wheel around to the left, down Aisle 10. Move it, big boy, get outta my way! Maybe by the checkout stands? Is one there? There has GOT to be one here, it's so freaking yuppie happy-clappy organic. No?! You have got to be f***ing kidding me! What the f*** is wrong with this place? Are these people f***ing stupid? No, they are trying to f**ing kill me!
Unfortunately, Stop #2, while not scenic in the least, is a recurring favorite on the Progesterone Brothers hormonal joyride. And getting caught in a Stop #1-#2 loop is ugliness and horror. The only thing that can break the cycle is the next stop.
Stop #3: Sentimentality and Tears. I'm usually not susceptible to these things, so this stop is hugely scary for me. After glaring at the poor produce guy and doing laps around the ice cream section, somehow I end up in the card and magazine section. I rifle through the super-cheesy Hallmark selection. That card is huge! What can it possibly say to fill up all that space? Hmpf. It's kind of sweet, actually. Sniffle. The one next to it is kind of pretty with that big sparkly sunset. Sniffle, sniffle. I need a tissue. Maybe I'll get a magazine instead. What's up with Oprah? Look at her with the puppies and babies and stuff. Sniffle, sniffle. That is so great she's doing that (bawl) charity work. Where are my goddamn tissues?! Why is that guy looking at me funny? Freak! I gotta get out of here.
Stop #3 is far better in public than in private. I have found that I'm physically unable to change the channel from Golden Girls reruns or local TV news kiddie stories. My head hangs, my shoulders slump. It's official: I'm pathetic.
Last stop, finally! Stop #4: Baseless Happy Happy, Joy Joy! I sling my leafy green vegetable-laden cart around the aisles in search of protein sources. Meat-only protein apparently is bad. I need cereal. Hey, that Smart Start Soy Protein is new – and whoa, has a ton of protein. How much? 10 grams? Holy shit, that is fricking fantastic! And 2 for 1! What a great day! I love this store! And soy bean farmers! Who can I hug?!
Volume-weighted, Stop #4 craziness occupies only about 20% of my time. I thought pregnancy was supposed to be 100% glowy happy. Instead, my paranoid stop takes up about 50%, with anger and insanity coming in at a strong but deceptively low 25%, if you don't count psychotic dreams. The cheese-and-weep stop brings up the rear at a thankfully low, yet still disturbing share of 5%.
This exercise of breaking down the elements of my insanity helps a bit and distracts me from facing the fact that I'm clearly mental.
The Progesterone Brothers whip me around mercilessly, but the day I've been both dreading and looking forward to finally arrives. The night before, I talked to Archimedes about the potential outcomes and, in a few moments of clear normal sanity, made peace with the situation. It was my husband, Liam, who bawled uncontrollably during my chat and at the prospect of no Archimedes. Maybe the Progesterone Brothers have found a new passenger?
I had the ultrasound (with an ominous looking device resembling a gargantuan dildo), and thankfully everything was fine. Liam and I saw Archimedes for the first time (Archimedea, in case it's a girl). Archimedes/a was OK – heart beating and legs kicking! To be honest, I couldn't get which end was head versus ass so the ultrasound technician had to keep on pointing it out. I didn't care. Relief, elation, white light happiness blocked everything else out.
The follow-up visit let us hear Archimedes/a's heart beat. More elation and ear-to-ear, eye-disappearing smiles. Weeks of staring at the calendar, desperate willing of days to go by faster, melt away from my memory. In a few days, Archimedes/a's first trimester will be over, and this first huge obstacle will become history. I can only hope that the Progesterone Brothers will keep their goddamn distance in the next phase.
Copyright © 2002 Yumiko Shinoda.
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