My Frenemy – Compression Hose

    

     I noticed my lower body starting to expand and thicken during the course of pregnancy, most noticeably in my lower legs and especially my feet. This is saying something, because I am a pretty sturdy woman to begin with (or as a few men of color have complemented – “White Chocolate” and “Healthy”). At about week 34 this had become downright problematic, uncomfortable and even painful at times. The swelling got worse every day and everyone was telling me to put my feet up. I was working 6 days a week until I was about 35 or 36 weeks, then dropped to 5 work days a week until I hit my “work wall” a week or so later. I worked out with a trainer twice a week until about week 37 or 38, and awesome guy named Andrew who turned out to be the 3^rd person I announced my pregnancy to (the order went: Duncan the impregnator, the OB receptionist I made an appointment with, and then Andrew. He had to know for pregnancy safety reasons, and I settled into exhaustion so quickly my physical prowess declined at an alarming rate). So, the only time I really got to put my feet up was when I went to bed, and my feet were never much better in the morning. Andrew trained me through my entire pregnancy -- keeping me prepared for the biggest physical event of my life. 
 

      The first pregnancy hormone induced meltdown I had was over shoes. I had been riding the edge of frustration all day and felt like I was running perpetually five minutes late on everything life-related and was so pregnant I couldn't get out of my own way. Almost out the door to my workout and I sat down to put my gym shoes on. They. Wouldn't. Go. Not even close. It was like I was trying to cram my foot into a five year old's shoe. I crumpled. I cried like everybody I ever loved died. All at the same time. Chest heaving sobs, snot, and eyes red and puffed up like I had just tried to wipe my tears with mace. 

      On the few occasions I have taken a mini vacation into hysteria (you know, for the souvenirs and postcards) my mind has this “Primal Being” doing the messy bits by going through the experience and reacting to it while I have what I call an “Observer” or simply “Higher Self” sort of watching the whole thing with a sort of clinical detachment, lab coat on and clip board in hand taking notes. As I sobbed my Observer raised her eyebrows and said “humph -- so this is what a full fledged pregnancy meltdown looks like. Fascinating.” She jotted a few notes onto her clipboard and said “Well, those exercises aren't going to do themselves, and we'll feel better once we do them. We should rinse our face now and go in our flip flops before we are any more late." So I/We did. With my sunglasses on the whole time to cover my exceptional case of mace face. Like a famous person. A really pregnant famous person. A really pregnant famous person handling fat foot syndrome like a boss.

      I was about to get another kind of pregnancy workout in my life. My OB office wrote me a prescription for compression panty hose. 35-40 mmHg (millimeters of mercury is a pressure measurement). I went to the home healthcare store only to find out my insurance did not cover compression hose for pregnancy. (I'm torn between calling to demand why and afraid I may verbalize my opinion on the matter in such a way as to get my insurance cancelled just before I deliver this baby.) How much are they out of pocket? $55 to $155? I got up to leave empty handed when the nice young lady at the counter actually caught sight of my feet as I turned to go. Either that or she heard the wet squishing sounds I'm convinced my feet must be making with every step at this point. They looked like square pink waterbeds with fat vienna sausages sticking out for toes. I felt like Godzilla -- like I could flatten entire cities with these feet -- if only it didn't hurt so much to put pressure on them. She would not let me leave. This sweet young lady went digging through a 40% off rack and found me a set of compression hose (different brand but same pressure prescribed) that came to $35. Pulled out a few different sizes for me to try. It was the first time in my life I hoped there were cameras in the dressing room I was using. That would have captured the funniest shit that ever happened in that little room. 
 

      Me trying to get my feet and legs into these hose could probably be compared to a baby trying to escape the womb during birth. And trying to accomplish this over my big immovable pregnancy belly quickly emptied my breath reserves. I almost requested an oxygen tank. I was a fat Lucille Ball whose prop to be funny was a boa constrictor strength pair of pantyhose. I never even got a full pair on in the store. I just found the size I could actually get one leg into. It felt like I had just run a half marathon. I counted it as exercise time for the day on the pregnancy app on my phone. 
 

      Pregnancy has been a slow (and at times accelerated) process of letting go of self. What I look like. What I can do (I can no longer get out of somebody's way by turning sideways!). How I can do it (can no longer wash my butt in the shower by reaching through...I have to reach around). I have always appreciated my body for carrying me strong and uncomplaining through this life. I felt BAD for my feet, like they were sick and I was failing them after 43 years of faithful service. Might sound strange but it's my truth. 
 

Rocking the hose, torturing the footies

      This has all been preamble for the proper steps for applying compression hose. After careful research and experimenting – you're welcome. First I collapse onto my back into bed with the infuriating garment in hand. Gathering the material up in my hands to the toes did no good- too much pressure woven in the hose to pull up. I could only pinch and pull the material over my foot inches at a time until my toes were to the ends. This leaves a deep rubber band mark around the ankle, and then mid calf, then knee and so on. Remember I'm doing this on my back over a full term belly. That in and of itself requires a litany of noises that can be described as “old man who forgot to eat his prunes trying to take a poop” and, well, probably birth itself. I'll know in a few days. There is then a period of collapse and gasping that comes before repeating the whole process with the other leg. Both legs in count as a full marathon. Then comes the most important part. Once I have thrashed and grunted away the last of my dignity -- I shuffle into our home office to my calm tea drinking partner wearing nothing but compression hose and the pregnant mound of his son where I used to have abs -- tears streaming down my face. He freezes, mug of tea paused inches from his lips doing a quick mental tally of what he may have possibly done wrong to cause my tears. I pant for breath because crying while pregnant is also exercise. I have a baby in my diaphragm, and my compression hose are also squeezing the hell out of my mid-section. “Honey (sniffle sob) I need you (tears and snot) to tell me (hyperventilate) that you love me (insert more hysteria here) AND I'M PRETTY!!!" 

     And of course my love being the amazing man he is enfolds me in his arms and soothes into my ear that I could not be more beautiful as I am in the full flower of my Goddess-dom and is really relieved that he is not the cause of my tears. 
  
     Usually I own my situation with a healthy attitude.  I have also, wearing only those compression hose and the sexiest lunch lady bra I now own, done an enthusiastic booty dance to Mr. Cheeks “Lights, Camera, Action” for my lucky lucky man. He swears that dance will be on his highlight reel at the end of his life.