"Normal"

2-16-09

The results are in: I am (mostly) normal in terms of my clotting abilities and thyroid. Dr. Awesome emails me the lab report, which sends me into AP Biology flashback tremors--A heterozygo-wha? Thankfully she also sends her translation from science to laywoman. Basically, I am normal. Except, possibly, for my homocysteine levels. I am a genetic carrier of a mutation, which does make me grip my chest and say “Oh my,” but this mutation isn’t anything cool like mind-reading powers or tongue tricks. No, it is possible but not likely that my homocysteine levels may lead me to have blood-clotting issues. I tell my mom this over the phone during the mandatory but strained miscarriage check-in part of the weekly conversation.

“Well, your grandfather had problems with blood clots.”

Hmmm…could he be my homocysteine source? I rarely think about my grandfather until somebody asks about your first experience with death. He had the honor. He was 81, suffering from some kind of cancer. He was the type of grandpa who seemed impossibly old from the get-go: shiny bald, a chain-smoker with a permanent wheeze and hacking cough, and a Santa-like physique. Aside from our shared penchant for smoking, could we be joined by homocysteine?

Dr. Awesome says that we can get back in the pregnancy game unless we want to be sure about the homocysteine, in which case I can fast and then have my levels check. My first reaction: Fuck no! Fasting? Hell no!! We have a saying around our house: Don’t make Kt hungry, you wouldn’t like her when she’s hungry. Dr. Awesome goes on to say that the treatment for the unlikely case of high homocysteine levels is folic acid and B6 supplements. During both pregnancies I had been taking the recommended levels of folic acid, well-schooled am I in the effects of not enough folate on growing fetuses. B6 became part of my supplement regimen to quell the nausea. Does this mean we’re back where we started from?

I share the results with Mr. Crud. I also share my reluctance to undergo the homocysteine test. In addition to the whole fasting issue is the cost. Today we received our bill for the blood tests and saline sonogram. Over $2,000. Sure, insurance will pick up most of that, but still, it makes me wish they had found something wrong so I’d be getting my money’s worth.

“But you’ll do it, right? If Dr. Awesome says you should?” Mr. Crud asks. I realize what a huge wimp I am. I remember Jan and the ovary stress tests and hormone tests that she did in her quest for successful pregnancy. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.

“Yeah, I will. But what’s the point if the only treatment is taking vitamins that I’m already taking?”

“Good point.”

I email Dr. Awesome with this very question. She promises answers in a few days. It’s cool. I can wait. Since last month’s flurry of pregnancy desire, my levels have fallen off. I’m hitting the high fertility times and, at the moment, have zero desire to be knocked up. I’m liking my wine right now. My yoga practice is feeling great. My teacher even commented that some of the back issues, which have plagued me for the last 8 months, seem to have resolved themselves. My pants fit without the uncomfortable bulge over the waistband. Life is good.

Thanks to Facebook, I’m indulging in some nostalgia for the good old days of beer, rock shows on school nights, and viewing motherhood as just another form of patriarchical bondage. Seriously. In my early twenties, I took several writing classes with women who had children. Upon learning they were mothers, my first thought was always—and I’m not proud of this—why the hell would you do something like that? Now you’re just a mother. Oh the sweet assaholic twenties. I knew everything and was sure that I would never ever in a million years want to push a watermelon out of my lady parts. I had so much time and so many options.

I tell Mr. Crud of my swing back to the childless side of things. He’s cool.

“In other words Lyla wore off. I think our trip to visit Emma will cure that.” He’s got a point.

It would be nice to go on a vacation without being pregnant. All of my vacations last year coincided with the gnarly days of the first trimester. I think I’ll keep it in my pants—or at least protected—for another month.

Dirty martini, please.