Nope, Didn't Need That

6-22-09

Last week I start writing this post in my head as I chase my 3-year-old nephew and 6-year-old niece around the Crud household. I marvel at their energy, their mercurial emotional life (from dancing to hysterical weeping in less than 6 seconds), and their general awesomeness. I also marvel that any mother could remain sane during a second pregnancy with a young ‘un scampering about the house demanding orange juice and yogurt. Kudos to you, ladies. I think that our plan to stop at one—G-d willing—is a wise choice because I can’t fathom keeping my shit together while feeling nauseous, exhausted and bargaining with a toddler.

Alas, such fun and games are not what this post is about.

Saturday shortly after the departure of the extended Crud family, I notice a bug bite like bump on my belly. And then another one. And another. As I stand naked in front of the mirror ready for my shower I see that they are all over my torso. My gut lurches. Should I be freaking out? I step out of my body and try to reason with myself. Freaking out will do no good. Take a deep breath. Take a shower. Get out and calmly call for a second opinion from Mr. Crud.

I shower. I bargain with myself. Chicken pox? Rubella? Measles? None of these are good for the pregnant. But I already had chicken pox. Oh, but it was a mild case. Maybe I didn’t have it enough. Calm. Stay calm.

I get out of the shower and notice the spots have darkened. Deep breath.

“Hon? Could you come take a look at something?” I call into his office en route to the bedroom.

He jumps up from his seat. “What? Is everything okay?”

Dang. My moderated tone is freaking him out more.

We examine the evidence. Yup, those are surely bumps. They don’t itch. They just are.

“I’d almost understand if they were itchy. Like hives or something.”

Mr. Crud’s face is worry. “You want me to call the doctor?” I ask.

“Please.”

I am lucky. My clinic has hours on Saturday and they can squeeze me in. I felt sheepish while dialing the phone. I imagine myself leaning on the counter, “Well, usually I’m a wait and see kind of gal, but I’m pregnant, you know.” I’d roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of coming to see the doctor mere hours after discovering a rash. But on the phone my voice waivers. “Normally I wouldn’t be so worried, but I’m 8 weeks pregnant.” I leave out the part about the miscarriages. I strive to not be overly TMI unless necessary.

“We’ll see you at noon.” The receptionist says.

I spend the next hour googling and consulting the preg books. Yup, chicken pox would indeed be bad news. There are pregnancy specific rashes, but they usually come on later. Wouldn’t it be just like me to be an exception. I am pretty fucking tired of being exceptional in the pregnancy arena. When will I be able to join the larger percentage? What is the secret code?

I check in at reception while a woman complains that she’s been waiting a half hour. You don’t know the half of it, sister, I think, remembering back to the eternal hour I waited for my first pregnancy test what seems like years ago.

“So this is for a rash?” The receptionist asks. “This isn’t pregnancy-related, correct?”

“Well, sort of. I wouldn’t be in here if I weren’t pregnant,” I say.

“Oh, I’m not sure how to code that.”

I blink. Me neither.

“I’ll let the doctor figure that out,” she says. “They’ll call you when they’re ready.”

In preparation for the appointment, I chugged a glass of water. I learned from my previous experience. I will be ready to pee in a cup this time. I’m starting to feel the fruits of my chugging as I take a seat.

“Kt,” they call me back.

They weigh me. 7 pounds more of me than my last appointment, but most of that is heavy clothes and water, I tell myself. I can’t have gained that much weight in 4 weeks. This is no time to beat myself up about being fat, but I get in a few good blows before being seated in an exam room.

We wait. And wait. The once vague sensation of needing to pee is now quickly becoming an emergency. I try to concentrate on my new book—the very fine Dear American Airlines by Jonathan Miles—but all I can think about is the bathroom down the hall. Do I risk losing my turn in line by going? What if they need a sample? Please ask me to pee in a cup! I’m ready for my pee cup!

After 30 minutes, the doctor du jour—not Dr. Awesome who has the weekend off—pops his pony-tailed head in. “Just a few more minutes. So sorry about the wait.”

He pops out again. Shit. I should have asked him if I could pee. But wouldn’t that have been an odd way to start out the relationship? Vaguely preschool. I cross my legs. Remember to be thankful that he could see you on such short notice, I tell myself.

Mr. Crud remembers that Dr. Du Jour is the one who gave him his much hated flexible sigmoidoscopy a few months ago.

“He was cool. He joked. He told me it was okay to fart.”

“Maybe you should take your pants off and see if he remembers you.” I say.

We laugh nervously.

Finally the doctor returns with more apologies. “No problem,” I say.

Dr. Du Jour sits down at the computer and pulls up my file. “So you have a rash.”

“Yes,” I say. “I wouldn’t have been so concerned except I’m about 8 weeks pregnant.”

“Congratulations!” His face lights up.

Both Mr. Crud and I look down. We look so glum that he starts to stumble into a question about whether it’s a desired pregnancy and do we need information about our options.

If I wasn’t so busy trying to convince him that yes, we do want this pregnancy, but that it’s a bit complicated, what with the 2 miscarriages in the last year and all, I would burst out laughing. Yes! An elective abortion would be a kind of relief. At least I would get to make the decision this time.

Instead we stumble through our little speech about our year of pregnancy loss. Yeah, we’re okay but nervous, which is why we’re here.

“So let’s take a look.”

I lift up my shirt and show him my spots. He touches them and makes “uh huh” noises and verbal notes to himself “raised areas.” “And you say it doesn’t itch?”

“Nope, not at all, unless I look at it too long.”

“Well, it’s not chicken pox if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I was. I let out a small sigh of relief.

“I think what you have is pityriasis rosea, which you’ll be glad to know carries no risks with pregnancy. But I can’t find a herald patch so I’ll need to get my colleague to confirm.”

Dr. Du Jour steps out.

“Feel better?” I ask.

Mr. Crud nods. “I’m glad we came in.”

Mr. Crud’s PCP returns with Dr. Du Jour for a second opinion on my rash. It’s a regular Mr. Crud medical care reunion up in here. Mr. Crud’s PCP takes a look and concurs with Dr. Du Jour. Pityriasis rosea it is! Neither are 100% sure since my symptoms are not classic but it’s “my story and I’m sticking to it.”

“Because I know you’ll do it at home, let’s google it and see what we can find.” Dr. Du Jour says.

First we find some nasty ass pictures of other sufferers which look nothing like my quaint bug bites. Damn, I hope this isn’t my future. Then he happens upon a recent study that links miscarriage with pityriasis rosea in early pregnancy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m glad that we found it together though.”

We scan the screen together. In an Italian study of 38 pregnant woman (“Not a very large sample size,” says Mr. Crud), researchers found that women who contract pityriasis rosea in the first 15 weeks of their pregnancy had a 62% higher rate of miscarriage. While Mr. Crud and Dr. Du Jour tease out the actual numbers (“Does that mean 3 women had miscarriages?” the doctors asks.) I tell myself to stay calm. We do our best to rip their study a new one, but conclude that it was a peer reviewed study and might have some validity.

“Well, if you miscarry, they can test for this,” he says.

Uh, thanks? Good? What the fuck?

See what I mean about not knowing all the things to worry about. A weird, non-itchy rash hadn’t even entered my head.

“I’m really sorry,” Dr. Du Jour says. “But there isn’t a treatment. If you develop serious itching or it spreads, give us a call. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, well, I guess there’s not really anything we can do so…” My voice trails off.

We are the last patients to leave the clinic. My overwhelming urge to pee has taken a back seat to this new wrinkle in my pregnancy. I find myself almost wishing for bad news so that the waiting and worrying will be over. Not really. I’d much rather get good news and start buying maternity clothes, but there is something to be said about feeling normal again, not sick and tired and even more emotionally exhausted from attempts to keep oneself from collapsing into tears.

We get home and I beeline for the bathroom. Good thing we waited. Seems I terrified myself into a case of fear-arrhea. Now that would have been REALLY embarrassing. Glad they didn’t ask for a urine sample.

I emerge. “So, we see Dr. Awesome next week for the ultrasound,” I say.

“Okay,” Mr. Crud says and pulls me into a hug.

“Whatever happens we’ll be okay,” I say. This is my new mantra. I’m coming pretty close to convincing myself it’s true.

In other news, I make my appointment for what has historically been the ultrasound of doom. The scheduler tells me to come to the office on the hill, the office where I had my saline sonogram. “We no longer have an office on the Waterfront,” she says.

“That’s great,” I say.

“Uh okay. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”

I suddenly feel light. No Audrey Hepburn! No trolley ride to the gorgeous glass building by the water that has been our undoing the last 2 times. I dial Mr. Crud. “I made the appointment. We go to the hill this time. No Center for Sadness and Disappointment!”

“What’s going on? You sound so happy.”

“I didn’t realize how much I’d been dreading going back there.”

I feel like we are breaking patterns and taking names. I google pityriasis rosea and miscarriage one more time, but quickly close the window. Time to revel in this tiny slice of joy. I’ll take it where I can get it.