8-20-09
My cell phone beep boop boops its disco ring from across my office. It’s gotta be them. Test results. Gulp.
“Good news! Your screen was negative, which is a convoluted way of saying that your chances for the genetic conditions we were testing for have gone way down,” says Genetic Counselor #3, whose name I’ve read on the website but is until this moment just a name on a website.
“That’s great!” I say, heartbeat in throat.
“Would you like me to go over the specific numbers with you?”
Oh hell yes.
They break down like this: Purvis’ chance of Down’s Syndrome is down from 1 in 130 to 1 in 1,300; Trisomy 18 is as low as it can go (1/10,000) and Spina Bifida is 1 in 6,000, six times lower than expected for my age. (Which will be 37 by the time Purvis meets us and is considered elderly in child-bearing world.)
“There is no recommended follow-up,” GC#3 says. “Congratulations!”
“I’m so glad you called. My husband and I have been talking a lot about amnio.”
“Of course you are always welcome to have amnio. It’s the only way to know for sure. But it’s not recommended with these results.”
I call Mr. Crud to share the good news. He takes a seat as I throw fractions at him with more gusto than any fraction I’ve ever talked about. Then he does what he does best—-tease apart the real meaning of what GC#3 said.
“By recommended does she mean not recommended in the neutral sense or that they don’t recommend that we have amnio?” He asks.
“Uh, I don’t know.” I scan my notes beside the numbers: bloodwork good, no follow-up.
“She probably means it in the neutral medical sense.” He says, slightly disappointed.
I am too. This whole process is nerve-wracking. Part of me wishes that we had gotten one of those infamous false positives so that amnio or whatever further testing there is to be done would be recommended and we wouldn’t have to decide for ourselves. Yes, I would really like to know 99.9% for sure that Purvis is—as I pray every morning despite it’s clunky language “developing normally”—but risking a miscarriage to get that information doesn’t feel right. At least at this moment of relief and yahoo-ness, it doesn’t. I might be waking up in the middle of the night after imagining Purvis’ tiny body twisted by some horrid genetic disorder and change my mind completely. But I don’t know. The more I think about the whole child-bearing enterprise, the more I come to terms with the fact—a fact of life that Mrs. Garrett should have included among lesser facts like don’t judge a book (or a fat girl) by its cover and Jo might not be a lesbian, just a tomboy—that life is uncertainty. Everything changes. Control is an illusion.
“I guess we should make a decision by the end of the weekend,” Mr. Crud says.
“That sounds fair.”
But I feel like I’m already leaving amnio behind, watching it get smaller in the rearview mirror as I look ahead to the next ultrasound in a few weeks, the anatomy scan that Doctor Awesome-in-Waiting (who will from here on out be known as Dr. Adorable because she looks like she’s 22, is petite of size, and very cute in addition to being a smart, reassuring doc) assures us will be fun. “You’ll get a cool 3-D picture to take home.”
We had our first meeting with Dr. Adorable last Friday. I spilled out my anxieties, which she carefully and gently countered with reality checks. (“Your chance of miscarriage have gone way down now that you’re in the second trimeter.”) We listened to Purvis’ galloping heartbeat and I felt a weeks worth of exhales pour forth. Unfortunately I did not feel such relief when seeing the number on the scale. Egads. Dr. Adorable said I was at the high end of normal, but I caught the drift that I might want to slow down the desert-fest. I knew I should have taken off my jacket before they weighed me! As long as the scale remains the most harrowing part of this pregnancy, I’m good. I’ve battled those numbers—and the impact on my self-esteem—before. I always thought that I’d be cool with getting fat when I got pregnant. Old habits die hard. Or as the yogis say, samskaras are a bitch. (The yogis don’t actually say that, but they might want to consider adding another sutra.)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
What Dreams May Come
8-11-09
Ah dreams. The playground of the unconscious mind. Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of free-range fear roaming around in my subconscious these days. Last night one facet of this dark diamond came out to play: I am sitting across the table from a close friend, telling her that I’ve had another miscarriage, my third.
“Well, at least it was pretty good timing. I was starting to eye Lucille Bluth’s martinis a bit too closely as of late,” Dream Me said, forcing a laugh. (We’ve been watching a lot of Arrested Development over the last few weeks, one of my “I’m pregnant, what the hell” purchases. My other AD-related dreams include one where David Cross and I became buddies and have a ball wisecracking and snarking about, and another where Will Arnett and I pal around. Please pardon this second dream digression. Other people’s dreams are about as interesting as…other people’s dreams.)
In my dream, I try to laugh off this miscarriage, performing an ill-considered “the funny thing about miscarriage” monologue while inside I am dying a little more with each lame joke. My friend sits there mute.
Cut to new dream scene where I sit alone, lamenting my membership in the 2% of women who have 3 miscarriages in a row. I am bereft, hopeless. What next? Adoption? Try again? The thought of trying again as I drag through week 15 sounds impossible. The fact that I’ve only been pregnant 15 weeks sounds even more impossible. When I wake up I keep turning this question over in my head. If necessary, could I really do this again?
I tell Mr. Crud of this latest manifestation of one of my greatest pregnancy fear.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says.
“I don’t either.” I wish somebody would pep talk my subconscious.
“I really wish my doctor’s appointment hadn’t been cancelled,” I say.
“Me too.”
Monday, yesterday, was supposed to be my first meeting with Dr. Awesome’s replacement while she’s on maternity leave. Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting cancelled due to either illness or being “called to the hill.” I had been anticipating the appointment for weeks, needing a shot of reassurance in the form of hearing Purvis’ heartbeat. Much like my last petit panic, I decided to wait this one out since, again, there’s not really anything that can be done either way. Plus I’m trying to reserve my freak-outs for later in the pregnancy. I don’t want to cash in my chips too soon.
My new favorite fear, third only to miscarriage and genetic abnormalities* is the swine flu. Everyday I ride home from work and am greeted by a new story on NPR detailing how harmful this new flu is to pregnant women and their babies. Fucking great. My miscarriage outrage is renewed. If just one of my previous pregnancies had come to term, we’d have missed the pregnancy-swine flu scare. Then I wonder how soon I can get the shot because oh yes, I will get the shot. I do not buy into the unproven fears that autism has anything to do with vaccinations or thimerosal. I hope the reassuring CDC rep isn’t steering me wrong with her claims that the shot is likely safe for the preg ladies. Or maybe I’ll just lock myself in my room for a few months and cover myself in duct tape. (‘Twas supposed to save us all from a terrorist gas attack, right?)
* I’m starting to lean towards doing amnio but am torn. I want the info, but fear the small chance of miscarriage. Another topic I hope Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting is prepared to tackle when we see her later this week.
Ah dreams. The playground of the unconscious mind. Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of free-range fear roaming around in my subconscious these days. Last night one facet of this dark diamond came out to play: I am sitting across the table from a close friend, telling her that I’ve had another miscarriage, my third.
“Well, at least it was pretty good timing. I was starting to eye Lucille Bluth’s martinis a bit too closely as of late,” Dream Me said, forcing a laugh. (We’ve been watching a lot of Arrested Development over the last few weeks, one of my “I’m pregnant, what the hell” purchases. My other AD-related dreams include one where David Cross and I became buddies and have a ball wisecracking and snarking about, and another where Will Arnett and I pal around. Please pardon this second dream digression. Other people’s dreams are about as interesting as…other people’s dreams.)
In my dream, I try to laugh off this miscarriage, performing an ill-considered “the funny thing about miscarriage” monologue while inside I am dying a little more with each lame joke. My friend sits there mute.
Cut to new dream scene where I sit alone, lamenting my membership in the 2% of women who have 3 miscarriages in a row. I am bereft, hopeless. What next? Adoption? Try again? The thought of trying again as I drag through week 15 sounds impossible. The fact that I’ve only been pregnant 15 weeks sounds even more impossible. When I wake up I keep turning this question over in my head. If necessary, could I really do this again?
I tell Mr. Crud of this latest manifestation of one of my greatest pregnancy fear.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says.
“I don’t either.” I wish somebody would pep talk my subconscious.
“I really wish my doctor’s appointment hadn’t been cancelled,” I say.
“Me too.”
Monday, yesterday, was supposed to be my first meeting with Dr. Awesome’s replacement while she’s on maternity leave. Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting cancelled due to either illness or being “called to the hill.” I had been anticipating the appointment for weeks, needing a shot of reassurance in the form of hearing Purvis’ heartbeat. Much like my last petit panic, I decided to wait this one out since, again, there’s not really anything that can be done either way. Plus I’m trying to reserve my freak-outs for later in the pregnancy. I don’t want to cash in my chips too soon.
My new favorite fear, third only to miscarriage and genetic abnormalities* is the swine flu. Everyday I ride home from work and am greeted by a new story on NPR detailing how harmful this new flu is to pregnant women and their babies. Fucking great. My miscarriage outrage is renewed. If just one of my previous pregnancies had come to term, we’d have missed the pregnancy-swine flu scare. Then I wonder how soon I can get the shot because oh yes, I will get the shot. I do not buy into the unproven fears that autism has anything to do with vaccinations or thimerosal. I hope the reassuring CDC rep isn’t steering me wrong with her claims that the shot is likely safe for the preg ladies. Or maybe I’ll just lock myself in my room for a few months and cover myself in duct tape. (‘Twas supposed to save us all from a terrorist gas attack, right?)
* I’m starting to lean towards doing amnio but am torn. I want the info, but fear the small chance of miscarriage. Another topic I hope Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting is prepared to tackle when we see her later this week.
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Whole Truth
8-5-09
Mr. Crud and I take a much-needed jaunt to the coast courtesy of Kjirsten, girlfriend from way back when, whose folks own a house near Long Beach. Kjirsten and her fella have two adorable little ones and the other couple staying for the weekend have two of their own. We are the childless couple. I don’t feel weird about this fact thanks to my own houseguest a.k.a. Purvis. I enjoy watching the little ones frolic and non-sequitur and shine their cute lights for all to see.
When Mr. Crud and I are alone I say, “I can’t wait for it to be our turn to have the cute kid and to tell all the cute kid stories.”
“Me too.”
“I feel like we’ve done our time watching and listening. It’s our turn.” When talk turns to cute kid stuff, I have a wealth of stories to share courtesy of my nieces and nephews. Still, I feel left out.
Later that night after the booze starts flowing (but not pour moi bien sur), the adults are standing around the kitchen.
The lady half of the other couple smiles at us. “I’m so happy for you. It’s so great. I don’t know many people who are just starting to have kids right now.”
Mr. Crud and I exchange the ritual do-we-or-don’t-we look.
“Yeah, well, it’s kind of been a long road for us,” Mr. Crud says.
I nod. To bum out or not to bum out that is the question. Since the mood is light, we silently agree to let it go and accept her congratulations without too much explanation.
“Thank you. We’re really excited too.” I say, lustily eyeing the bottle of scotch on the counter. I don’t even like scotch. At least liquor is no longer repulsive to me. That’s a good thing, right?
One of the woman’s daughters runs into the room in full-on pout mode. She clings to her dad. “I hate Scotch*. I hate cupcakes.”
“If you don’t calm down and get to bed that’s what you’re eating when you wake up tomorrow,” the dad says.
She pouts. I smile. My kind of parenting.
Monday I go to yoga class with one of my new favorite teachers. I lurch around the edges of the reception area, waiting for a break in the flow of students. I have read every flyer twice already. I’ve told at least three people, that no, I’m not waiting for the bathroom, just loitering like a stalker. Finally I see my chance. I swoop in close.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m 14 weeks pregnant,” I say. I want to throw a second trimester gang sign. Does such a thing exist? I should get myself to a prenatal yoga class to find out. Of course the yogis call it a prenatal mudra.
The teacher claps. “Oh congratulations! That’s great!”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling suddenly bashful. I’m still getting used to accepting congrats on this account. I haven’t figured out how to do so without feeling embarrassed or like waving it away (“Aw, it’s no big deal.”)
“Is this your first?” She asks.
My mind skitters about. I hate this question. Well, yeah, sorta, I mean not my first pregnancy. Actually my third pregnancy but the first time we made it this far. First live child? Yeah, damn, I sure hope so. I feel compelled to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but whenever asked this question. For one, I want any fellow members of Miscarriage World to know that I’m down, I’ve been there, I feel your pain. For another, I feel weird acting like Purvis is my first houseguest like it dishonors the brief but powerful memories of the Peabodies: Primo and Dewey.
The question hangs. “Is this your first?”
I lean in closer. “Yes, well, we had some losses before but this is the first time we’ve made it this far.” Hmmm…that sounds suitably hopeful enough and not too convoluted, right?
The teacher doesn’t blink. “So there are some modifications…”
(G-d willing) this will become a more common occurrence as we start to spread the Purvis word far and wide. Maybe the dilemma will begin to fade. I will find ease in smiling and thanking people for their congratulations without the bummer-ness squeezing my insides. I am not alone in my dilemma. Ruby is right there with me. Another reminder that most joy does not come without complication.
Random
How many calories does giving birth burn? Now that I’m packing on some pounds and feeling chunky such questions plague my mind.
*No children were fed Scotch over the course of this family friendly weekend. I believe she hates Scotch on principle.
Mr. Crud and I take a much-needed jaunt to the coast courtesy of Kjirsten, girlfriend from way back when, whose folks own a house near Long Beach. Kjirsten and her fella have two adorable little ones and the other couple staying for the weekend have two of their own. We are the childless couple. I don’t feel weird about this fact thanks to my own houseguest a.k.a. Purvis. I enjoy watching the little ones frolic and non-sequitur and shine their cute lights for all to see.
When Mr. Crud and I are alone I say, “I can’t wait for it to be our turn to have the cute kid and to tell all the cute kid stories.”
“Me too.”
“I feel like we’ve done our time watching and listening. It’s our turn.” When talk turns to cute kid stuff, I have a wealth of stories to share courtesy of my nieces and nephews. Still, I feel left out.
Later that night after the booze starts flowing (but not pour moi bien sur), the adults are standing around the kitchen.
The lady half of the other couple smiles at us. “I’m so happy for you. It’s so great. I don’t know many people who are just starting to have kids right now.”
Mr. Crud and I exchange the ritual do-we-or-don’t-we look.
“Yeah, well, it’s kind of been a long road for us,” Mr. Crud says.
I nod. To bum out or not to bum out that is the question. Since the mood is light, we silently agree to let it go and accept her congratulations without too much explanation.
“Thank you. We’re really excited too.” I say, lustily eyeing the bottle of scotch on the counter. I don’t even like scotch. At least liquor is no longer repulsive to me. That’s a good thing, right?
One of the woman’s daughters runs into the room in full-on pout mode. She clings to her dad. “I hate Scotch*. I hate cupcakes.”
“If you don’t calm down and get to bed that’s what you’re eating when you wake up tomorrow,” the dad says.
She pouts. I smile. My kind of parenting.
Monday I go to yoga class with one of my new favorite teachers. I lurch around the edges of the reception area, waiting for a break in the flow of students. I have read every flyer twice already. I’ve told at least three people, that no, I’m not waiting for the bathroom, just loitering like a stalker. Finally I see my chance. I swoop in close.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m 14 weeks pregnant,” I say. I want to throw a second trimester gang sign. Does such a thing exist? I should get myself to a prenatal yoga class to find out. Of course the yogis call it a prenatal mudra.
The teacher claps. “Oh congratulations! That’s great!”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling suddenly bashful. I’m still getting used to accepting congrats on this account. I haven’t figured out how to do so without feeling embarrassed or like waving it away (“Aw, it’s no big deal.”)
“Is this your first?” She asks.
My mind skitters about. I hate this question. Well, yeah, sorta, I mean not my first pregnancy. Actually my third pregnancy but the first time we made it this far. First live child? Yeah, damn, I sure hope so. I feel compelled to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but whenever asked this question. For one, I want any fellow members of Miscarriage World to know that I’m down, I’ve been there, I feel your pain. For another, I feel weird acting like Purvis is my first houseguest like it dishonors the brief but powerful memories of the Peabodies: Primo and Dewey.
The question hangs. “Is this your first?”
I lean in closer. “Yes, well, we had some losses before but this is the first time we’ve made it this far.” Hmmm…that sounds suitably hopeful enough and not too convoluted, right?
The teacher doesn’t blink. “So there are some modifications…”
(G-d willing) this will become a more common occurrence as we start to spread the Purvis word far and wide. Maybe the dilemma will begin to fade. I will find ease in smiling and thanking people for their congratulations without the bummer-ness squeezing my insides. I am not alone in my dilemma. Ruby is right there with me. Another reminder that most joy does not come without complication.
Random
How many calories does giving birth burn? Now that I’m packing on some pounds and feeling chunky such questions plague my mind.
*No children were fed Scotch over the course of this family friendly weekend. I believe she hates Scotch on principle.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
A New Frontier
7-31-09
I am on the cusp of trimester 2. In three short days I will do-si-do into week 14 and the supposedly happiest trimester of all. My energy is returning slowly but surely. Yes, I fell dead asleep at 8:30 last night—and it was a mighty struggle to keep my eyes open that late—but I don’t feel the limb-dragging can’t…go…on weight that has plagued me the last (only!!!!) 2 months. Nausea has become more a habit than anything else. After an extreme gagging episode while following a garbage truck on my bike a few weeks ago (Riding downtown in the early morning PRO: Light traffic. CON: Rotten, stink-spewing garbage trucks are the only traffic.), I now have to choke back gags at the mere sight of garbage trucks. And I think Pizzicato pizza is permanently ruined for me after my daily march down the Gauntlet of Stink. Oh well.
Anxiety is still a sneaky companion. A current of anxiety ebbs and flows. Most of the time I feel like I’m on solid pregnant ground. There are occasional moments when I feel my solid ground start to jerk in the current as if I’m living in some sort of Waterworld. (How could you forget Kevin Costner as the pee-drinking fish-man?) I feel an ache in my abdominal region and wonder if it will turn into full-on cramps. I check my profile in the mirror daily and wonder when I will stop looking like a Beer Belly Champion (thanks, Ruby) and morph into pregnant lady. My lack of a solid bump is my latest raison de stress-out. Has Purvis stopped growing in there? Is all that chub in the gut region a result of my lack of abdominal exercising?
Crazy fears? I got a million of them.
Since the day I saw my positive on that pee stick, I assured myself that I would feel better after the first ultrasound, or after the Nuchal Translucency Test (also an ultrasound), or, wait, wait, for real this time, after I crossed the threshold into trimester #2, which every pregnancy newsletter, book, and website assures me makes my chance of miscarriage plummet to sub percentage levels. I did relax after the first two landmarks…for a weekend or so. So we shall see of trimester 2 becomes a magical wonderland of pregnancy enjoyment.
People tell me that I’ll feel better when I start feeling Purvis kicking around in there. Yeah, I think that’ll be pretty cool, but then I wonder if I’ll fret over the quality and frequency of her kicks like my sis-in-law who made a few trips to the emergency room when she thought in utero Lyla wasn’t moving around enough. We shall see.
I am on the cusp of trimester 2. In three short days I will do-si-do into week 14 and the supposedly happiest trimester of all. My energy is returning slowly but surely. Yes, I fell dead asleep at 8:30 last night—and it was a mighty struggle to keep my eyes open that late—but I don’t feel the limb-dragging can’t…go…on weight that has plagued me the last (only!!!!) 2 months. Nausea has become more a habit than anything else. After an extreme gagging episode while following a garbage truck on my bike a few weeks ago (Riding downtown in the early morning PRO: Light traffic. CON: Rotten, stink-spewing garbage trucks are the only traffic.), I now have to choke back gags at the mere sight of garbage trucks. And I think Pizzicato pizza is permanently ruined for me after my daily march down the Gauntlet of Stink. Oh well.
Anxiety is still a sneaky companion. A current of anxiety ebbs and flows. Most of the time I feel like I’m on solid pregnant ground. There are occasional moments when I feel my solid ground start to jerk in the current as if I’m living in some sort of Waterworld. (How could you forget Kevin Costner as the pee-drinking fish-man?) I feel an ache in my abdominal region and wonder if it will turn into full-on cramps. I check my profile in the mirror daily and wonder when I will stop looking like a Beer Belly Champion (thanks, Ruby) and morph into pregnant lady. My lack of a solid bump is my latest raison de stress-out. Has Purvis stopped growing in there? Is all that chub in the gut region a result of my lack of abdominal exercising?
Crazy fears? I got a million of them.
Since the day I saw my positive on that pee stick, I assured myself that I would feel better after the first ultrasound, or after the Nuchal Translucency Test (also an ultrasound), or, wait, wait, for real this time, after I crossed the threshold into trimester #2, which every pregnancy newsletter, book, and website assures me makes my chance of miscarriage plummet to sub percentage levels. I did relax after the first two landmarks…for a weekend or so. So we shall see of trimester 2 becomes a magical wonderland of pregnancy enjoyment.
People tell me that I’ll feel better when I start feeling Purvis kicking around in there. Yeah, I think that’ll be pretty cool, but then I wonder if I’ll fret over the quality and frequency of her kicks like my sis-in-law who made a few trips to the emergency room when she thought in utero Lyla wasn’t moving around enough. We shall see.
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