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.
Friday, July 31, 2009
My Darling Nausea
7-24-09
I awake to my alarm. 4:54 again. I push myself out of bed and it slaps me in the face: I only peed twice in the middle of the night last night. Panic. Are my symptoms subsiding? I haven’t been feeling as nauseous as I was either. As soon as I get to work I look up my latest pregnancy newsletter. Yes, phew, it says that symptoms can start diminishing as early as the 11th week. I’m well into week 12 so I can relax, right? I get an email from Ruby. She had a similar experience. Are we the only two women in the world praying for constant, nagging nausea?
Weird how I cling to symptoms like they are the baby itself. When else do nausea, frequent urination, and fatigue indicate that things are going well? Aside from a few pee sticks, journal entries, and medical bills, my symptoms (and now their memory) are all I have left from my first two pregnancies. Nausea and running to the bathroom are pregnancy to me. Until I get the belly, something to see and hold on to, I have nausea, dear nausea.
People told: My interim boss for the month of August. She is excited, kind, and low-key about the whole thing. Perfetto.
New Favorite Euphemism for Baby/Fetus/Purvis: Houseguest (courtesy of Trista)
I awake to my alarm. 4:54 again. I push myself out of bed and it slaps me in the face: I only peed twice in the middle of the night last night. Panic. Are my symptoms subsiding? I haven’t been feeling as nauseous as I was either. As soon as I get to work I look up my latest pregnancy newsletter. Yes, phew, it says that symptoms can start diminishing as early as the 11th week. I’m well into week 12 so I can relax, right? I get an email from Ruby. She had a similar experience. Are we the only two women in the world praying for constant, nagging nausea?
Weird how I cling to symptoms like they are the baby itself. When else do nausea, frequent urination, and fatigue indicate that things are going well? Aside from a few pee sticks, journal entries, and medical bills, my symptoms (and now their memory) are all I have left from my first two pregnancies. Nausea and running to the bathroom are pregnancy to me. Until I get the belly, something to see and hold on to, I have nausea, dear nausea.
People told: My interim boss for the month of August. She is excited, kind, and low-key about the whole thing. Perfetto.
New Favorite Euphemism for Baby/Fetus/Purvis: Houseguest (courtesy of Trista)
Friday, July 24, 2009
Don't Ask, Don't Tell
7-24-09
As the time approaches when we can theoretically start telling friends, family, coworkers, pals, chums, and random people on the street that I am knocked up, I find myself growing more reluctant to share the news. After each ultrasound I have sworn, “Okay, now I’ll tell my student worker I’m pregnant” so he knows why I look like creamed ass at the end of a work day and why my laziness has grown to gargantuan proportions.
“You print these out?” He asks me yesterday.
“Oh yeah, like 3 days ago,” I say.
He is the most fabulous of fabulous student workers so he smiles and hands me my forgotten printouts instead of throwing me a side-eye. Tell him, tell him, I think to myself all afternoon.
The other preg lady in the department pops by my window. “The ultrasound went okay?” she whispers.
I nod. “Everything looks good.”
She gives a silent cheer. Now would be an excellent time to tell him. The man has ears. He likely knows what an ultrasound is or at least that it’s connected to pregnancy. But my lips remain zipped.
Last weekend Mr. Crud and I are taking an afternoon stroll to the yummy vegan milkshake/smoothie stand. Across the street we spy our old friend and Mr. Crud’s ex-band mate.
“Let’s go say ‘hi,’” I say.
“Can we tell him?” Mr. Crud asks.
“No, let’s wait,” I say.
After a preg-free conversation, we go on our merry way. Mr. Crud says, “So when can we start telling people?”
“You can tell whoever you want to,” I say. “Well, except Eli when I’m with you.”
“Okay.”
“After 2 Sundays from now. That’s when the miscarriage chance officially goes way down.” I say.
“Okay, two Sundays.”
But even that makes my guts roil. What if we find out there’s some genetic problem with Purvis and (g-d forbid) have to terminate the pregnancy? That strikes me as being a hell of a lot harder to explain than a miscarriage. Then again the what-if rabbit hole in pregnancy is endless. For the sake of any other preg ladies who may be reading this, I’ll spare you the list, but in my last year of Miscarriage World membership I’ve learned a ton more than I ever wanted to know about all the things that can go wrong. During my first pregnancy I could avert my eyes and reassure myself “no, that won’t happen to you.” But I know all too well that yes, that can happen to me. Twice in fact.
Today I hear my cell phone ring from my bag. Even though my boss is in the next room I dash to pick it up. (Not that she cares, but I have some silly professional rule about not answering my cell at work.) It’s the genetic counselor.
“Your results look good. Your chance for Down’s Syndrome had dropped considerably as has the chance for Trisomy 18.”
She gives me the nitty gritty numbers and I jot them down to share with Mr. Crud. Now can I relax? Yeah, for about a half hour or so at least.
I call Mr. Crud and give him the good news. “Wow. Yay.” He says.
And then it comes up. “Now can we start telling people?”
“Sure. Maybe. How about after next Sunday?”
I guess I’m waiting for it to be obvious. I feel awkward sharing the news with people who don’t know of our miscarriage struggles, like I need to fill in the bad news after giving the good. A sort of “but don’t get too excited because it’s gotten fucked up before” coda to the joy. And then there’s the whole identity thing. Will people see me differently now that I’m pregnant? Will I no longer be privy to dirty jokes? Will people be afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities? Actually I’ve found that I’m a lot less delicate than usual. (Delicate being a relative term.) I hunger for murder mysteries, thrillers, tales of darkness, vampire books. My usual literary fiction-humorous memoir reading list has taken a decidedly bloody turn. And why not? Pregnancy and birth aren’t for wimps. Partly I like reading about others in dire straits so I can breathe a shallow sigh of relief, “At least my entire family wasn’t murdered while I watched.” I am reminded of our trek home last Christmas during Portland’s latest Storm of the Century. As Mr. Crud and I jammed onto a bus destined for the Portland Airport that would get us there a good 2 hours after our departure time but we had to go anyway just in case, we looked at each other and shook our heads. “At least we aren’t being hunted by Cylons.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My belly definitely protrudes, but not in an obviously pregnant way, just in a bloated belly way. Soon, I tell myself, soon there (g-d willing) won’t be any question about what I’ve been up to.
RANDOM: I want to start a heavy metal pregnancy-themed band called Chloasma. I’m pretty sure we could put some of those spooky death metal bands to shame. Does gore spill from their wieners? No, sir.
As the time approaches when we can theoretically start telling friends, family, coworkers, pals, chums, and random people on the street that I am knocked up, I find myself growing more reluctant to share the news. After each ultrasound I have sworn, “Okay, now I’ll tell my student worker I’m pregnant” so he knows why I look like creamed ass at the end of a work day and why my laziness has grown to gargantuan proportions.
“You print these out?” He asks me yesterday.
“Oh yeah, like 3 days ago,” I say.
He is the most fabulous of fabulous student workers so he smiles and hands me my forgotten printouts instead of throwing me a side-eye. Tell him, tell him, I think to myself all afternoon.
The other preg lady in the department pops by my window. “The ultrasound went okay?” she whispers.
I nod. “Everything looks good.”
She gives a silent cheer. Now would be an excellent time to tell him. The man has ears. He likely knows what an ultrasound is or at least that it’s connected to pregnancy. But my lips remain zipped.
Last weekend Mr. Crud and I are taking an afternoon stroll to the yummy vegan milkshake/smoothie stand. Across the street we spy our old friend and Mr. Crud’s ex-band mate.
“Let’s go say ‘hi,’” I say.
“Can we tell him?” Mr. Crud asks.
“No, let’s wait,” I say.
After a preg-free conversation, we go on our merry way. Mr. Crud says, “So when can we start telling people?”
“You can tell whoever you want to,” I say. “Well, except Eli when I’m with you.”
“Okay.”
“After 2 Sundays from now. That’s when the miscarriage chance officially goes way down.” I say.
“Okay, two Sundays.”
But even that makes my guts roil. What if we find out there’s some genetic problem with Purvis and (g-d forbid) have to terminate the pregnancy? That strikes me as being a hell of a lot harder to explain than a miscarriage. Then again the what-if rabbit hole in pregnancy is endless. For the sake of any other preg ladies who may be reading this, I’ll spare you the list, but in my last year of Miscarriage World membership I’ve learned a ton more than I ever wanted to know about all the things that can go wrong. During my first pregnancy I could avert my eyes and reassure myself “no, that won’t happen to you.” But I know all too well that yes, that can happen to me. Twice in fact.
Today I hear my cell phone ring from my bag. Even though my boss is in the next room I dash to pick it up. (Not that she cares, but I have some silly professional rule about not answering my cell at work.) It’s the genetic counselor.
“Your results look good. Your chance for Down’s Syndrome had dropped considerably as has the chance for Trisomy 18.”
She gives me the nitty gritty numbers and I jot them down to share with Mr. Crud. Now can I relax? Yeah, for about a half hour or so at least.
I call Mr. Crud and give him the good news. “Wow. Yay.” He says.
And then it comes up. “Now can we start telling people?”
“Sure. Maybe. How about after next Sunday?”
I guess I’m waiting for it to be obvious. I feel awkward sharing the news with people who don’t know of our miscarriage struggles, like I need to fill in the bad news after giving the good. A sort of “but don’t get too excited because it’s gotten fucked up before” coda to the joy. And then there’s the whole identity thing. Will people see me differently now that I’m pregnant? Will I no longer be privy to dirty jokes? Will people be afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities? Actually I’ve found that I’m a lot less delicate than usual. (Delicate being a relative term.) I hunger for murder mysteries, thrillers, tales of darkness, vampire books. My usual literary fiction-humorous memoir reading list has taken a decidedly bloody turn. And why not? Pregnancy and birth aren’t for wimps. Partly I like reading about others in dire straits so I can breathe a shallow sigh of relief, “At least my entire family wasn’t murdered while I watched.” I am reminded of our trek home last Christmas during Portland’s latest Storm of the Century. As Mr. Crud and I jammed onto a bus destined for the Portland Airport that would get us there a good 2 hours after our departure time but we had to go anyway just in case, we looked at each other and shook our heads. “At least we aren’t being hunted by Cylons.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My belly definitely protrudes, but not in an obviously pregnant way, just in a bloated belly way. Soon, I tell myself, soon there (g-d willing) won’t be any question about what I’ve been up to.
RANDOM: I want to start a heavy metal pregnancy-themed band called Chloasma. I’m pretty sure we could put some of those spooky death metal bands to shame. Does gore spill from their wieners? No, sir.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Phew 2: Ultrasound Boogaloo
7-17-09
I awake at 3:50 a.m. for the last of my three middle-o’-the-night potty breaks. (After traversing the length of the house in the dead of night thrice nightly, I now appreciate why a bathroom in the master bed is a smashing idea.) I return to bed and assume my favored and short-lived sleeping position, on my stomach. I close my eyes and there he is: Dr. #2 in the Audrey Hepburn ultrasound room, “I’m sorry, things are not going well.” Shit. The ghosts of ultrasounds past have been visiting me the past few days and this morning they are relentless. I flip over and breathe into my belly (Yoga breathing! Yoga breathing!!), but it’s no use. I’m awake. Thank g-d I only have another hour to wait until the alarm sounds.
Then yoga, which pushes back the clamoring thoughts. Lucky for me my yoga teacher decides today is the day that he’ll focus in on the weaknesses in my chaturanga dandasana to upward dog transition. Yay? At least his focus on my asanas lets my mind go to the “please leave me alone, hard yoga teacher” place instead of thinking of the doomed scenarios that could result from this afternoon’s ultrasound. When I say good-bye to my teacher and yoga pals, I leave out my usual “See you tomorrow” in case I don’t.
Work carries me along on its tide of to-dos although I can barely concentrate. I surf the web in search of distraction. Thank you, dlisted.com. I lunch with my pal, Naomi, and am so so happy to talk about the happenings in her life instead of mine. I sum up my day with, “It’s nerve-wracking and scary, but what can you do?”
2:30 rolls around. I go to unlock my bike and find that another bike is wedged in against mine, making it impossible to remove my bike without some serious wrangling. “Thanks, asshole. Maybe try not being a total fuckwad next time,” I say loudly. I glance at the parking attendant’s station. Not there. Good. I’ll be the crazy lady who talks to herself soon enough around these parts, but I try to keep a decent rep while I can. Finally I extract my bike, reconnect my brake cable, which my removal gymnastics had pulled loose, and kick the tire of the offending bike. “Fucker.” Misplaced aggression anyone?
Mr. Crud rolls into the loading lane and packs me and my banged up chariot into the car.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I think so.”
We kiss and head up to the Perinatology Center on the hill.
“I wonder if they brought Audrey with them from the other office,” I say.
“I hope not.”
After a short wait, Super Tall Ultrasound Dude (STUD) from our first ultrasound of doom appears in the door. “Katherine?” (I do mean super tall—he’s easily 6’6”*.)
We stand up. Shit. Did it have to be him again? I wonder if he is praying almost as hard as we are that everything is normal, that he doesn’t have to use his prepared bad news speech (“I’m not seeing what I expect here. I’ll be back with the doctor.”) a second time.
“How are things going?” He asks as I lay down on the table.
“So far so good,” I say.
“We met about a year ago, right?” He says.
“Yep,” I say, fighting the urge to add “on one of the worst days of my life in fact.”
“You’ve had 2 losses, correct?” He says as he flips on the machine and grabs the warm goo for my belly.
“Yes.”
“I bet you’re feeling pretty anxious.”
“Oh yes,” I say. Understatement of the year. I’m surprised that I haven’t crapped my pants to be honest.
I roll down the waistband of my pants. He tucks in the towel and covers my potbelly with goo. This time I don’t look away from the screen but stare head-on. Come on, Purvis. You were here just 2 weeks ago. Don’t let me down.
He rubs the sensor over my belly and finds what he’s looking for. “Things look good,” he says quickly.
“Thank you,” I say.
As he moves the sensor around, finding Purvis’ body: arms, legs (crossed at the ankle), head, heartbeat and various markers of an 11-week ultrasound, he clicks pictures and reassures me. “Everything looks normal.”
“Thank you,” I say every time. Thank you, G-d. Thank you, STUD, for telling me over and over again and not letting me stew in my fear.
With each new find, he says “This is your baby’s head. This is your baby’s heart. This is your baby’s arms.” The phrase “your baby” somehow makes me feel warm and happy and freaked out. Purvis is a baby now. Not an embryo or fetus. Baby. I feel like I am entering dangerous territory: hope, attachment, and love.
“I need to shift your position. Your baby isn’t in a good position for me to get the measurement we need.” STUD says. He tilts the bed down.
“I do yoga. I can go upside down if you need.” Finally a chance to use my yoga powers in public!
He laughs. “I think this ought to do it.”
It doesn’t. He puts me on my side, jiggles the wand around in my pelvis. “Nope, your baby is happy where he is.”
The fear creeps back in. Why isn’t he doing what STUD wants? Is something wrong? STUD senses my freak out to be and says, “Everything looks normal. I’m just trying to get a better picture for the measurement that we need.”
He leaves Mr. Crud and I alone to wait for the doctor and to see if Purvis will get into the necessary position if I rest on my side a moment.
“I wonder if it will be one of the previous doctors,” I say.
“Accent Man or Nice Jewish Lady?” Mr. Crud asks.
“They were both good,” I say.
A new doctor whose name is also Kt enters and gives us the lowdown. Everything looks good and normal, all the markers check out. The measurement that they got of Purvis’ neck is normal too and when the results of my blood test come back, we’ll have an even better idea of our chances for genetic abnormalities. I feel weird doing these tests although I was sure from the get-go that I wanted them. I don’t know what we’ll do if we are faced with a genetically abnormal baby. I used to think that I knew, but I know enough now to know what I don’t know. (A tongue twister to keep things light, alright?) For now we will wait for the blood test results before deciding if we’ll do further diagnostic testing such as amniocentesis, which carries a small risk of miscarriage. Dr. Kt says this is what most couples do.
Again she tries to coax Purvis into a more photogenic position and again she fails so the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound is invoked.
“I’d hoped to avoid this, but I guess that’s how it goes,” I say.
Dr. Kt leaves the room and I strip from the waist down.
“Does that include my shoes?” I ask Mr. Crud. “I never know if I should leave my shoes on.”
“She said waist down.” He says with a shrug.
Dr. Kt and STUD return. This time they get the shot they need. Everything still looks good. I wonder if Purvis got his workout from my morning of yoga, if she is doing spins and turns along with me in the morning and this is her nap time.
STUD gives us a CD of some choice photos of Purvis and we are on our way.
“I’m not quite sure what to do with good news,” Mr. Crud says.
“I know. I had already starting preparing for the bad,” I say.
We are both exhausted, but not too tired to call the essential parties and share the news. Mr. Crud sends the best shot of Purvis to our close family members and we smile at their joyful replies.
“You’re not going to make that picture your wallpaper, are you?” I ask.
“No. Are you?”
“No. Something about that creeps me out,” I say.
“I wonder if I’ll be the type of person who has pictures of their kids on their wallpaper,” he says.
I know I’ve said some variation of this a gajillion times, but golly, I hope we find out.
* Did I just make the same error as Spinal Tap in the Stonehenge debacle?
I awake at 3:50 a.m. for the last of my three middle-o’-the-night potty breaks. (After traversing the length of the house in the dead of night thrice nightly, I now appreciate why a bathroom in the master bed is a smashing idea.) I return to bed and assume my favored and short-lived sleeping position, on my stomach. I close my eyes and there he is: Dr. #2 in the Audrey Hepburn ultrasound room, “I’m sorry, things are not going well.” Shit. The ghosts of ultrasounds past have been visiting me the past few days and this morning they are relentless. I flip over and breathe into my belly (Yoga breathing! Yoga breathing!!), but it’s no use. I’m awake. Thank g-d I only have another hour to wait until the alarm sounds.
Then yoga, which pushes back the clamoring thoughts. Lucky for me my yoga teacher decides today is the day that he’ll focus in on the weaknesses in my chaturanga dandasana to upward dog transition. Yay? At least his focus on my asanas lets my mind go to the “please leave me alone, hard yoga teacher” place instead of thinking of the doomed scenarios that could result from this afternoon’s ultrasound. When I say good-bye to my teacher and yoga pals, I leave out my usual “See you tomorrow” in case I don’t.
Work carries me along on its tide of to-dos although I can barely concentrate. I surf the web in search of distraction. Thank you, dlisted.com. I lunch with my pal, Naomi, and am so so happy to talk about the happenings in her life instead of mine. I sum up my day with, “It’s nerve-wracking and scary, but what can you do?”
2:30 rolls around. I go to unlock my bike and find that another bike is wedged in against mine, making it impossible to remove my bike without some serious wrangling. “Thanks, asshole. Maybe try not being a total fuckwad next time,” I say loudly. I glance at the parking attendant’s station. Not there. Good. I’ll be the crazy lady who talks to herself soon enough around these parts, but I try to keep a decent rep while I can. Finally I extract my bike, reconnect my brake cable, which my removal gymnastics had pulled loose, and kick the tire of the offending bike. “Fucker.” Misplaced aggression anyone?
Mr. Crud rolls into the loading lane and packs me and my banged up chariot into the car.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I think so.”
We kiss and head up to the Perinatology Center on the hill.
“I wonder if they brought Audrey with them from the other office,” I say.
“I hope not.”
After a short wait, Super Tall Ultrasound Dude (STUD) from our first ultrasound of doom appears in the door. “Katherine?” (I do mean super tall—he’s easily 6’6”*.)
We stand up. Shit. Did it have to be him again? I wonder if he is praying almost as hard as we are that everything is normal, that he doesn’t have to use his prepared bad news speech (“I’m not seeing what I expect here. I’ll be back with the doctor.”) a second time.
“How are things going?” He asks as I lay down on the table.
“So far so good,” I say.
“We met about a year ago, right?” He says.
“Yep,” I say, fighting the urge to add “on one of the worst days of my life in fact.”
“You’ve had 2 losses, correct?” He says as he flips on the machine and grabs the warm goo for my belly.
“Yes.”
“I bet you’re feeling pretty anxious.”
“Oh yes,” I say. Understatement of the year. I’m surprised that I haven’t crapped my pants to be honest.
I roll down the waistband of my pants. He tucks in the towel and covers my potbelly with goo. This time I don’t look away from the screen but stare head-on. Come on, Purvis. You were here just 2 weeks ago. Don’t let me down.
He rubs the sensor over my belly and finds what he’s looking for. “Things look good,” he says quickly.
“Thank you,” I say.
As he moves the sensor around, finding Purvis’ body: arms, legs (crossed at the ankle), head, heartbeat and various markers of an 11-week ultrasound, he clicks pictures and reassures me. “Everything looks normal.”
“Thank you,” I say every time. Thank you, G-d. Thank you, STUD, for telling me over and over again and not letting me stew in my fear.
With each new find, he says “This is your baby’s head. This is your baby’s heart. This is your baby’s arms.” The phrase “your baby” somehow makes me feel warm and happy and freaked out. Purvis is a baby now. Not an embryo or fetus. Baby. I feel like I am entering dangerous territory: hope, attachment, and love.
“I need to shift your position. Your baby isn’t in a good position for me to get the measurement we need.” STUD says. He tilts the bed down.
“I do yoga. I can go upside down if you need.” Finally a chance to use my yoga powers in public!
He laughs. “I think this ought to do it.”
It doesn’t. He puts me on my side, jiggles the wand around in my pelvis. “Nope, your baby is happy where he is.”
The fear creeps back in. Why isn’t he doing what STUD wants? Is something wrong? STUD senses my freak out to be and says, “Everything looks normal. I’m just trying to get a better picture for the measurement that we need.”
He leaves Mr. Crud and I alone to wait for the doctor and to see if Purvis will get into the necessary position if I rest on my side a moment.
“I wonder if it will be one of the previous doctors,” I say.
“Accent Man or Nice Jewish Lady?” Mr. Crud asks.
“They were both good,” I say.
A new doctor whose name is also Kt enters and gives us the lowdown. Everything looks good and normal, all the markers check out. The measurement that they got of Purvis’ neck is normal too and when the results of my blood test come back, we’ll have an even better idea of our chances for genetic abnormalities. I feel weird doing these tests although I was sure from the get-go that I wanted them. I don’t know what we’ll do if we are faced with a genetically abnormal baby. I used to think that I knew, but I know enough now to know what I don’t know. (A tongue twister to keep things light, alright?) For now we will wait for the blood test results before deciding if we’ll do further diagnostic testing such as amniocentesis, which carries a small risk of miscarriage. Dr. Kt says this is what most couples do.
Again she tries to coax Purvis into a more photogenic position and again she fails so the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound is invoked.
“I’d hoped to avoid this, but I guess that’s how it goes,” I say.
Dr. Kt leaves the room and I strip from the waist down.
“Does that include my shoes?” I ask Mr. Crud. “I never know if I should leave my shoes on.”
“She said waist down.” He says with a shrug.
Dr. Kt and STUD return. This time they get the shot they need. Everything still looks good. I wonder if Purvis got his workout from my morning of yoga, if she is doing spins and turns along with me in the morning and this is her nap time.
STUD gives us a CD of some choice photos of Purvis and we are on our way.
“I’m not quite sure what to do with good news,” Mr. Crud says.
“I know. I had already starting preparing for the bad,” I say.
We are both exhausted, but not too tired to call the essential parties and share the news. Mr. Crud sends the best shot of Purvis to our close family members and we smile at their joyful replies.
“You’re not going to make that picture your wallpaper, are you?” I ask.
“No. Are you?”
“No. Something about that creeps me out,” I say.
“I wonder if I’ll be the type of person who has pictures of their kids on their wallpaper,” he says.
I know I’ve said some variation of this a gajillion times, but golly, I hope we find out.
* Did I just make the same error as Spinal Tap in the Stonehenge debacle?
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