These past few months, I have been neglecting my inner infertile. I admit it. I’ve been paying way more attention to the pregnant lady because frankly, she just demands so much time. I need more maternity pants! Get me to the bathroom, again! Get me this crazy exotic food that doesn’t exist anywhere within a 50 mile radius! She has been rather vocal and consuming. But, my inner infertile is always there, waiting patiently to remind me of where I have been and ready to insert a nice reality check when required. Apparently, today was the appointed reality check day.
Mr. X and I were walking G in the neighborhood this afternoon on a lovely fall day. It was still light out and so inquiring eyes could probably see the bump. I’ve only recently begun to not actively hide the belly. I can if I need to, but I just didn’t feel like it today and I’m trying to get more used to putting it all out there, so to speak.
We run into a neighbor who we haven’t talked to in a while. She has eagle eye vision and homes in on my stomach. Eyebrows raised, she asked, “is there news?”
I respond, “I’ve grown a beer gut?” Not satisfying her.
Second try, “I’m dressed as a pregnant woman for Halloween?” Still no. She would not accept anything short of outright victory.
Ok, I said. “I’m pregnant.” Much squealing (her) ensued and then, came the total buzz kill: “Oh, our next door neighbors are expecting too! She’s 18 weeks and they just found out that they’re having a girl. They are SO EXCITED!”
I felt like I’d been socked in the gut. Again. And it wasn’t because my announcement was met with another one. No, my supreme discomfort was because I was reminded of how much it took me to get to this point when I strongly suspected that my doppleganger had done nothing more exotic than have a few mai tais too many. The usual and customary feelings hit me like a wave: I felt like a lesser person again, an inferior and an infertile, perpetually incapable of bearing fruit.
My inner infertile took this opportunity to perch on my shoulder and whisper into my ear, “you know she got pregnant without drama and that she hasn’t had any of the issues you’ve had. She’s actually excited! She can be excited, unlike you. And, of course, she’s due in March, too. So, don’t get comfortable there prego!”
Meanwhile, Inner Prego Lady immediately climbed into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and declared that she wanted to hibernate for the next four months. She’s a dramatic thing.
We left soon thereafter and went about the rest of our walk. Inner Infertile and Inner Prego were still in their various throes when the Ref stepped in to bring some clear thinking to the proceedings. “First”, she said, “we have no idea how this lady got knocked up and frankly, it doesn’t really matter. She’s also perfectly entitled to be excited. We are doing just fine taking it one day at a time and anything more would induce anxiety attacks. Besides, there are far too few measured, content but not overly excited pregnant ladies in this world. And, finally, her pregnancy has nothing to do with ours. It doesn’t change a thing nor should we let it have the power to. We can only be responsible for our sphere and she is not part of it.” Amen, sister.
Inner Prego peeked out of the covers and saw that the world had in fact not changed in the slightest. Little Bugger kicked her just for reinforcement. Inner Infertile went back to her retreate on the beach to her book and fruity alcoholic beverage to contemplate the concept that it really doesn’t matter how someone else got knocked up.
As for me, I was relieved to be reminded that I was solely responsible for worrying about me, and not someone else and their pregnancy. Besides, Inner Prego has to go to the bathroom. Again.
image: FAB O LENS
Less than two weeks ago, we were told that our baby had a 1 in 20 chance of having Down Syndrome. It also meant that we had a 95% chance of having a chromosomally normal baby. A week ago, we were told that our chances of having a chromosomally normal baby went up to 99%. Today, our chances went to:
100%.
The amnio results were normal.
Statistics have not been my friend these past four years. So it was hard to take comfort in 95% or even 99% because we know what it is like to be in that 1%. I can relax with 100%.
My cell phone rang yesterday afternoon as I was on my work line with Mr. X. I had just been talking with him about hard it was to wait for the FISH results from our amnio. Like a predictable novel, it was of course the MFM’s office.
This time, it was the nurse who gave us the results of the FISH analysis: Normal, blessedly normal. She of course immediately harshed on my mellow by warning me that these were preliminary. I did remember, however, from our conversation with the MFM at Monday’s amnio that FISH is pretty darn accurate and the false rate is very low. I later found literature that put the false negative rate at 1%.
We still wait for the final amnio results, but we are grateful for this encouraging news.
ps – yes, we did find out the gender. And, sorry, I’m not ready to divulge. I’m enjoying having that little secret amongst us and the parentals for now.
Today found me once again on my back, slathered in jelly. Oh, how I wish I could say I was in some exotic jello wrestling contest, instead of at the staid, sterile offices of the maternal fetal medicine specialist. At least with the jello wrestling, I would be able to have a definitive result in almost no time (most likely I would not be the victor). Alas, I was slathered in jelly on a very uncomfortable bed at the staid, sterile offices of the MFM for our enhanced ultrasound. This was not the same MFM who made the call – this is the MFM that I like.
While we still don’t have a Final Answer, we do have some more information: no soft markers for Downs. So, our chances have not gotten worse, but they also haven’t gotten better. In fact, the baby was measuring ahead of schedule: 18 weeks on the nose, and I am 17w5d.
The thing is, this information is still not enough. We need to no kidding KNOW one way or the other and the only way to do that in utero is amnio. Initially, I would give an involuntary head shake of absolutely not when posed with the option of an amnio. I had read too many horror stories about miscarriages due to amnios of otherwise normal healthy babies. But, upon learning of our 1:20 ratio and the fact that even the most conservative estimates of miscarriage rates for amnio was 1:100, I knew that I was in a losing head shake battle.
Even though we focused on our vacation, I did devote some private time to thinking about amnio and realized that I would need to know now rather than later one way or the other and that I would not be able to live with a maybe. So, after the ultrasound, I asked when they could do the amnio and was told, “right now!”
No time like the present, so ten minutes later I had my eyes squeezed shut while my abdomen was rubbed with iodine and I got the bee sting in the belly. I’ve been through a shitload of procedures these past four years, but this was a first for me and boy was it uncomfortable. The doc tried to make me feel better by explaining that they didn’t have to put the needle in very far, but frankly, it still hurt like a dickens. Later Mr. X told me that he was surprised that I didn’t start swearing like a sailor. I know enough to know that you do not under any circumstances make sudden moves or noises when a man has a needle in your stomach. It was over pretty quickly and I was sent on my way home with strict orders not to lift anything – does that include fingers? – and to take it easy. I have had no problem following doctors orders.
As for the results, we are doing FISH which should hopefully give us some answers relatively quickly, as well as the usual amnio culture which takes longer. Just like the past week, though, we are taking it one day at a time.
When we went for our nuchal translucency test a few weeks ago, the maternal fetal medicine specialist gave us several options for the blood test portion of the screening. We chose the sequential integrated test which would require blood work a few weeks after the initial scan to be able to get a more accurate result. I went for that bloodwork on a Monday when I was 15w4d and was advised that we would have results by the end of that week. The next day, we left for our long-planned vacation in the northeast.
I wasn’t particularly concerned about the screening results. The nuchal measurement was above the median, but still well below the 95th percentile and the initial bloodwork came back ‘normal’, although they didn’t give me a discussion of what normal meant. I wasn’t going to press for it either since it was normal.
So, we enjoyed a few days in the Big Apple, seeing the sights, doing Broadway, and just being on vacation. That Friday, we headed to the next portion of our trip – a cruise through New England. We were giddy as newlyweds to get on the boat and enjoy the cruise. First, of course, was the life boat drill that involved lovely dayglo orange life preservers and a demonstration of how to jump into the water if required. We got back to our cabin and my cell phone was ringing. It was the MFM with the results of our screening. That’s where the nightmare began.
Our screening for Down Syndrome, aka Trisomy 21 was 1:20, meaning that there was a 5% chance of Downs, with all other results normal. Unfortunately, it took several tries for me to understand what he was saying as the cell reception on a ship with tons of steel is not exactly ideal. What was worse was that I had to go on the balcony to get any reception at all and so I was attempting to disguise the topic of conversation while also taking in what he was telling me. Mr. X began to swear which frightened me more than what the doctor was telling me since he rarely ever swears out of anger. He rarely gets angry period.
I was surprisingly calm as the doctor was doing his spiel. I understood that it was not a final answer and I felt pretty certain that it would turn out just fine. It was until he started throwing out the terms ‘terminate’ and ’special needs’ that I began to really get worried. It’s one thing to be told that you have a 5% chance that your unborn child has a chromosomal abnormality that could mean profound disability and quite another to be told that you can terminate the pregnancy you have worked for four years to bring to fruition or have a child who is labeled from birth as ’special needs’. In hindsight, I would have preferred him to simply leave it to what our options were for further testing rather than bringing up what to do in the event that the 5% chance came true. That particular bell, however, could not be unrung.
So, there we are at the beginning of the cruise that we had been looking forward to as the ultimate escape and we are brought back to reality with one five minute phone call. The first thing to do was to decide what further testing we wanted. We both agreed at the time that we were not willing to undergo an amnio because the ultimate worst case scenario has always been having a perfectly normal baby that is miscarried due to a botched amnio. The other options were an enhanced scan or do nothing. We chose the enhanced scan which I called for and scheduled for a few days after our return.
Unfortunately, that was all that we could do at that point. It was either stew or put it aside and go on with our cruise. I am a stewer by nature and I was in fine stewing form after this. Dinner was a blur as was conversation with our table mates. I could barely eat and wanted nothing more than to go back to our cabin and stare at a wall or Google. I did neither, and had a terrible night’s sleep. Everytime I fell asleep, I would wake up in terror at the thought of terminating if it came to that.
It wasn’t until the next night that matters came to a head and I was finally able to process all of the feelings that I had regarding the information we had not twenty-four hours earlier. Mr. X and I were on our bed as we sailed away from our first port and I just started bawling. I let it all out – my fears, my anxieties – and we talked it through. We came to the conclusion that we needed to know and that there would be an end to this particular nightmare, even if it was not meant to be at that particular moment. We talked about all of our options and what we would do if we had to make a decision. Most of all, we talked about the 95% chance that everything was fine and that we would not let this ruin our vacation. From that moment on, it did not.
We had a lovely trip and I was able to really enjoy myself. For that, I am so proud and thankful and that is enough for me for now.
image: Mira (on the wall)
My mouth has been known to get me into trouble on numerous occasions, particularly when I was younger. I lacked that certain 2-second delay between a thought in the head and vocalizing it, word for word to an unsuspecting victim. While I got lots of admiration for ‘telling it like it is’, it wasn’t until I was dating Mr. X that I began to get negative feedback about this behavior from someone who’s opinion mattered to me (this is also possibly because alot of these ‘vocalizations’ were about and to his friends – well, just the ones I didn’t like).
I began to think about what I was going to say before I said it and implemented the 2-second delay. Sure, a few zingers made it out everyonce in a while, but I was able to keep that filter lodged nicely in place so that the things coming out of my mouth were non-controversial. And let’s face it, I was a nicer (albeit more boring) person for it.
I missed that girl, sometimes, though. There is a certain freedom in saying exactly what you think. I felt muzzled and self-censored, but I also knew that most of my comments would not be appreciated in the manner in which they were given by the person receiving them. Only a select few of my friends know me well enough and appreciate my sense of humor to let me get away with this habit. So, to preserve the feelings of unsuspecting others, I literally keep my mouth shut.
But, I fear the filter is slipping. I have been fortunate so far in this pregnancy not to have the abject rage that I experienced in my first one. But, I haven’t been immune to the hormonal cocktail and I think this is how it is manifesting itself. My fuse is shorter and I find myself less likely to suffer fools. I’m having that familiar urge to just let it all out. In short, it would appear that the bitch is coming back.
I learned the hard way, though, that sometimes telling it like it is, while momentarily satisfying, is not a good long term strategy to winning friends. Unfortunately, right now I seem to be focused on the momentarily satisfying, or craving, as it were. And, I indulge my other cravings (today’s was a Frosty from Wendy’s), so the theory goes, why not this one too? The thing is, I’d like to retain some semblance of my former civil self. So, for now, it looks like the filter is going to be dusted off, the 2-second rule implemented. Because, I may be a harpie, but I’m not ready to act like one.
image: rubyblossom
Yowza – I’ve been doing this blog thing for two years. Not too shabby for a girl who picks up hobbies like men in bars and discards them pretty soon thereafter. Although, this has always been more of a hobby. It’s been therapy, a chance to meet new friends, and good writing practice. I’ve reaped all three of those benefits and that alone has made it all worth it.
Happy birthday, little blog.
Damn, that cake looks good.
image: Jessica N. Diamond
There are so many things you are told not to do in pregnancy. What not to eat, what not to drink, how not to exercise. Nowhere, however, have I seen what I think is one of the most important no-no’s listed:
Do not Google While Pregnant. Ever.
This sounds like a perfectly obvious statement. In fact, I have absolutely no trouble counseling others against the use of Google to research medical conditions. Rationally, I know that it is just a recipe for unneeded worry and concern. There is a direct correlation between the severity of the potential illness and the terrible stories and scary information Dr. Google spits up. You can easily diagnose yourself with any number of exotic disorders within 15 minutes.
But, to be frank, I suck at taking my own advice. So, when we scheduled our nuchal translucency test, I of course turned to Dr. Google for information. I had no idea what the hell the test was and I wanted to be as prepared as possible for the actual test so that I knew what was going on. In hindsight, I should have stuck with the nice, fluffy discussions on the non-technical pregnancy websites and left it at that. But, I was driven to find out As Much Information As Possible, including what happens when there is a bad result. Forewarned is forearmed, right?
Normally, GWP would be considered ill-advised, but not necessarily off limits. For me there is one little detail which makes it truly dangerous: I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (“OCD”) which means that when I have an obsessive thought , I have to compulsively Google to find information that allows me to be reassured and thus get rid of the thought. Of course, Dr. Google doesn’t always cooperate and provide me with non-technical, credible yet reassuring information, which then heightens my anxiety and the loop starts all over again. Ultimately, the only thing that can quell my anxiety is to see the little bugger in a scan or get other reassuring test results.
Since the nuchal test is seeking to find out the chances of the fetus having some pretty significant chromosomal problems, I was fit to be tied by the time I had exhausted Dr. Google. I had a lot of obsessive thoughts about the potential outcomes of the test and my compulsive Googling was getting me no reassuring answers. What was worse was that I had to wait until 4:30pm on Thursday to find anything out. Needless to say, Thursday was a long day.
We had to go a maternal fetal medicine specialist for the actual test since they had the more sensitive equipment than my OB. What our OB’s office lacked in baby stuff, this office more than made up for. Gliders in the waiting room, pictures of babies everywhere, large pregnant women everywhere. It would have been total sensory overload for me anyway, but as an infertile, I had to fight to urge to apologize to the receptionist for being an impostor (“I’m actually infertile, I just happen to be passing through”) and avert my gaze from the giant bellies around me. So, I was too busy taking in this new experience to dwell on why I was there. We were called back and in no time, I was on the table getting warm gel slathered over my lower abdomen.
And, yes, there was little bugger. Looking a lot less like a shrimp and more like a …. baby? Mr. X and I both must have uttered the word ’surreal’ multiple times. Being the last ultrasound appointment for the day meant that the technician was looking forward to having a compliant fetus who would get into the position she wanted with minimal fuss. Ours was not that fetus. It was taking its sweet time, doing a little thumb sucking, doing a little wiggling, teasing her by almost getting into position and then saying, no, sorry, not comfy. All the while, the tech is smacking her gum which is one of my greater pet peeves in this world. So it was, tap, tap on the computer screen, smack, smack with the gum. She finally got the little bugger in the position that she wanted and zoomed in for the measurements. Mr. X and I were watching the gigantic flat screen tv that was projecting the images and getting mildly freaked out by how large everything (including the nuchal fold) seemed. One thing that didn’t freak us out was that the baby was still measuring on target with a heartbeat of 162.
She didn’t give us any information about the scan, but also didn’t appear to be overly concerned, especially if her gum smacking was a sign. She wiped me down and headed out, while we were left waiting in the room for the doctor. The doc came in and we had a rather long discussion about my previous history of miscarriage. When I informed him that both of our miscarriages were monosomies, he looked at me as if I had just spoken in Russian. He had never heard of anyone who actually had back-to-back monosomies. What can I say? I’m a medical anomaly. Finally, we got around to the measurements. Based upon the baby’s age as dated by the scan (13w1d – which was right on target as I was 13w1d on Thursday), the nuchal fold measurement of 2.2 was above the median but still well within the normal range. We were blessedly nicely below the Red Line of Doom. Of course, that is not the whole picture, which we will only get with the results of the blood test, but it was enough to allow me to breathe.
Needless to say, I did my GWP thing when I got home. But, it was all of 30 seconds and I was nicely reassured. I will need GWP rehab, I think.
Not only is this the title to one my of all-time favorite ever songs, this should be my new mantra in getting used to the idea that I am now a patient in an obstetrics office. Not an infertility doctor. Not even the gyno. A doctor for pregnant ladies. Whoa, momma.
We had our first OB appointment today, and it went very well. Our OB is just adorable and super nice (in fact, I think she might very well be known here as Dr. Sweet). Dr. Salsa hooked me up. She took our (sordid) history and I got the impression very quickly that she understood that we were not her typical patients and that she was more than up to the task of dealing with our unique challenges. The practice itself seems like a pretty low-key. There was just one other person in the waiting room when we arrived and during our whole visit, we weren’t hurried at all. What was really amazing was that there was not a single poster showing a baby in the whole place. for which I am truly grateful. Even now, those are a bit much for me. I was weighed and then I had to give a urine sample – which for a moment I thought was so that they could confirm what we’ve known for the last 10 weeks – but was really so that they could look for proteins, etc. Then it was essentially a well-woman visit complete with the breast exam! and pap smear! But, she was super gentle and it was fine.
Then she whipped out the portable doppler. I had been eying it ever since we got in the room with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. Then, I was slathered with gel and all we could hear was …. my heartbeat. But, I did not allow myself to panic. I got dressed and headed over to the sono room where I had my first belly ultrasound, with even more gel. And, of course, there was the little bugger looking a little groggy but perking up once he knew he was on TV. We even got a little wave. Heartbeat was 167 and measurement was on target at 12w1d.
We are set up to schedule the nuchal translucency test next week. This must be the place.
I have been in no less than three graduation ceremonies in my illustrious educative career. And, through all three I never got tired of the ceremony, the playing of Pomp and Circumstance as we paraded solemnly down the aisles, subtley craning our necks to see our relatives. Of course, with my maiden name, I was toward the end of the alphabet so I usually got the tail end of the song, but it still had the cache. I loved the feeling that I had earned this pageant and I was finally participating in something that everyone got to do.
Today, I had my fourth graduation: we have officially been released to the OB. This time, there was no ceremony, no cap or gown, just a brief check that Little Bugger was still in there and doing his disco thing (he was with a heartbeat of 175). It was surreal and ordinary at the same time.
I have thought (and agonized) about this moment a lot in the past. I tried to imagine the feeling of knowing that I had finally made it to the next step. I envisioned the nice parting hug from the doctor and the nurses and then being carried out on a litter leaving the office without looking back and moving onto the next grade: Big Time Pregnancy. Reality was a wee bit different than fantasy. The appointment was lightening fast – I don’t think I am particularly interesting now since I am no longer a problem to be solved. I was given the name of the OB that Dr. Salsa handpicked for me on a post-it note. We paid our final fee and like that, we were gone.
I realize though, that an uneventful graduation was exactly what I wanted and needed. I didn’t want to be fawned over or exalted (although, being carried out on a litter would have been pretty awesome). I just wanted to be patted on the back and sent on my merry way. And that’s exactly what happened.
We already have set up the appointment with the new OB. Not only have I graduated to the next level of pregnancy monitoring, I have graduated to the infertile gal’s version of the ninth ring of hell – an OB waiting room with lots of beaming pregnant ladies. That might take a lot more to get used to.
image: wiccked
