I know I’ve been an absentee blogger, but frankly, I didn’t have it in me to share what I’ve been enduring the past few weeks.
Let’s recap, as best as I can, in short:
Mr. and I were more than excited about getting to tell our families about the baby at Christmas. We planned to go to our first checkup on 12/21, then go shopping for baby books that would serve as surprise gifts for the grandparents. We went into the doctors on 12/21 and all seemed good (got a new estimated due date of 8/1) and we were feeling good until I told the doctor about the bleeding that I’d had about 3 weeks earlier. At that point in the visit, the tone changed drastically. She was referring us to a “viability” ultrasound, saying the word viability as though I shouldn’t take it to mean anything less than ‘checking for dead baby’ ultrasound. The doctor put her hand on my knee and told me that many of us lose babies for a number of reasons, many times we don’t even know that we’re pregnant…so on…none of which sounds as though she believes there is anything left in my uterus. We put on our coats, got in the car, and tried to wait out the 18 hours until the ultrasound appt. Mr. took me for dinner, hoping it would put the anxiety out of my mind, and all I can remember is chewing a bite of steak while thinking “I didn’t really want to be pregnant anyway”. This is the coping mechanism one’s brain creates when one is told her baby might be gone, weeks gone.
Next morning, I’m in a dark exam room, holding my husband’s hand, and I watch up on the screen where I can see a figure–perhaps something the shape of a candy circus peanut. It’s floating around, and I see a fluttery movement in it’s midsection. Wow–see, I can actually see it’s heartbeat. Except, there’s a “concern” (“if you want to call it that”, says the tech) that the heart rate is irregular. Not weak, but that it skips a few beats occasionally. The doctor comes and takes a look, says that it could be a problem, but it’s really too early to say. Sometimes, the heart rate is irregular right before a miscarriage, they tell us. The doctor says his daughter in law had a similar situation, (meaning right before she lost her baby). We’re asked to go home, wait, go to the hospital if there is any heavy bleeding, and if not, come back in 7-10 days.
All that means is that I got to go home, sit through a holiday weekend with family, waiting for a miscarriage. No big reveals, no joyous holiday–sitting, silent, waiting.
Fast forward through a week of waiting, analyzing each and every cramp or twinge, (each day I’m feeling more positive for just not having had any miscarriage symptoms) and another ultrasound. The heart rate is good, the doctor says. The risk of miscarriage after week 10 is about 1.5%, and will decrease to about 0.5% after week 12. With good numbers, a healthy looking baby that’s grown a good deal in 8 days (now looking less like a circus peanut) we can relax. We go to breakfast, laugh about our baby’s ‘crown and rump” measurement, and enjoy the first break in anxiety we’ve had so far. I joke that the baby probably had the hiccups in the last ultrasound.
Today, two weeks later, I’m about to enter week 12 and as much as I want to relax and focus on the 0.5% risk of miscarriage, I still can’t do so fully. I broke down and bought maternity jeans (because why wait until I’m super big to enjoy comfortable pants?). I’ve made little purchases and lists of items to buy for the baby. I’ve been stitching little woodland creatures for the nursery, planning out the room. But still, each little feeling or flutter or spot or twinge seems like the other shoe about to drop. We had our second appointment today, with a pretty fantastic mid-wife and got to hear the heartbeat. How awesome a feeling to finally hear that “chachunk-chachunk-chachunk” sound! Everything appears good. I’ve gained my 6 lbs (which the nurse said is normal, or “welcome to motherhood” to be exact) and yet I just can’t relax and know I’m going to have a baby in 6.5 months. It seems that the odds are impossible.
No wonder I’m having heart flutters constantly. My heart is sending out a Morse code message to my baby, telling him or her that we’re together in this, for the long haul.
It's a little Teenie Weenie 