Still pregnant

Thank goodness. Cleitus and his cord are looking the same. My fluid is a little high, because I really did need one more thing to worry me. Evidently if my belly dramatically increases in size overnight, it is BAD and I should call the doctor. Because I do not trust my perception, I have taken to measuring my belly every morning. Which is really fantastic for my self-esteem.

I'm heading home tomorrow for my baby shower. I'm looking forward to some Carolina sun and seeing people I like a lot.

Happy Half-Baked Day, Cleitus!

I haz a belly! And it's almost as big as my butt!

And now I would like to discuss pregnancy shirts. Not maternity shirts, but pregnancy shirts which in some (generally inane, overly cutesy) way allude to the mama-to-be's condition. While I certainly don't think pregnant women need to walk around in mu mus or billowing empire-waist shirts to disguise their ever-expanding mid-section, the modest part of me doesn't really find it NECESSARY to broadcast the growth with actual words. In fact, I might go as far as calling it tacky. So there.

All this brings me to my promise of a picture of the MOST AWESOME CHRISTMAS GIFT EVAH. And by awesome, I mean that I was filled with awe. But not the good kind. More like the kind that I deemed necessary to conceal in order to be a gracious recipient.

Sadly, the ubiquitous glitter occludes the writing under the "BABIES RULE" slogan, but imagine lots of descriptive words about babies that are also written in silver glitter. When I went to the store to return this shirt the clerk was having difficulty because apparently the exact same shirt had been returned at least once in the past. Fancy that! I do hope that by sending it back this shirt will one day find it's true owner who is most likely 15 and four months pregnant without even realizing it.

Nobody's gonna go to work today, she's (or he's) gonna make them stay at home

This morning, as I was leaning over the toilet, trying to evade the vomit that was splashing back up at my face, I learned something about my preshus wittle fetus. Cleitus does not like Mondays.

(As an aside, Frosted Mini Wheats are one of the least offensive foods to puke up, semi-digested.)

(Also, I have a strange love of catchy ballads about psycho chicks killing innocent children. Don't judge.)

I don't particularly like Mondays either. When I was a kid I'd play feel horribly sick on Mondays more than any other day of the week. One time my mama remarked to me that my (fourth grade) teacher was going to think I partied every weekend. (Sorry teach, couldn't make it yesterday, that seventh Capri-Sun was making me pay). I'll even confess that maybe I've taken more mental health days on Mondays than I should have in my adult years.

But now, in my pregnant state, I don't have to pretend because my fetus is making me sick. My baby is already taking after me! Oh shit joy! However, unlike in elementary school when you could miss up to 30 days of school without any major repercussions (I kept track), my company only gives me six sick days each year. There are WAY more than six Mondays in a year people!

Which leaves me wiping the puke off my face, trying to brush my teeth without setting off another episode, and trudging off to work with a look of martyrdom on my face. And making a mental note not to leave the room when I take my kid's temperature. Because I totally knew that trick about how to fake a fever.

The Good, The Bad, The Insane

I got a call from the genetic counselor. The results from my NT scan show a 1:10,000 chance of Down's and a 1:2088 chance of Trisomy 18. Both of these risk levels are way lower than what one would expect based on my age, so it's great news.

The not-so-great news is that my free beta HCG levels are in the 0.5 percentile. Low. And apparently this result puts me at risk for pre-eclampsia, pre-term labor, miscarriage, placental 'issues', growth restrictions, and clinical insanity. I've already started developing the latter. Because, it seems that it is just one thing have another. After the bleeding episode, I walked around for several weeks terrified that I would miscarry at any moment. And just when I got more comfortable with this pregnancy and this baby we had that fateful ultrasound that cast us into fear and sadness for another few weeks. And NOW! After getting some AMAZING news I can't even relish it for 30 seconds without learning that DUDE, I am one high-risk mama.

I DO thank God that so far all indications point to a healthy Cleitus. But I wish that I could really love this pregnancy. That I could, upon telling a friend, not feel a stab of fear that I might have to untell. That I could buy maternity clothes without wondering if I'll need to shove them in the back of a closet to avoid seeing them. That I could be happy that I don't have a doctor's appointment for 3.5 weeks (the longest I've gone since my BFP!) instead of wishing I could go in to hear the heartbeat every week. And that on the mornings I wake up without feeling nauseous I could be happy instead of poking my boobs to make sure I still have some pregnancy symptoms.

Joy

My CVS test was scheduled for yesterday. I had taken two days off work and my mama had come up for the 'occasion'. They started with an ultrasound to determine the best route for the test and as soon as we saw the baby I knew something was different. It didn't look the same as the last two times.

After a few minutes of squinting at the picture I asked the technician, "so, um, where is the nuchal translucency?" She replied something vague about needing the baby to move and then after a few moments went to get the doctor. I laid there, silent. Trying not to say anything that might get my mama excited. Trying not to let myself get excited. The doctor came in the room. Eleven days ago the nuchal translucency was 4.2 mm. "Normal" is under 2 mm. Now, it was 0.8 mm.

THAT'S LESS THAN A MILLIMETER INTERNET!

As she talked about my options I half-listened and half-restrained myself from jumping off the table, screaming, crying, or grabbing the ultrasound wand as a fake microphone and singing some ecstatic song. I knew my options. I knew what I would do. I had gone over this scenario a million times in my head. I had hoped and prayed for this scenario. And now, it was here.

I declined the CVS. I let them go ahead and do a proper NT Scan. All the other measurements look perfectly normal. Cleitus has a prominent nasal bone and is measuring right on time. We'll hear about the blood results in a week or two.

The doctor and genetic counselor were careful to say that we're not out of the woods yet. That there WAS something there and it COULD mean something. But me? I'm not letting reality step in the way of my joy. I believe in miracles. And I believe that I've got a healthy baby in there.

Are You There Loretta? It's Me, God

The days are dragging until we can have the tests that will tell us more about our precious baby. I'm scheduled for a chorionic villus sampling next Tuesday and we should get some preliminary results a few days later.

We are scared, but coping. We have friends, family, and creepy Internet strangers (mwah!) praying for us and I have never in my life felt God's presence as closely as I have over the past few days. It became clear to me when I walked into church Sunday and saw that the sermon's title was "Anxiety over Loss". The pastor talked about Psalm 23, a passage I've memorized, but never internalized. I've started reading through the Psalms and have begun to identify with David's fear, but also his faith that he served a God who saves.

I feel hopeful. Hopeful that our baby WILL live, hopeful that the nuchal fold is signalling that Cleitus has an issue that is not serious or easily treatable, and better yet, hopeful that nothing at all is wrong.

And when I DO get down and start thinking about the scariest scenarios? The scenarios that end with me delivering a baby that does not survive? I feel peace. Sadness, yes, but also peace. And still more hope, for the future. Hopeful that our lives and our baby's life will serve to glorify the God that created us, no matter how short those lives may be. Hopeful for our family's happiness.

I am being blessed with a hope that is kicking despair's butt.

Walking the Line

There's a fine line between getting your hopes up and staying positive. I do not want to delude myself, thinking that everything will be okay, only to find myself cast into a deeper despair if the test results are bad. But I also do not want to prematurely assume the worst. Because that? I can't handle right now. I cannot think THAT until there is nothing else to think.

I'm trying to find a balance. I'm trying to quash my questions and fears until we know more. My inner Girl Scout is screaming, "but what about THIS? I need to BE PREPARED!" And the doctor told us we should be prepared, but "don't get too depressed yet". How can I prepare myself for terrible news about my baby without getting depressed?

I have no idea.

No words

I had a little bit of brown spotting yesterday. Because of the previous bleeding the nurse had me come in for a sonogram. We saw the heartbeat right away, but the technician told us she saw a "very large" nuchal translucency on the back of Cleitus' neck. It could be a marker for Down's Syndrome or Trisomies 13 or 18. The latter two are almost always lethal.

I'm not sure how to breathe, how to move, how to speak.

Pregnancy Symptoms: Repressed White Girl Version

It's common in pregnancy to have steamy sex dreams. It's also common in pregnancy to have cramps and gas pains. What I've NEVER heard was common in pregnancy is to wake up with severe cramps and gas pains every time you have a sex dream. Every time, usually when things in my dream start getting good. And these aren't just mild pains either, no, they are hobble to the bathroom and spend 15 minutes laying on the floor moaning pains.

I've come to the conclusion that something in my subconscious is telling me that these dreams are BAD and making me suffer for them. God may kill a kitten every time YOU touch yourself, but I'm afflicted with paralyzing pain every time I think about touching someone else. Including my husband. Which is totally not fair because I can't actually DO any touching do to doctor-mandated pelvic rest.

(Actually, I could do the touching but I'm lazy if I don't get anything for my effort).

I'm blaming my stiff fundamentalist Norwegian relatives for this one.

Fear and Hope in a 24 Hour Period

At church on Sunday I started having intense pain in my lower stomach/pelvic area. It was so bad I walked out and went to the bathroom where I discovered red blood. Lots of it. I ran back to get Victor and told him we had to leave. As soon as I got in the car I started sobbing. We drove to the closest hospital (in retrospect, an extra 5 minutes of driving would have probably saved us a lot of trouble). The staff took me up to Labor and Delivery, had me put on a gown and a pad thicker than most diapers, and left us there. For about an hour. Because they could not figure out how to enter me into their system. Finally they took some blood and left for another hour. No infection, hcg was at 55,000. More waiting and then I got wheeled down to the basement for an ultrasound, as soon as I drank a ton of water. Evidently they thought a trans-abdominal ultrasound would be appropriate even though the technician admitted that they usually were only good for women who were at least 13 weeks. She couldn't see anything so she let me pee and then went for the dildo-cam.

We saw our little gummy bear, but the technician kept having me hold my breath for extended periods of time to see if she could ascertain the heart rate. Her "unofficial" report was that she couldn't find it but she did think she saw a flickering. After more waiting the doctor came up and basically said I was most likely going to miscarry because the baby was measuring about a week behind my EDD based on my last period. He ignored my comments about having ovulated about a week "late" and said I just had to go home and wait.

Monday morning we called my practice. They gave us another ultrasound and the technician said she "definitely" saw Cleitus' heart beating! I was so relieved! And she saw something else too. Either a bleed or a second gestational sac.

So maybe I have some bleeding issues, maybe I have a baby and a blighted ovum, or maybe I have twins.

Twins?!

Another ultrasound in six days.

As Free as the Wind Blows

Yesterday I realized that I am going to start making my first big sacrifice as a mommy. No, it isn't cutting down on caffeine or eliminating alcohol (although I did do those things). It's wearing a bra, all the time. Pretty much every day, as soon as I get home from work (or anywhere else for that matter), I take off my bra. My bewbies like to be free, to feel the wind upon their areolas. They're small enough (low end of a C-cup) that a little bit of jostling didn't bother them or me. In fact, I could often get away without a bra even out in public when I wore tops or dresses that restrained and separated the girls a bit.

Until now. While the great boob-splosion of 2009 has not yet occurred, my lovely ladies have been feeling a bit under the weather. And recently it has come to my attention that the tenderness raging pain increases when I am sans-bra.

(As a side note, why isn't there a one-word term for going without a bra like there is for going without panties? Another case of discrimination against women?)

The pain occurs regardless of whether I'm moving or not. And this pain, it is a stretching kind of pain. Like someone is pulling my twins in all sorts of directions they were not meant to go. So now I face the dilemma of either wearing a bra 24/7 or worrying about ending up like one of those women you see in National Geographic whose ta-tas are down to their waists.

So dear titties, I deeply apologize for constantly keeping you locked up in your prison cells. It's for your benefit. Consider it a training session for the agony that is your destiny. You'll forget this temporary discomfort in nine months when a little creature wants to suck on you every few hours.

The Makings of a Very Awkward Conversation

We told my parents the good news last night. For now, they are the only ones who know (other than the interwebs, of course. I've got my priorities straight!). Since we're big nerds organized, Victor and I have set a schedule of who to tell when. I decided to tell my dad first because I knew that if I told my mama she would make such a ruckus that I would probably never get to tell my dad myself (and I was correct). When I picked up my phone I started to get nervous. I felt like I was calling my daddy to tell him his little girl was no longer a virgin. What would he think? Victor assured me that my dad had most likely already had surmised this detail about me based on the fact that, you know, I had been married for over a year. And not in the 1960's sitcom kind of way either. But my dad's response confirmed my fears.

Me: So, I'm pregnant.
Dad: (long pause) How did THAT happen?

Maybe my mama needs to lend him this book.