Knock Me Up

Yesterday I had my monthly visit with the OB. Everything appears to proceeding as it should, but the whole pregnancy still feels like a mystery. First, the nurse comes in and tells R. and I that she is going to check for the heartbeat. She places what looks like the microphone end of a mini-recorder on my abdomen and pokes around. We hear a loud static, as if she is trying to tune into an out of range radio station. Then we hear a loud, quick pulse, a swooshing of airwaves. “There it is,” she says. It’s the heartbeat of a marathon runner. “It sounds really fast,” R. says, concerned. “Yes, it’s supposed to be that fast.” It occurs to me that R. hasn’t been reading any pregnancy books, or even listening to half the things I tell him. Or maybe he doesn’t make the connection until he experiences it himself.

This is the first time he meets Dr. L. We like that she is matter of fact and direct and not reactionary. Especially about my bleeding, which has turned into continuous spotting. I haven’t had any fresh blood for two weeks, but the old, dark stuff keeps coming. I’m still not convinced the clot (or subchorionic hematoma) is going away — not until I see it with my own eyes which will be on Tuesday before the amnio.

I’m a bit distressed because I gained five pounds this month — I know, I’m pregnant. But Dr. L. gave me the weight gain rules at the beginning. First trimester = 2 pounds. Second trimester = 1 pound every other week. Third trimester = 1 pound a week. I think it comes out to 25 pounds. But really, how are you not supposed to gain twice that much? I think I’m up to what I should gain by the end of the second trimester. I tell her I don’t think I am eating that much, and she says, that’s what everyone tells me.I can’t even look at sweets. I no longer snack at night. I actually eat regular meals. Then I think about the variety of potato chips and Fritos I’ve consumed in the past two weeks, and the ham and cheese paninis that are the only thing I can stomach at night. And there’s the Gatorade I drink by the quart because water is so unappealing. But more important is my lack of exercise. I’ve not been this sedentary since high school, when I went through a depressed phase and slept all the time and ate bags of Doritos. Oh, I’ve been eating those, too. Two weeks after the last sign of spotting, I can resume exercise. It feels a long way off.

Last week I had my first reprieve from feeling sick. It lasted about two days. Then this past weekend I was back to my old, couch-ridden, TV watching self. Eating potato chips which for some reasons I can always eat. This week I had another slight reprieve, but it’s back again. I know it will eventually go away, but will the sensitivity to smell? Last night, from our apartment, I smelled someone eating french fries on the street. Later, I could have sworn someone opened a bag of cat food in the room. Where are these smells coming from? And walking down Broadway on a hot summer day…it requires holding one’s nose and heading west to Riverside as soon as possible.

Enough complaining. I didn’t write much this week because I didn’t want it to sound all bad. I’m patiently waiting for the happy phase of pregnancy.

Today officially marks the end of my first trimester. Or so my doctor agreed when I asked her and she said it ends at 13 1/3 weeks, which I’ve calculated to be today. My morning-day-night sickness seemed to increase last week, and I’m anxiously awaiting the end to it. I mean, it’s supposed to end now, isn’t it? Last night the Sea-bands came out of retirement and perhaps they helped because I woke up feeling okay. Or maybe this is a well-deserved break after three days of nausea. Or maybe this is the beginning of the end? I’ve given up trying to figure any of it out.

I’ve also given up (for the most part) on feeling sorry for myself. Woe is me having morning sickness. Woe is me having a very small clot that will probably go away on its own. A couple of friends set me straight this weekend, without meaning to. One friend spent the weekend in the emergency room with her 1 1/2 year old daughter, scared to death after the child suffered three seizures as a result of a mysterious escalating fever. The girl is fine now, but it scared the hell out of my friends who set new records for worrying. She suggested, and I agreed, that my pregnancies worries are prep for things to come. The real worrying starts when they become living breathing creatures on their own. Another friend suggested I stop worrying and “Put your faith in the universe and try to enjoy the miracle.” After reading their emails I felt a little small and self-indulgent. So when I bled again on Sunday night, I was upset but not worried. All the body can do is heal itself (or not). I can’t do anything else, and worrying is getting kind of tiresome. Not that it will go away, but I’m giving it a break for now.

This morning R. and I arrived at Columbia-Presbyterian for our CVS. Being a good patient, I arrived with a full bladder (as instructed). Unfortunately, we then had to wait an hour and a half. Advice to others — don’t start sucking down the water until you get there. But that’s the least of the day’s worries.

First, the technician performed a quick ultrasound. R. and I had been looking forward to it since he hadn’t seen one before, but the technician barely took notice of us and didn’t bother to point of the heartbeat, the size, or give us any “cute” views. While she was poking around, I caught sight of the heartbeat and was relieved.

After Dr. R. arrived, things happened fast. We told him we were concerned about my bleeding and wondered if the ultrasound showed anything. He said, yes, and pointed out a small subchorionic hematoma. A what? A small clot between the placenta and the uterus. Okay, so that caused the bleeding. He explained that any bleeding in the first trimester increased my risk of miscarriage. So that put me at an increased risk of miscarriage with the CVS. So what did I want to do? Could I handle waiting three more weeks for an amnio since I am at a “high risk” for Down Syndrome? What options! What a decision to make laying on your back with your skirt hiked up to your armpits. I didn’t like anything he was saying, but my gut said to wait. I’m more concerned about maintaining the pregnancy then any chromosomal defects. That choice wasn’t immediately clear, but it’s the one we ended up with. When the doctor presented our options, it almost felt like a game. He wasn’t giving anything away. He couldn’t tell us what to do, but he gave some aggressive hints. We got it. Slowly.

Dr. R. came to talk to us after I changed. He had texted my OB (they are in the same practice) as we had requested. The doctors had given us different opinions on whether or not to continue taking the baby aspirin I’d been taking for the past two months. When I started bleeding last week, we thought we should stop the aspirin. But she said the benefits outweighed the negatives. Dr. R. felt differently. In fact, he said he wouldn’t have performed the procedure anyway if he had known I was on aspirin. The fact that this information hadn’t been relayed to him by our doctor or the genetic counselor ticked us off. By the time we left, we had decided to change doctors and hospitals.

But we calmed down. At home, we both got on the phone with Dr. L. who talked us off the ledge. She assured us the small clot didn’t pose a big threat to the pregnancy. It should resolve itself and slowly absorb (into the bloodstream?). The risk is it could get larger and cause a separation of the placenta. I like this doctor because she knows how to talk to patients, and she is not an alarmist. Dr. R. wasn’t as reassuring, but he was also the one who was about to perform a risky procedure on me.

I was feeling okay about all of this until I started googling subchorionic hematoma and reading about the 50/50 chance of miscarriage. Three things can happen: 1) the clot will go away on its own, 2) the clot will get larger and the placenta will separate causing a miscarriage, or 3) we could have a very premature birth. I’ll write more about all this later but right now I need to chill out. All in all, this appears to be somewhat common occurrence and my clot isn’t large so things should resolve themselves. But it’s our new worry of the day.

Last Friday, R. and I met with a genetic counselor at Columbia-Presbyterian. My doctor suggested the counselor could better explain the NT results and make us feel more comfortable about the CVS. She made us feel less hesitant about the CVS (a marginally higher risk of miscarriage than an amnio), but more nervous about the roulette we are playing with our gene pool. Down Syndrome is our big worry because of my age, but all other chromosomal abnormalities could happen anyway. I’m convinced if anyone spoke to a genetic counselor before trying to get pregnant, they wouldn’t even try.

She took a thorough family history of both R. and I, marking up a pre-made family tree with blank rectangles. With each potential genetic flaw, she’d scribble a different symbol then pull out her genetic counseling book and tell us the chance that the disease or condition was genetic, and our chance of being a carrier. After two hours, we left with a CVS appointment scheduled for the following Friday. Again, we walked most of the way home a bit dazed by the information and feeling very small and powerless to do anything about the inevitable. I guess you could say we had achieved an unsettling peace, a throw up your hands and sigh surrender.

We would have scheduled the CVS for Monday but because of the bleeding last week, we decided to allow for several more days of healing. The spotting had gone away by Monday and all was fine until last night when I started bleeding again at 11pm. Not heavy, but steady throughout the night, ending sometime in the early morning. When it started, both R. and I started pacing around the apartment. We’d been through it before and I knew what the doctor would say. I wasn’t cramping, so no need to panic. What does the book say? R. asked. Why don’t you read it? I responded. He picked up “What to Expect” and I found the more clinical “Your Pregnancy & Birth” given to me by Dr. L. on my first visit.

R. read things like, “It’s definitely scary to see blood down below when you’re pregnant. But what’s not definite is that bleeding is a sign that something’s wrong with your pregnancy. Many women - about 1 in 5, in fact - experience some bleeding during pregnancy, and a very large majority go on to have a perfectly healthy pregnancy and baby.” In my book I found “bleeding” under the “Complications During Pregnancy” chapter: “Miscarriage occurs in about 15-20% of al pregnancies, often during the first three months. Bleeding is the most common sign that a miscarriage might occur.” We decided we liked the more fluffy, illustrated “What to Expect” approach and I decided not to consult the other book anymore.

I just talked to my doctor and she said to go ahead with Friday’s procedure. The ultrasound will show any problems and if there are risks, they won’t do it. We are ready. We want it over with. We want to be able to exhale and poo-poo the numbers.

On Monday, I had my NT (nuchal translucency) scan. The test results will indicate the chances of Down Syndrome and a host of other chromosomal abnormalities. Last week my doctor was optimistic: I might have an excellent score and we could forgo further screening. Or it could be in the middle and we might opt to wait for the amnio. Or it could be not great and she’d recommend a CVS, the earlier, slightly riskier procedure.

The test itself is simple and non-invasive. In fact, it was kind of fun. The technician was a friendly, Eastern European woman who obviously enjoyed her job. She needed to get a clear shot of the neck away from the uterine wall (or whatever it was pressed against). The little guy was sleeping. She pointed out the encouraging, strong heartbeat. Good sign. The size of the fetus had doubled since the last screening less than two weeks ago. “I need him to wake up,” she said. “I need him to turn over.” She pressed her paddle into my abdomen and shook it around. I felt a little bad about waking him up from his nap, but we needed to get down to work. “There he goes,” she says, and points out the feet and arms (two of each!) kicking and punching back and forth. I wasn’t prepared for that. Legs? Kicking? In quick paddle like motions. Kick, kick, kick. Pause. Kick, kick, kick. And the little arms and fists scrambling in the air (or fluid). It was a Disney moment. Aw, isn’t that adorable! How wonderful. How amazing!

Then she switched views and showed me the 3D version. This I was not prepared for. This I had not seen in my “What to Expect” book, nor the books Dr. L gave me last week. “What’s that?” I asked, watching this tiny birdlike creature stretch and claw under a sheath of tightly pulled skin. “What the heck is that?” She explained it was a 3D view and more like what the fetus actually looked like. I felt a little sick. I wasn’t prepared to see the un-Disney version. It was real, it was fascinating, but it was a little too much for me. Later, I walked most of the way home, despite the 95-degree heat wave. I stumbled along Broadway in my flip-flops, soaking up the Dominican ambiance, watching all the people who started out as blobs of flesh and bone.

Later, R. said, what did you think? That they start out fully formed? No, of course not. I guess I hadn’t really thought of it. The technician presented me with a handful of snapshots from the session. Two of 3-D view and the rest from the regular ultrasound. One of the latter was particularly clear and showed a shapely little skull with rounded forehead and button nose. I placed that one on the top of the stack and posted it on the refrigerator.

For the next day or two I kept talking about how disturbed I was by the 3-D image. R. scolded me, telling me to stop obsessing about it. I told friends how detached I felt from the pregnancy, how seeing that image had made it more real but more unsettling. I’d lie in bed and think about the creature growing, quickly now, and that half formed face, that alien head without every feature in place. It will grow, R. assured me. And maybe that is what I found most disturbing about the image. That it wasn’t fully formed. That I’d seen it in a state of growth, unfinished, and I fear that that is how it will remain. But I was thrilled to see two arms, two legs. Even fingers and toes.

Yesterday a work, while interviewing a very nice programmer from India, my doctor called me on my cell phone. I knew if I didn’t answer it would be another day or so before we connected. I left the poor guy in the conference room for fifteen minutes while I roamed the halls trying to find a hot spot where my phone worked. Dr. L. assured me that the bleeding I’d experienced the night before was probably nothing to worry about since I’d had a good scan on Monday and she wanted to talk to me about my NT scan. At 3:30am, I’d woken up terrified to see what looked like a heavy menstrual flow. How could she be sure nothing was wrong.? She went on to tell me that my NT results were in line with my age. Basically, we didn’t get the reassurance we wanted. When she told me my range from the test and the range from my age, I quickly calculated that my test, in fact, scored lower. I looked back in the glass enclosed conference room and watched the interviewee click away on his PDA, glad that he had a distraction. Standing in a sea of empty cubicles, I remembered that someone was having a going away party in the larger conference room. I could talk about the risk of Down Syndrome openly, without walls or glass enclosures.

Dr. L. was recommending the CVS and for next week. Rattling off numbers and risks, she assured me the procedure was safe and that their facility was top-notch. I knew I would do it, but said, I have to discuss with my husband. Of course, she said, probably knowing that my decision had been made. I didn’t cry on the phone with her. How could I? I had to get back to my interview. She suggested R. and I meet with a genetic counselor the next day (today) that, she said, would make us feel better about the risks of the procedure. Sure, I said. Of course, more information.

When I went back to the interview, our time was up. I apologized profusely, and wondered if he could read the notes I had scribbled on his resume, the only piece of paper I took with me when I left: CVS, 1/38, 1/ 35, genetic counselor.

I told R. he had to come to the appointment with me on Friday, and that he had to come to the CVS. I’m through doing this alone, I said. I refuse to go to one more appointment by myself and swallow my heart as I watch the ultrasound monitor search for the heartbeat, and hold my breath until I see that fluttering heartbeat pulse on the screen. I realized the last time he’d come to appointment with me was the retrieval, and he had to be there for that. I was feeling very alone.

Talk it one day at a time, he reassures me. And I think, easy for you to say. You aren’t living, breathing, thinking this pregnancy every second of the day. You aren’t the one being prodded and poked, waking up in blood soaked underwear, reading books and searching online for risk factors and what every gurgle and strum of your body means.

Last night I went for a walk in Riverside Park. With the break in heat, the park was busy with dog walkers and joggers and kids coming home from softball games. My irritation with R. for not being there festered. But I realized as I walked along that I wasn’t alone. That I’d been feeling this way, accompanied?, for some weeks now. It’s a strange comfort to know that I’m not alone. And maybe I wouldn’t have felt this way if I hadn’t seen that disturbing image of protoplasm and bones. However unformed, it’s hear with me, every step of my day. Which makes the thought of something being wrong sadder than I can put into words.

Babies in the waiting room, women with bellies stretching against pleasantly pliant fabric, smiling nurses and aides in floral print scrubs. I felt like an intruder. Where is my solemn waiting room? Here, at the Columbia-Presbyterian Maternal Fetal Medicine group, pamphlets with cute baby faces prevail. At the fertility offices, intruders with babies were quietly whisked away to back rooms. But now I am pregnant. No need to be shy or protective. Here they act as if all will be well. The inverse of the thinking I’ve become accustomed to: all is treacherous; all is uncertain; all is risky.

I like my new doctor, but I’m suspicious of her lack of scrutiny. No ultrasound today? No, and I find out I might only have two or three during the entire pregnancy. But I’ve had three in 9 weeks! The fuzzy black and white images have reassured me, the fluttering heartbeat, so fragile and real.

Dr. L. asks me what I want to do about screening. No, she asks me if I want to screen. Of course, I say. What do you want to do, she asks? My god, I have to make a decision. Isn’t someone going to do this for me? She presents the options clearly, offering up an NT (nuchal translucency), a CVS and amnio. I’ll take all three, I think. She explains my options and only advises on the NT for now. It is the least invasive and the one we can perform next week.

I jump on a Monday appointment. The NT (or nuchal fold scan) can help assess the risk of Down syndrome, and hopefully some other chromosomal abnormalities. I think of that little neck in last weeks scan — amazed that it had even formed so early. It was more like a curve that connected the torso and head, that huge head.

Here’s a description of the test from www.babycenter.com:
“The NT test uses ultrasound to measure the clear (translucent) space in the tissue at the back of your developing baby’s neck. Babies with abnormalities tend to accumulate more fluid at the back of their neck during the first trimester, causing this clear space to be larger than average.”

Okay, seems simple enough. Non-invasive. No risk. Dr. L. says if the results look good, I may decide not to do further screening. If it looks so-so, I can do the amnio. If it looks poor, we go for the CVS. The CVS presents a higher risk of miscarriage, but if we think there is a problem it is better to find out sooner rather than later. This all seems like a bit of a crap shoot. I know I will want the amnio no matter what, but she is right to point out the NT may ease my mind for a few more weeks.

I ask her if she ever advises against an amnio. She says never.

When I found out I was going to go the IVF route, a friend sent me a link to to Conceive Online. But I was too overwhelmed to look into it at the time. It was enough for me to focus on doctor appointments and the twice daily injections. When you are in the midst of IVF, it’s hard to raise your head up and look around you. Hey, being 10 weeks pregnant, it’s hard to raise your head up, etc.

I came across the site today and found some information I had been looking for about IVF funding. They state that the average cost per cycle runs about $12,500 and this was the case for us in New York City. But everything costs about 30% more than it should in Manhattan. It makes me wonder if other states might be less expensive. Somehow, I think not. The site also notes that 14 states require at least partial funding for IVF treatment (Arkansas, California, Connecticut, Hawaii, Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Montana, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Rhode Island, Texas and West Virginia). I found this information hopeful, but also disheartening. What about the other 36 states? Columbia-Presbyterian (where we went for cycles 1 and 2) participated in the statewide program and encouraged us to apply. We were lucky enough to have full coverage for that facility (they were in our insurance network). but ended up going out of network to the doctor who eventually created the cocktail that got us knocked up.

Here’s a link to Conceive’s article entitled “How Much Does It Cost.” There you will also find a link to the International Council on Infertility Information Dissemination where you can find out more information on funding by state.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard a women read an essay on being 9 1/2 weeks pregnant. It was beautiful and funny (with wry references to the movie), and poignant in noting such things as the fetus being the size of a grape. I was very envious, not only of her lovely writing but for her sentimentality with being pregnant, with valuing this new life and the life around her.

I, on the other hand, am a bit of a crank at 9 1/2 weeks. I’m not feeling very sentimental, and R. gets visibly upset when I make a dour comment about being inhabited or wonder about whether or not things are still ticking away down there. Didn’t that writer have any anxiety? I didn’t detect it in her words. Only love and hope and joy, some gentle caressing of her belly, a rueful wish for a homeless person. I don’t caress my belly. If I recall, that writer looked rather slim. I stare at my distended stomach in horror and wonder if it is this large now what will it be like in two months? Six? Eight? Friends, my mother, my sister try not to laugh at me. What did you think being pregnant was going to be like? they say. My sister seemed quite bothered by the fact I wasn’t “excited.” I was cheered when she told me her two boys (10 and 13) were guessing what name we’d choose. Why can’t I have that optimism? Believe me, I’m not complaining. I just had no idea what I was in for. As Dr. M. told me yesterday as I was splayed on the examining table: “You are possessed!” She said it with glee, with urging that I accept my condition and get on with it.

“You are possessed!” These words hit home when she turned the ultrasound towards me and showed me this:

My, how it had grown. Up to 2 cm. Dr. M. was thrilled. “Look at that growth! Look at that heartbeat!” She chided me when I asked where the head was. “You know where the head is,” she said, pointing at the larger end of the bulbous kidney bean. This was a beautiful site, and put my fears to rest that the screen would appear blank that morning. “That’s what is possessing you,” she said. At this moment, I loved Dr. M. because she was expressing more happiness that I could. Of course I’m happy! But I’m overwhelmed by what is happening. Maybe if this process hadn’t been so closely monitored and documented, it would feel more natural, more spontaneous. It’s easier for me to think of this life growing inside me as a visitor, one who is taking over for a while (and who will continue to for the next lifetime?). And since I’m not one who likes to be put out of my way, I’m having some issues dealing with it. I truly believe if I wasn’t so sick half the time I’d be embracing this with more grace, like the essayist who so eloquently put into words her joy and wonder, the words that I seem to be lacking.

So I will continue to mention to R. that I hope the paddles that have formed will indeed turn into limbs, and the head will continue to grow at a faster rate that the rest of the body (but not too big). In fact, the fuzzy little guy is kind of cute, in an ET sort of way, balled up in it’s signature fetal position, all cozy in that deep dark space that is me.

This past Sunday, I had lunch with a friend who I haven’t seen in a while. We were with another friend who was “in the know”, so it was hard to not break my rule of telling any more people than necessary. It was nice to talk about the pregnancy in a positive way. I tried not to make too many disclaimers regarding the eight week mark. I mentioned the IVF, not really wanting to go into that part of it, and she said her sister-in-law had just completed her first cycle with negative results. I felt a little ill thinking of someone going through that same disappointment. It’s hard, isn’t it? she asked. God, I said. It’s so hard. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Now, we know I’m more of a wimp than most people, and that many women go through IVF with varying degrees of bloating and discomfort and cramping. But it’s the emotional part that can be so devastating. Having to deal with filling syringes with god-knows-what hormones, sucking it up and saying you can get through it, that it’s not for so long, that it will all be worth it. And it isn’t so bad when there is a payoff. It’s easy to say it will be worth it. But the hard part is dealing with those failed attempts.

My friend said, “I don’t know how they are doing it. It’s very expensive.” Yes, indeed. R. and I were lucky. Our insurance covers four cycles of IVF in a lifetime. How’s that for pressure? This cycle we went to a doctor who didn’t take insurance. We paid for everything upfront and are now waiting (anxiously) to see how we will be reimbursed. R. and I push the insurance statements back and forth between us with a “you deal with it” shrug — this particular insurance company is quite skillful at confusion. But it is the rare insurance plan that covers IVF. I suppose there is the question of medical necessity. And there are age limits involved. Our plan doesn’t cover it if the patient is over 44. And I think that is generous, because I kick myself for waiting so long to try to get pregnant. At times I wondered who I thought I was to even try, to defy nature and my body.

Cycles run anywhere from 10K to 15K, depending on the length of treatment and extra procedures. I’m sure in some practices it is even more. The medications themselves cost hundreds WITH insurance. Without, they cost upwards of $3000. We are very lucky to have good insurance. But not everyone does, which makes all of this even more frustrating.

My friend said, “People don’t talk about this.” I recognized the awe of the uninitiated. It reminded me of why I even started this blog. I had one too many conversations where someone said, “People don’t talk about this.” I went online and found that people were certainly talking about it, but in their own circles. I am lucky enough to have friends who have dealt with this and who offered excellent recommendations (not to mention moral support).

But there are financial options. One friend told me about Columbia Presbyterian’s (Center for Reproductive Care) financial assistance program. We didn’t quality because we had coverage, but Columbia participates in the New York State Department of Health Infertility Demonstration Program, which provides assistance to insured patients without fertility coverage. I’m sure other states have these programs. They must. I told my friend about it, so she could tell her sister-in-law, who sounds like she could qualify. Columbia also offered a loan assitance program. A nice thought, but it’s hard to think about going into debt to just try to get pregnant. When I looked at those forms, I shot ahead seventeen years to when I might be filling out college loan applications. At the time I thought, wouldn’t that be nice?

This week started out promising. On Sunday, I stopped all hormonal treatments (progesterone and estrogen). On Monday, I had bloodwork done to see if my levels were good and if I could stay off the junk. When I woke up on Monday morning, I felt more clear-headed than I had in a while. The opposite of waking up with a hangover, I suppose. The nurse called to tell me my levels were good, so no more shots and patches! It felt great. But she also told me she forgot to give me a requisition for more bloodwork. What? Dr. M. wants me to have additional bloodwork. Can I come back to pick up the form? No, I said. I was pissed that they forgot to give it to me, and with my new queasy way of life making the trip cross and up town is like climbing Everest. The nurse said she would mail me the form, so I didn’t think much of it.

Last night Dr. M. called to give me some OB recommendations.Bboth generalists and high-risk were on the list because she didn’t know if I needed to go high-risk. My latest labs had not come back yet, and they would determine whether I was high risk or not. What? I told her I hadn’t had the tests yet. I was led to believe they weren’t critical. She said I tested inconclusive on the Protein 8 test (I have no idea what this is, but apparently it indicates a clotting issue). I need to retest to see what range I’m in, as a poor result (or deficiency?) will put me at high-risk. High risk for what? I ask. Miscarriage, pre-term, she tells me, and I detect a bit of exasperation in her voice. What the heck do I think “high risk” means?? If the results are low, I may need to be on heparin, a blood thinner, for the duration of my pregnancy. More shots. More worry.

Now, what I love about Dr. M. is that she is so thorough. She leaves no stone unturned. But this just blows. She told me to have the test done immediately because at eight weeks she’d like to treat this condition if I indeed have it. Shit. Just as I was feeling happy and confident about the pregnancy, I suddenly feel fragile again.

Last night, for the first time in weeks, I didn’t drop off to sleep two minutes after picking up a book. I worried, with my new worry of the week, and prayed the test would be conclusive this time, to my benefit.

I’ll go to the lab this morning, but it might be a few days before I get the results. This may be one extra long weekend.