Week 7: How did this happen?
Dr. M. proclaimed me seven and a half weeks pregnant yesterday. The ultrasound is more encouraging this week. First, she points out the head and body and how it has started to separate from the yolk sac. The body looks like the head and the head looks like the body, but really, it looks like a like bulbous catepillar hanging on a tree. Yeah, I know. Can’t I be more doting? I’m sure that will come later. I hope that will come later. The fetus has grown nicely and the heartbeat is very strong. I am a bit surprised at the size of the fetus. It has more than doubled, if not tripled or quadrupled, and has taken on a more distinct shape. At first I can’t see the heartbeat, but once she points it out I see that it is beating so fast it appears to not be moving at all.
More good news — my uterus is stretching out and the aforementioned arcuate shape is going away. The ovarian cysts still remain honking large — haunting dark orbs floating around the ultrasound screen. Go away, I want to scream. They will, Dr. M. says. Give it three or four weeks. Continue to not exercise, to not have sex. I’m feeling less and less like doing anything but eating butter and cream cheese any way. And potatoes. Baked, mashed, fried, in any form of chip, including Wise, Lays, and Baked Sour Cream and Cheddar. Yes, gross. This morning I ate whipped butter out of the container. Hey, don’t knock it. I’m not convinced these are so-called cravings, or attempts to calm my stomach. I keep waiting to throw up. Last night in bed, I felt like a child with a stomach ache. One of those nagging upset stomachs that you can’t do anything about. I thought throwing up might relieve it. But just burps for now.
I sleep as if I’m drugged and I guess I am. But more good news. Last night we started to taper off the progesterone. Half doses until Sunday, when I stop both the progesterone and estrogen. On Monday, more bloodwork. If my levels are good, I assume I quit the hormones altogether.
I ask Dr. M., when can I start feeling more comfortable with all this? (”all this” of course meaning the pregnancy). She smiles, and tells me that the chances of miscarriage have gone down significantly at this point. Up to now, the chances were 45%. 45%??? I am shocked. I am so glad I did not know that before. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. She mentions the chance of miscarriage going down to 8 or 10%, but I’m not sure if that is for now or next week or the week after. Again, brain fog in the examining room. But I’m just glad the 45% days are past. Jesus. That scared the hell out of me.
I am also ready to graduate from fertility school. At least, I think I am. My next task is to find an OB and set up an appointment by the last week in May. If I don’t have one lined up by then, I’ll go back to see Dr. M. as she doesn’t want me to go too long without medical eyeballs on my uterus. I have made no effort to identifiy a doctor. R. and I have been dealing with this a day at a time, barely a week at a time. Lining up a doctor would have been too presumptuous. Plus, I’ve been waiting for a recommendation from Dr. M. and she keeps holding off. Now she asks me to send her a list of doctors in my network. She assures me that no one she recommends takes insurance.
As Dr. M. is wrapping up my exam, she says, I know this sounds like I’m jumping ahead, but after you deliver the baby, come back to see me to let me know how things went. I don’t know what to say. A friend told me she never counted on her babies being “real” until they were in her arms. But the denial has to end for me some time. Okay, I tell her. Yeah, sure, I’ll come back. And then it hits me that this is probably the last time I’ll see Dr. M. Next week I come back for bloodwork only and the nurses do that. And I will bust a gut to find an OB by the end of the month, hopefully negating the need to come back to Dr. M. for an ultrasound. As I pay my bill and sign my records release form, Dr. M. stands to the side scribbling in my file. I’m still not sure if I won’t see her until our post-delivery meeting. My brain works ever so slowly these days, especially in the presence of doctors. Should I hug her? Should I shake her hand? How do you thank the woman who has presented you with a miracle? Yes, that’s corny. But true. Okay, we still have weeks to go for whatever assurances we are looking for. But we are in a good place. Do I send her a card? Flowers? A tasteful fruit basket?
