Sep
19

The Final Countdown.

Unless Dr. Schrödinger, OB discovers differently at my appointment, I am now five weeks and four days pregnant. Of course my hCG could have dropped like a stone after my last beta, the inevitable bleeding quelled only by the vast quantity of hormone I am injecting into my musculature each evening, but I am valiantly attempting to ignore that possibility. I still have no symptoms that can’t be attributed to progesterone, and the crippling nausea that haunted my longest pregnancy is notably (and probably visably, due to my increased cheese consumption) absent. I could not feel less pregnant, and in fact have felt more pregnant on cycles that turned out to be negative. But in less than twenty-four hours, I will have an ultrasound, and the infernal speculation will finally cease.

You notice I say will have an ultrasound. I have decided not to take no for an answer, and if Dr. Schrödinger wants to live to probe another cervix he is damn well going to attempt to visualize Science Baby/ies via sonography. They always have little glass jars of cotton balls in OB offices, and if necessary I will break the top off one and hold the jagged edge against his throat. Scott won’t be at the appointment, so I can be as shameless as necessary, and also he can’t be charged as an accessory.
Speaking of which: the lovely Amanda continues to clamor for news of Scott’s reaction, and I can report that he is much more confident than I about the current state of my uterus—as he put it:
“I think you’re definitely pregnant, because you’ve been really mean lately.” Awww.

When I first started getting positive pregnancy tests Scott did not believe them, and would brook no discussion of the matter until after the beta. We have had very different anxiety trajectories—from positive pregnancy test to beta I was nearly levitating with joy, while he gritted his teeth and worried about something going terribly wrong. When we got the beta results we were both giddy. And since then he has remained on an even, optimistic keel, while I have descended further and further into madness, surfacing only occasionally for handfuls of goldfish crackers. He has put up with my progesterone-induced mood swings [see: screaming (well, that was only me) fight about, of all things, Christianity and the early Roman empire (neither of us are Christian); broken-hearted sobbing after latest episode of Meekat Manor; petulant flinging about of self after discovering we were out of carbonara ingredients] and he hasn’t said a word about my truly revolting night sweats. He even administers the progesterone-in-oil shots, which have become a bit of an ordeal. Originally I did my own PIO, simply because I found it easier that way. I’m not afraid of needles and the shots weren’t particularly painful, 1 1/2 inch 22 gauge notwithstanding. Sometime around my beta the shots became excruciating, and I started playing a tense game of chicken with myself before each one. So with the exception of Fridays, Scott now handles the nightly shot, leaving me free to take deep breaths and then whimper obscenities. We started using a numbing cream, which helps a bit, but there is simply no unbruised territory left. And Scott swears the skin on my hips has become thicker and harder to pierce over the weeks (and just a little reminder for any partners out there: comparing your hormonal wife’s ass to rhinoceros hide is never, ever a good idea). Eventually Scott will have to shoot the progesterone at my backside via dart gun.

Anyway, the point being he is handling all this like a champ, buying me macaroni, doing the laundry, and constantly telling me what a good job I’m doing, even as I am sniveling like a whiny, whiny baby and pondering a trip to urgent care with faux “ectopic” symptoms to snag an early ultrasound. His reaction is no surprise really; I am a very lucky girl.
What was a surprise was him telling me, a few days after transfer, in front of his parents, that he is “kind of hoping for twins.” Yes, Mr. How-About-a-Single-Embryo-Transfer has changed his tune. I think it comes from having seen the embryos under the microscope—it is hard not to hope both of them are still alive, as they were both so charming and attractive. I even find myself wanting to see two on the ultrasound, though for a rather morbid reason: part of me feels that seeing two living embryos at six weeks gives me a better chance of seeing at least one embryo emerge unscathed from the first trimester. Not a very nice way to think, perhaps, but there you are. Of course all I really ask (over and over all day, and probably in my sleep as well) is one gestational and yolk sac set, appropriately sized, in the uterus where they belong. A fetal pole would be appreciated as well, but I don’t want to be greedy.
To be honest, it all feels rather academic as I have been blankly unable to envision any ultrasound scenario besides the one I experienced almost three years ago. I try to picture myself on the table tomorrow while Dr. Schrödinger peers at the screen, but in my mind he opens his mouth and what comes out is the voice of the female ultrasound technician whose blond, sprayed coif I can still see clearly before me: “I’m sorry, but…”

I am woefully behind on my email correspondence, so if you have written and haven’t heard back, please forgive me. My appointment is at 8 am CST tomorrow, after which I have a long drive back to work and a flurry of meetings. I will try to post the results as soon as I get to the office, but will not have time for the detailed, tedious recap until later in the day. Although if the news is unambiguously bad, I may not go back to work at all, which would give me more time for posting. Of course in that case I will probably be drunk by noon, so an update might take a while either way.

17 hours and 19 minutes until the moment of truth.

Edited to clarify: I will still have my official RE ultrasound next week, and am not expecting to see a heartbeat until then. Gestational sac and yolk sac, appropriately sized; gestational sac and yolk sac, appropriately sized…a little long for a mantra, but it works for me.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |