Science, Baby.

For the newly pregnant, the world must have been a rather bleak place before blogging came along. How frustrating to have such news and be unable to share it—after the ultrasound I wanted to tell everyone from the parking attendant to the woman who poured me an Italian soda, that I was maybe, possibly, really pregnant after all, but of course it is still a fragile secret, so all I could do was burble at my meetings with more enthusiasm than warranted by the subject of print production schedules. And then I hurried back to my desk to read the kind, jubilant comments that were rolling in from all of you, and I cannot tell you how good it felt to have people with whom to celebrate. I was overwhelmed and touched and I feel very, very lucky.

So! The tedious recounting (with ultrasound pictures, so be warned):

My modus operandi when faced with a difficult doctor’s appointment, one that will require me to be more assertive than usual, is to listen to Biggie on the way there. I am sure other people have methods that work for them—deep breathing, say, or affirmations—but for me nothing is more effective at banishing my overly deferential people-pleasing compulsion that twenty minutes of Life After Death. By the time I pulled into the parking ramp I almost felt a little sorry for my OB, sorry for the whirlwind of hardcore that would be unleashed upon him if he refused my request for an ultrasound. I would make it hot, like a kettle get.

Or I would have, if he hadn’t responded to my initial “I think we should do an ultrasound” with “That’s just what I was thinking!”
He left to secure an ultrasound room, leaving me gaping at the door, my heart flapping frantically against my chest wall. I had a sudden impulse to leave before the ultrasound, in order to preserve for as long as possible the illusion that I was still pregnant, but of course I didn’t, opting instead to stay and sweat and rend my garments.
An exceedingly perky Nurse Practitioner appeared and led me down a hallway to a shockingly posh exam room. This is how the other, fertile, half lives: the space was comfortably dim, soothingly appointed, and contained an ultrasound machine with an auxiliary screen mounted near the head of the exam table for easy viewing by the patient. I undressed and assumed the position, and promptly started to cry. The crying was silent, but the trembling of my legs rattled the stirrups, and I must have been quite the picture when the NP returned to begin the exam.
She inserted the probe, and for one sickening moment I saw only static, and started to shake harder, and then I saw this:

“Oh my god!” squealed my new favorite nurse, “Two little sacs!”
“Oh! Oh!” I said eloquently, gazing at the screen and wiping my streaming eyes.
She pointed out the obvious yolk sacs, and measured the two gestational sacs at five weeks, three days each.

“They are just so cute,” she said, and I have to agree:

Here is a close-up of A, (the one on the bottom), in which you can see its yolk sac and cunning fetal pole (the white line in the middle):

And here is B (with yolk sac, but no fetal pole yet—though at one point she thought she saw one):

Not pictured is my left ovary, which is still roughly the size of a Buick, probably explaining why I am so…rotund.

The nurse printed off some pictures for me and I followed her back to my original exam room, grinning like a fool.
While I waited for Dr. Schrodinger to return, I tried to prepare myself to demand a repeat ultrasound in ten days or so by humming a few bars of Kick in the Door and rehearsing my speech about supportive care and recurrent pregnancy loss. Dr. Schrodinger came in beaming, announced that he was just thrilled for me, and that he would like to see me for another ultrasound in a week. This is when I cleared the desk with one arm and flung him upon it, proceeding to make sweet, sweet love to the best obstetrician the world has ever known.

He reminded me that it was too early to tell whether this would be a twin pregnancy or a singleton pregnancy (I managed to refrain from adding “Or no pregnancy at all,” which should show you what an excellent mood I was in) and said that we would remain on pins and needles until eleven weeks or so, given my history. Which made me laugh, because I have a hard time imagining any point in a pregnancy when I would not be “on pins and needles.” Or, more accurately, “prodded by the sharp swords of fear and desperation.”

I return Thursday (one of the only days Dr. Schrodinger sees patients at my location), which means I am rescheduling my RE ultrasound. No point in wasting a perfectly good sonogram on a day when I will already have had one. This way I know I have at least two ultrasounds coming to me in the next two weeks, which soothes me. Especially as I had some light spotting last night, putting a significant damper on my post-ultrasound bliss.

Still, we are pretty blissful around here. I was six weeks yesterday. Scott is beside himself, and I feel much more relaxed knowing there are two sacs in there, my rate of embryo attrition being what it is. Two takes the pressure off, just a little, though of course we are greedily hoping that both will have heartbeats this week. It seems too much to ask, and I half expect the hand of god to reach down and smite me for typing such a thing—so let me hasten to add that I will be delighted with one: one fast, strong, thumping heartbeat, one that intends to keep beating for, oh, forever.