a privilege, this worry

A book I just finished reading closed with this thought "Worrying is painful, but compared to the alternative, a privilege". I first skimmed over it, not feeling any significance there (the lead character was referring to her daughter, doing missionary work in Mexico, and her nephew, at war in Iraq) but as I went to close the book, my thoughts were drawn back to that line. And a light bulb went off for me as I realized that as hard as these early weeks are, as miserable as it is to trudge through my third first trimester in under a year, just being given the opportunity to fret over this baby is a privilege. What's the alternative? (Not worrying, obviously, is excluded from the list of possibilities- there will never be a worry free pregnancy for this one.) The alternative, I see, is to NOT have this pregnancy, not have this third first trimester, not to have any reason to toss and turn and distress. That alternative, obviously, is not appealing. I'll take this, the worry, and the opportunity it brings with it. An opportunity to be called mom by a living, breathing creature of the two legged sort.

6 weeks, some odd days. Likely 5 or 4. Creeping towards week 7, a number that to me, seems monumental. 4, 5, 6....they seem earlier, more naive, less substantial. They're "pregnant, but early" and they're preclinical. For weeks I've kept my eye on week 7- closer to 8, closer to 9, closer to skipping over the sad milestones of pregnancies 1 and 2 and into the new world of "the end of the first trimester". My first ultrasound is tomorrow, 12:40. I wasn't scheduled until February 11th, just after the 8 week point. However, I'm anxious. I wouldn't even say that I'm nervous- as much as I hope these won't be classified as "famous last words"- I feel like this baby is okay in there. But there's always going to be anxiety when the ultrasound wand is unveiled, in those moments of silence as it pokes and prods and beams a grainy, unfocused image onto the screen. Those moments where I stare at the ceiling, squeezing J's hand tight, listening for any inhale or exhale from the doctor, that breath (is it sharp?...relieved?...the oh shit variety?...excited?...) an indicator of our future. Because of our horrible history with these things, even non pregnant ultrasounds scare me. The nurse practicioner who performed one in November to check on my ovulation progress seemed a bit perplexed about my nerves during the ultrasound, probably thinking I was some silly little twit nervous about the probing bit. Nope, just a skittish girl for whom these things have never yielded happy moments. I hope tonight goes quickly, a good sleep is in store (without an hourly wake up from the neighbor's dog), and that before we know it, we're exiting the doctors office exhaling triumphantly.

All day sickness arrived late last week. One day I was worried over my lack of symptoms, actually at one point sneaking into the corner at work to poke at my boobs for any sign of soreness, and the next I was dry heaving on the bathroom floor. Helllloooo, hormones. My taste buds have adopted an extraordinary fickleness. One minute chicken noodle soup sounds like an amazing lunch, the next I'm staring miserably into the bowl wondering if I should puke into it or try to dash into the bathroom. Yesterday morning I attempted to drink grape juice and just the smell sent me off to the "vomitorium" formerly known as our powder room. My pukes are unproductive, too. (Which is good- keeps those nutrients in.) I just gag and cough and watch the saliva hit the water as my stomach tries without success to expel every bite I ingested. The cats dash in, big eyed, bewildered, concerned about my hairballs. Then I lay my cheek against the cool tile, with a snotty nose and shiny eyes.... and I smile on the inside. It's a symptom, and I'll take it. Hell, I'd take a daily punch in the teeth if it would somehow keep this baby growing and thriving and ensure its September homecoming.

So for now, I remember that I'm privileged. I'm lucky. I'm pregnant, and I have a chance. I believe in this baby, despite the worry.

hangin' tough

NKOTB sums it up for me right now. The days are long, each twinge incites worry, much googling of various symptoms and signs has taken place, but I'm hanging in there. As of midnight, I'll be at 5 weeks 4 days. Possibly 5 weeks 2 days, depending on exactly when egg met sperm, but I'll go with the higher number because I like it better. I'm feeling good, I'm feeling pregnant. My boobs are in constant pain, I had to have a quesadilla Saturday afternoon then promptly dry heaved upon completion of that must have quesadilla, and I sobbed for a half hour when the Packers lost in overtime last night. SOBBED. Face in pillow, crocodile tears, the whole dramatic bit. And I shit you not....for a few seconds today, I contemplated mixing my dill pickles into my vanilla ice cream. Overall, I'm happy to report that my overall mindset is one of cautious optimism and occasional excitement. Occasional. Cautiously.

However, I'm not cured. My head and my heart are still the same, still wounded, probably forever altered. It's amazing how two people under one roof, who have walked the same road, can have such vastly different views on our experience. The other day, I was complaining to J about an obnoxiously pregnant women who came into PB. She was one of those who wore her belly like a crown, obviously expecting me to bow down in her reproductive glory, and drove me nuts for a myriad of reasons I'd just rather not bore you with. As I bemoaned to J about the experience, he looked at me in befuddlement and said...."but honey, you're pregnant too! You're one of them!" Oh, my. One of them? Bless the man's heart (and I mean this whole heartedly) for being able to cast away the fears and embrace this pregnancy. He's upping his investments, explaining to the financial advisor that "he's got a baby on the way". He's working on trading his aging SUV for a newer, safer sedan. As far as he's concerned, we're no different than any first time parents to be. And for this, I love him. Hell, I envy him! But I'm totally unable to just trade in my membership to the "troubled" club for one to the "pregnant and having a baby" club. Maybe this will change when we pass milestones, when we have new pregnant experiences, when we're able to share the news. But I know now there's a part of me that won't be coming back, and prevents me from ever being "one of them".

There's a song that seems to be on my radio lately each time I get in the car. And as I drove along this morning, I realized the words were bringing a smile to my face. It sums up the feeling of contentment I have this time, the unshakable bravery I have moments of, the feeling that no matter what the books say or my past says....we'll be okay, me and this little life inside and that clueless, optimistic honey of a husband of mine.

I just want you close

Where you can stay forever

You can be sure

That it will only get better

You and me together

Through the days and nights

I don't worry 'cause

Everything's going to be alright

People keep talking

they can say what they like

But all i know is everything's going to be alright

No one, no one, no one

Can get in the way of what I'm feeling

No one, no one, no one

Can get in the way of what I feel

for you, you, you

Can get in the way of what I feel for you

the most prettiest #s

Once again, the heavens listened. For my 3rd blood draw, I begged and pleaded for some number over 500. That's doubling plus some. As long as my progesterone stayed steady, I would be happy, I promised. Another early morning drive up Mopac for blood draw #3. I feel so out of place out there on the highway, sandwiched in between the morning commuters, cell phones at ear, briefcase for a passenger. And me, in my sweats, only my history of reproductive failure along for the ride. Then the long trip back home, the long day of waiting.....and another FANTASTIC results phone call! With a happy sounding nurse! I never get the happy nurse voice! I get the sad nurse voice, the pessimistic nurse voice, the you're totally screwed and I saved this miserable call for last nurse voice. The happy, proud of your uterus nurse voice is my most favoritest.

HCG 770

Progesterone 41

Nurse K, the same Nurse K who kissed my forehead in the midst of m/c #2 and promised me they'd get me through, calls and puts me immediately at ease that at least this, the very earliest part of pregnancy, is gong well for me. She offers her congratulations (my first medical professional congratulations!) and tells me she can't wait to see me at my first appointment. Better yet, if I get to antsy before then, she says to call. They'll fit me in for an earlier peek. Now, just waiting and resting. And examining the TP incessently, of course. No more bloodwork, which makes me happy. Not because I minding the pokes, but because it tells me that for now at least, they're content with my progress.

undercover embryo

We did it. Once again, we are pregnant. We are expecting. A baby. There- I said it. But, it's a secret. For that reason, this post, and all subsequent posts until I'm safely ensconced in the second trimester (March 17, 2008) will remain hidden from view. Or maybe sooner. Maybe once we see a fabulous beating heart at our first appointment (February 11, 2008). We'll see. At that yet undetermined time, I'll unleash the beast, and publish each and every neurotic, nervous, excited, and happy pregnancy post for the world to see. Regardless of the fact that I'm writing these in the sly, and that nobody but me will see them for a few months, I need to get things out. And I want this record of this very exciting time. And as I stated in my very first blog post- journaling hurts my hand. This works for me.

Monday, January 7, 2008. I'm only about 10 days past ovulation. For those not part of the crazy trying to conceive world, testing is not suggested until 14 days past ovulation, when your period is due. But at 8 and 9 days past ovulation, I felt a little something. I was hot, to the point that my cheeks were flushed. I'm normally chilly and prone to wearing North Face in less than appropriate seasons (you know, like July in Texas). And one night, I was up multiple times to pee. This was also out of the ordinary. But still, I didn't get my hopes up, not too much anyway. That Monday morning I was headed to spend the day with Jacob and Garrett. Up early anyway, bladder full of pee, I decided to test. As the test developed, I brushed my teeth. Nothing there, just white, just as I expected. But.....wait. Is that? Um....there's something there. I swear there is. It's so light I wouldn't dream of showing J. He'd likely laugh, which would make me mad, which would affect how many teeth he has in the front of his face. No bueno. That evening, I test again. While still faint, it's not invisibly faint, and this time I show J. He sees it. He grins, he hugs, we stare at our embracing reflection in the mirror, and we breathe. We don't say it, but it's palpable......now what?!

I test each morning. I pee on no less than 8 additional tests, each confirm what I hope and pray is true. I'm pregnant. And oddly, I don't feel the sense of sheer terror that I did last time. I'm also not buying every baby book at Borders or planning my Pottery Barn Baby purchases like I did the first time...but I'm happy, I'm excited, and I feel like this is somehow right. My heart feels it, my head feels it, I really believe in this little September baby we created. On Tuesday, I call the nurse, and although she feels it's too early, she agrees to let me come in for bloodwork. The call comes that evening, and my strong demeanor shakes a bit.

HCG 14

Progesterone 18.7

These, dear friends, are disappointing numbers. Curl up on the couch and hide under your blankie numbers. Mainly the HCG, which is expected to be 5-50 at this point. So I'm "normal" but for once I want to be on the high end of normal. However, it's likely that the pregnancy implanted like a DAY ago. It's likely all is okay. My progesterone is fine. Above 10 is good. But that night, as I scour the internet, I see numbers twice and three times my own, both the HCG and progesterone. I freak. I cry. I have a manic meltdown that brings Jonathan to say "honey, you need yoga or therapy. Your choice." In my heart, I feel we (this tiny new life and I) are okay. 72 hours must go by before my next blood draw. They drag. I know, the nurse knows, the entire big internet knows- my numbers MUST double in those 72 hours. I find out online that a level of 100 at 14 days past ovulation is preferred. I tell myself if I can get even close to that, I'll be happy. If my progesterone rises to just 20, I'll be happy. Please, please, por favor. Friday morning, I'm back at the lab. Okay...so I'm the first person in the office, a full 20 minutes before the lab even opens. Eager? Me? You don't say. Then I go home, I pull a blanket to my face, and I lay under it. I don't move. I don't eat. I don't do much but beg my body and God and this wee little embryo to help. I leap from the couch like my ass is on fire each time the phone rings. And finally, at 1:30, the nurse calls.

HCG 151

Progesterone 32

HALLELUJAH! HOT DAMN! SWEET BABY JESUS! Those are some MAJOR rising numbers! An HCG doubling time of every 2-3 days is preferred. My doubling time comes out to .87 days! The nurse is pleased, I am pleased, the world, for today, is good. She tells me to come in again on Monday "for your own peace of mind, really" and transfers me to the front desk to schedule my first (ha) OB appointment around 8 weeks.

I'm excited. Of course there's caution- there always will be for me. But there's real, legitimate reason for celebration here. I feel good, a bit of nauseau, sleepier than usual, yearning to eat healthy and stay strong. Keep this positive frame of mind I'm inexplicably blessed with.

Now, if I can just keep the secret for the next two months. This will NOT be easy. But I'm just wanting to keep this, to enjoy this, to allow this to be all ours for now. Our friends and family will soon enough be able to celebrate with us, and their celebration will be more whole hearted if they know we're farther along, past the points of the last losses.

kirbyman

Did you know that the bad taste in your mouth every morning is the result of the dust mites who feed off your dead skin crawling into your mouth and pooing? And that they also crawl into your eyeballs seeking moisture and they poo there, too? How do I know these shockingly repugnant (and very likely fraudulant) factoids, you ask? Because the door to door Kirby salesman told me so.

I sunk to new levels of naivity today. A woman came to my door, telling me a new company was visiting our area in hopes of creating word of mouth credibility for a brand new carpet shampooing machine. For free, she said, they would shampoo up to three rooms in my house. In my defense, I told her this sounded sketchy, there was surely some catch. She smiled a gap toothed smile and assure me that no, they just wanted to come in and show me how this worked, so that if I were impressed with the product I'd tell all my friends and family about them. I knew better. But....well, my carpets are dirty, and who doesn't like a freebie? I figured he'd get in, clean the carpets, leave a business card, and leave me to my afternoon. I called J and told him to call in 10 minutes, so if they were really here to murder me and/or steal my pretty earrings, he could come rescue me.

Uh, yeah. After 2.25 hours, I got the creep out of my house. He showed up and took an unconceiveable amount of time setting up his Kirby contraption. Then, I had to see all the parts. Then, I heard all about the evil microbes lurking in my carpets. Before I knew it, I was pushing his fancy machine and agreeing that yes, it is very lightweight and yes, I agree that my current vacuum has been letting me down. With a sure smile, he tells me this $1,989 vacuum is the answer to my problems. TWO GRAND! For a vacuum! I shook my head, crossed my arms, and thanked him for his time but gee, I really should get my dogs out for a walk about now and had a zillion things to do. Unfortunately, Kirbyman just wasn't ready to take no for an answer. He vacuumed my air filter. He asked about my bed, and told me the above horrifying tales in hopes of cleaning my mattress. That sounded mildly creepy to me, and I doubted J would appreciate the thought of me taking a Kirby salesman to my bed, so I declined. He then started in on the couch, as I stood helpless to remove the eager fellow from my house. I pictured evening falling, me in my PJs, as he continued to suction away. He. Wouldn't. Leave. He needed water. He needed to show me another thing. He wondered if he could see my vacuum. He thought I should try pushing it again. He bargained, telling me we could spread the payments over 36 months and that really, even if we didn't pay some months, Kirby didn't mind. He asked for more water. He started to resemble a child who didn't want to go to bed, one with the likely capability of turning violent if told no, and I was desperately watching the 3 o'clock hour slip away, Dr. Phil drawing to a close, afternoon of relaxation down the drain (or...sucked up by his magical machine).

And finally, after he carried on a long personal conversation with his dad, on his cell phone, from the comfort of my couch as I cowered upstairs gmail chatting with L...he left. I had a clean living room floor, a sink full of fur and dirt and those mouth pooping bug thingies, and a firm talking to from L about letting strangers into my house like that.

So, note to all of you....beware the smarmy Kirby salesmen. Who knew?