I sat down to compose the first line of this post and after a few dozen deletes, decided to just come out with it.
I am pregnant. As in, having a third child.
(I hear crickets chirping, I can wait until you all pick yourselves up off the floor to go on.)
Ahh, you're back with me now. Trust me when I tell you, that was about the reaction I had when I found myself staring two pink lines in the face one morning. That, coupled with some "holy shits" and a few F-bombs.
Considering I had NO IDEA I was pregnant, and just taking the test because it was lying around and I was being stupid, my reaction was rather laid back. Josh's was similar, except with the bonus of me being able to see every last drop of blood drain from his face. Fact: Josh gets very pale when the entire contents of his bloodstream is pooled in his legs.
So we spent a few weeks getting used to the idea while I waited for a doctor's appointment. When the big day finally arrived last Friday, they said they would do a quick ultrasound in the office to date the pregnancy and after the standard bloodwork and paperwork, I would be on my merry way.
My quick ultrasound ended with the doctor telling me "I don't want to alarm you, but I definitely see two of something in there and I wouldn't go telling people you're having twins, but I think you need a real ultrasound as soon as possible next week." And she added that I was about seven weeks along.
I'm sorry, what? That's not possible. I mean sure, I am seven weeks along with ONE FREAKING BABY. Lalalalala, that's me covering my ears and not listening to this talk of "two" or "twins." I mean, have you met my cervix? It's a freaking Shrinky Dink. There is no way it could ever, not even a little bit, keep two children inside of me.
I am not sure how I had the strength to get up off the table and leave, but I did. I tried to schedule an ultrasound for Monday, but the scheduler had called in sick. Sorry, call on Monday. Oh my holy hell, I might be committed to a mental ward before Monday. And then wouldn't they feel bad? No? Oh, OK.
So I came home to tell Josh, who promptly died. I had to resuscitate him right in the living room -- good thing I know CPR -- and after I brought him back to life, he entered a catatonic state.
We spent the weekend properly freaking the eff out, but I kept insisting it was only one. I wasn't twice as sick. I wasn't twice as tired. And besides, I hadn't really pissed any diety or fate off that much lately, so there was no way they were trying to get back at me for something.
Monday morning, I called the nice ultrasound department at 9 a.m. That would be the office I have probably visited 50 times over the last four years. The one with the entire wing named after me, paid for by my insurance company. The nice receptionist said they could not even schedule an ultrasound until they had my chart for this pregnancy from my OB. Which is located one floor directly above them. And had been requested three days prior. Someone will call you back, she said.
An hour later, my panic levels rising, I called back to see if they had the records. Nope. I called my OB's office myself at that point and hysterically asked them to PLEASE. SEND. THE. DAMN. RECORDS.
Three hours after that, I had to go get my bloodwork done (I had forgotten my insurance card the week before) and I figured if I staged a sit-in at the ultrasound department, they couldn't ignore me. So I stopped by the office and alle-freaking-luia, they had the paperwork. I turned it on thick, explaining how I was freaking out and I brought a book -- look! a 700-page book! -- and was ready to wait as long as it took. The poor nurse took one look at my face and saw my desperation and said she could get me in an hour later.
When the tech called my name, I leaped out of my chair and made it to the door in a single step. Even in my pregnant state I'm like a gazelle. It's a gift. She said we were going to do this abdominally and I was sad for second, wishing for the dildocam. But whatever, she's the boss. There will plenty of those in a few weeks time anyway, I am not missing out.
Within two seconds of seeing my uterus on the screen, it was determined there was ONE embryo. One nine-week-old embryo wiggling it's arms and legs, with it's heart beating away at a solid 175 bpm. Yep, two weeks further along than we guessed, but very much all alone. (Due date: December 15)
I almost kissed the technician. I think she might have been taken aback, especially since I was thinking about using tongue. But come on, this woman just saved me from certain doom. I walked out of there on air.
When I arrived home and told Josh the joyous news, he looked relieved, but not entirely giddy, as I was. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, saying, "Josh, get on board! It could be so much worse."
And that my friends, is the mantra for this third pregnancy, "It could have been so much worse." The embryo will feel so special someday when it reads this blog.A study in contrasts: Emmie is thrilled, Jack not so much.
Labels: Incompetent Cervix, It's all about me, pictures, Pregnancy