Mar 31, 2017

Like a bad omen, I sat and drank that glucose drink. It was impossible not to remember with every sip that this was what one of my best friends was doing only weeks ago when she found out at a routine appointment that she had miscarried. I drank and smiled and chatted with the doctor, all while feeling silently horrified at the idea of some kind of superstition taking over.

In this third pregnancy alone (fourth if you include my blighted ovum in between Olivia and Felix) I’ve already had too many trips driving to the doctor silently pleading that everything was ok in spite of the worry that was about to explode inside me. Thank heavens that so far none of those worries have come to represent a real problem. The heartbeat they couldn’t find turned out to be fine. The other minor problems they suspected turned out to be nothing. But still, that worry shoots up your spine and just kills.

So I drank the thing. And then climbed up on the exam table for the doctor to measure my belly. All routine. She made a quick measurement and remarked that I was measuring big and she wanted to send me downstairs for a quick ultrasound.

Panic.

I tried to look calm and collected as I patiently asked what it was they’d be looking for, what to be concerned about. She mentioned some things it could be, said it probably wasn’t, and that they’d just do some looking around.

Every kick and bump reassured me that he was still fine, his heart still pumping, legs and body still moving. We listened to his heartbeat on that thing that looks like a fisher price microphone and his heart rate was good. Waited for blood to get drawn for the glucose test. Then went downstairs for the ultrasound.

Wished and wished that they’d tell me what it was they were looking at and if every single thing was normal or not, but of course they just sit there in the dark pushing on my belly and staring at the screen while they type in code. I asked as many questions as I could, but I knew they weren’t authorized to tell me anything. Finally at the end the head ultrasound tech in the room looked at me patiently and told me the baby was measuring at 26 weeks (which is what I am) and that of course they wouldn’t let me leave if anything serious was going on. But still.

I took it as a good sign that they discharged me and let me go home. I complained to Bryan on the phone about probably not hearing anything back until next week when the doctor made time to look at my charts.

Then about an hour ago I got an email with an update on my chart, followed by a call from the nurse telling me what was going on and what to do next.

Why do we try so hard to play it cool and not sound panicked? It’s a human life we’re talking about. It’s a big deal. The biggest. And yet, still, I try to keep my voice level and try not to cry.

My cervix is slightly dilated on the inside. I’m still more than a little fuzzy on what this all means, but basically they’re worried about–worst case scenario: miscarriage–otherwise, bedrest, stitches to keep my cervix closed so they baby doesn’t come out too soon, etc. In the mean time, no exercise or heavy lifting and lots of sitting down taking it easy.

PANIC.

Why do we try so hard to seem ok with things that are so scary? Why does it matter that somebody else had it worse or scarier?

So now I’m sitting down–crying–trying not to get myself too worked up, but also feeling the weight of what this could be. I hope with all the hope of a mother that everything turns out all right. That I’ll end up looking like a fool and everything will be fine. That stitches or bedrest would be the worst that would happen.

I’ve been referred to see a specialist to do another ultrasound next week, when I guess they’ll maybe know more? Though I still can’t say I understand what more exactly they’re looking for and what it all means.

Motherhood is no joke. Please pray that I can calm down and please please pray for this sweet baby.