Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Pregnancy, continued.

Somewhere in the 8 week range (+2  or 3 days depending on the dating method).  Yesterday I attended a work-strategy meeting at a satellite office, far far away, catered with sandwiches and sides.  So what did this idiot do?  Oh, lookee here, pickles.  Great!  That's sure to go well.  A tuna sandwich (don't judge!), two bags of chips, two cups of lemonade and five pickles later I was going to cry in public.  My stomach was in knots. Sitting on a commuter train to return home I wondered if I was losing a fourth baby in such a public place.  Sure, technically anyone would be in an awful lot of pain after snarfing down such a lunch, but well, you know, this is me after all.  Eventually I made it home, safe and sound and according to my husband, looking fairly green.  I am happy to report that this morning a little ginger ale has made the world a better place.

In the meantime I am waiting for my OB, Dr. H to call me with a next step.  You know, I did actually try and reach out to that MFM last week but unfortunately, that didn't go so well.  As in, I couldn't even get my call past the fucking reception desk to schedule a consultation appointment. The lines of this practice were completely jammed - I would get put on hold and then I kept getting disconnected. Eventually, after about 15 minutes of waiting I wound up on the hospital switchboard, and the operator said "Oh, yeah, I will try to reconnect you but I warn you, they're having a lot of phone traffic." I got reconnected and then the phone just rang unanswered ten times.  So much for that plan.  While I know rationally that I should try to call again, this did not provide a good omen about this office.  I had flashbacks to the cluster-fuck that was my first OB's office (the nice people who gave me the wrong appointment time for my D&C). I mean, things shouldn't be this hard, right?

I've been trying so hard to not get emotionally attached to this pregnancy.  I realize that's an inane statement, it's impossible, I mean at the last check there was a baby growing inside of me... yet, that was a few days ago.  It's so tenuous. Each additional day of nausea, fatigue, and the ridiculous crying from youtube videos because I am a hormonal basket-case, makes this so much harder.  I feel like someone with a personality disorder.  It's like, a sliver of me laughs and works and goes about my day with a little extra joy in my heart and a little extra spring in my step, wondering about the possibilities for the future. Calculating rough benchmarks on the calendar.  Imagining what steps need to be taken to make a new nursery in our home.  Daydreaming about baby names and maternity clothes. Doing all of the things that a "normal" pregnant woman does.

But right next to that sliver of a personality exists another self.... an anxious creepy soul who bites her nails while silently waiting for the bottom to fall out from under her.  "Don't plan," she whispers. "Don't fall in love with this dream.  The dreams have a way of turning into nightmares, you know."

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