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Archive for June, 2008

So I decided it’s time for a drama-free post. What the hell – back to real life for at least a few days. My next RE appointment isn’t until Tuesday, and being as symptom-free as I am (though I learned today that NONE of my swim-suit tops are even close to a comfortable fit anymore. ouch!) I’m unlikely to have anything interesting to report for at least a few days. At least on the baby-making front. So instead, I’ll report on the bit that for normal people usually comes first – the getting married part!

We went to the beach today, and sat on the “kids & moms” side, and it was wonderful. For the first time in a few years, I was able to enjoy the pure giddy happiness of watching small children + sand + waves without feeling all dried up and bitter inside. And, appropriately, it provided a nice, relaxing place for the boyfriend and I to discuss our upcoming nuptials.

Well, actually what happened is that he said, as we were signing me into his beach club, “We ought to just hurry up and get married so that we don’t have to keep paying the fee to get you in as my guest.”

I hit him, of course. And rolled my eyes. And called him a killer of romance. And then I hit him again, just to make sure he got the point.

(Understand that we’ve had a deal since the early days of this relationship. I want a baby and he wants a wife. Since I have certain trust issues regarding babies/husbands, & past failures on both fronts thereof, he was willing to wait on the marriage thing until I got knocked up. So it’s not like he hasn’t proposed before, but still, proposing that we should marry so we won’t have to pay the extra entry fees to his silly beach club each year? I feel like hitting him again, these several hours later, just to make sure he really got the point the first time around.)

But then we talked about it, semi-seriously, for the first time in a long time. And we agreed on a plan. It’s a second marriage for each of us, and he’s got kids from his first. And his daughters are going to be less than thrilled, (though since they don’t yet know about the existence of sprog, I’m thinking wedding plans will be less than a blip in this summer’s angst.) I’d rather not make a huge fuss. My parents live on the other side of the country & shouldn’t really be expected to come to two weddings in fewer than five years. Plus, I really hate being the center of attention. Weird, but true. So, I’d just as soon leave town and do it on our own. It’s supposed to be my day, and I really don’t want a party. Or a dress or a bloody orchestra or flowers or any of the rest of it. Except the husband part. I don’t mind that bit.

But, if his kids really want to attend, (and can be convinced to leave the cauldrons of pigs’ blood at home) I’m willing to do something in the city. If, however, they don’t want to see their dad publicly admit that he loves someone who isn’t their mother, then I’d just as soon “elope” – go spend a weekend somewhere that isn’t this city, just the two of us.

See, from my perspective, an elopement solves a lot of “problems.” Very little fuss, but enough fuss that I won’t feel like we squeezed it in, in between washing the car and, say, cooking dinner one night. But when I brought up that idea, the boyfriend remarked on how impractical it was going to be to get away during this busy summer for a whole weekend, what with his convention schedule, taking his youngest girl to visit colleges, etc. Maybe we should just go down to the courthouse in between, er, washing the car & cooking dinner.

So I hit him again. Harder this time. Going to beat some romance into him if I have to…

Then I dragged him off to the snack bar, figuring that if my blood sugar was low enough to make me resort to violence, then his must be flatlining by now.

Sugar and starch worked their magic, and somewhere between the french fries & the milkshakes, we came up with a plan. He’ll tell his daughters what’s going on. Which, I think he was sort of hoping to avoid. *rolls eyes*. (I may be persona non grata in the house, but at least I know better than to inform my nearest & dearest after the fact about something so life-altering.) *rolls eyes so hard I just gave myself a bit of a headache, in fact*

So, he’ll ask his daughters if they want to attend our wedding. If they do, we’ll make it easy on them and do it in the city. Probably at the courthouse. And I’ll call my folks and ask if they want to fly out for my wedding.

Again.

And then we’ll all go out to dinner somewhere – my folks can meet his folks, and it’ll be the most terrifying 24 hours of my life. If, however, his kids would rather gouge out their own eyes with soup spoons, then I’ll figure out where I want to try to do this on our own, (Bar Harbor! Quebec City! Iceland!) and only announce it after it’s done. Deal? Deal!

We even talked rings. And whether I’ll change my name. And he, very wisely, decided after his earlier blunders, to take the “Whatever you want is fine, love,” tack.

Goofy man. Makes me remember why I adore him. Well, that and the fact that he’s turned into quite the nurse.

You gotta love a man who can give a PIO shot with authority, very little pain, and a guaranteed cuddle afterwards. At least I do.

Which is why, in the end, I suppose I’ll do whatever makes it easiest on the both of us. I don’t need the memorable wedding, I got the memorable guy. And I adore him. With all of my heart and uterus.

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…that not a damned thing is going on with me.

Still floating on the “perfectly normal pregnancy” news from Tuesday. I even went to a grotesquely overpriced baby boutique in the neighborhood to inquire about the adorable onesie in the window.

Yes, it was way overpriced. No I didn’t buy it anyway. Yes, I’m still thinking about it.

No real symptoms, not even any weight gain, despite my indulgence in sweets yesterday (damn the bowl of chocolate some evil co-worker left in the break room!) Not complaining, mind you. It would have been upsetting if I were the only one in my family to suffer from morning sickness. I’m just as happy to be avoiding that. Tired all the time, but that’s sort of my normal state of being in a coffee-free world. Hungry all the time, too, but again, that’s just sort of me. Not sure the raspberry-sized sprog can claim credit for that one either.

And starting to get eager about getting past another milestone or two. Looking forward to that 12-week-mark like nobody’s business. End of PIO shots (which are really starting to irritate my poor abused sit-upon, both the injection site itself, and the bandaids I’ve been using. Must go find some latex-free ones…), not to mention, the end of nasty vaginal suppositories that make me feel like a leaky Easter Egg. The first day I am not required to put anything sharp or pastel-colored anywhere near my nether region is going to be a very very good day in my world.

And I guess one of these days, I’ll have to start hunting around for a midwife or OB/GYN. My RE is likely to discharge me one of these days, I’d think. I’ll have another US on Tuesday, which might be fun. I’ll even see if the boyfriend wants to come along & see a heartbeat.

As far as eventual delivery-plans go, I’d prefer a midwife, but am not sure if they’d welcome an AMA-patient like me. God – when did 38 get to feeling so old? Um, when I decided to have a baby at 38, I suppose.

39, actually, by the time Sprog is born. Dang.

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…just exactly like the cow in the nursery rhyme.

Happy happy happy.

I have a picture of sprog-bean. It’s utterly adorable in an alien amoeba sort of way.

And I’m still giddy with joy. And sleeplessness, of course, since I really didn’t get any sleep to speak of last night.

Off to read everyone’s blog I’ve neglected these last few days. Thank you to everyone who’s been so supportive through this. It’s made a difference. A big difference.

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… I went in to the doctor to, as I expected, prepare myself for the worst. After finally getting in touch with the nurse almost 30 hours after my test, learning that my HCG was only doubling every 73 hours, and that the head of the practice wanted a look because things should certainly have been visible via ultrasound by this point, I was readying myself for an imminent miscarriage/blighted ovum, or – even worse – an induced abortion to eliminate an ectopic pregnancy.

I even made my boyfriend stay at home, because I was going to be mature and calm about the news (having gotten my wailing out of my system last night.) I was kind to the nurse who didn’t call me when she was supposed to. And I got myself up on that table and prepared myself to see a whole lot of nothing with perfectly dry eyes.

Instead, he found a baby. (Well, an embryo, but I’m willing to grant it baby-status as of today.) Because it has a heartbeat. I, of course, burst into violent sobs right there on the table with the wand inside me. So much for calm and mature.

The low HCG levels are partially genetic, he said, especially since my mom & her mom never had morning sickness. Nothing to worry about. Stop reading things on the internet, he added.

Um, ok.

There’s a baby in there. A real, live, heart-beating baby blob.

And I think I’m going to stop reading so many horror stories online. At least this week.

I’m pregnant. With a real, live baby.

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After calling my incompetent RE’s office four times, I finally got someone to connect me to something other than voice mail.

The nurse said that another doctor wanted to do an ultrasound tomorrow, since my numbers have risen, but certainly not doubled every 48 hours. They’ve sort of doubled every 72 hours, but they’re not good. Though they’re good enough that a fetal pole should be visible by now, even given my tipped uterus.) And not-good numbers + no fetal pole = no good news at all.

Goddamn it all.

So I’ll go in tomorrow and let another strange man root around in my private bits. Not really expecting good news at this point, though I suppose the thinnest of silver linings is that apparently tonight is the last night the nurse expects me to be on PIO. So goodbye to IM injections for a while.

And you know what? I couldn’t give a shit about that, or about anything else my grasshopper brain keeps trying to throw up as a consolation prize.

Will try to write more when I learn anything definitive, but it might be a few days. I sort of feel like falling asleep for the next two weeks. Wake me when it’s over.

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3:44

and no word.

I called my doctor and the office is closed. Which is why she was going to call me. Before they closed. Before 1pm.

Goddamn.

And this, after the somewhat disheartening news this morning.

Fuck.

I can’t even go down a bottle of wine. Or seventeen shots of espresso. Or demand wild sex from my boyfriend. Just in case.

Goddamn it all to hell.

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So my RE wanted to see me this morning – or at least my RE’s partner, whom I had never before met. Things were running crazy at the office, doctor arrived late, people had been waiting for procedures for way too long, etc. But I wasn’t worried – as I told fiance – because everything’s been going just fine for me.

Hah.

Anyway, the doctor found the yolk sac (and there is only one, so no difficult decisions lie ahead of me, which is wonderful news.) But he could not find a fetal pole, let alone a heartbeat. So he ordered an HCG test.

And so I am waiting by the phone for the nurse to call with my numbers, so I’ll at least have a sense of what’s going on. And she was supposed to call between noon and one, and while part of me knows that she was running around like mad, trying to do the work of lab tech & nurse & scheduling receptionist all at the same time, part of me is certain that it’s bad news, and she’s such a sweetie that she is putting off the horrible job of calling me up and telling me said bad news.

Oh to be a normal pregnant woman, whose biggest fear at this point is that the kid (for kid it will, of course, turn into) will end up with hubby’s hideous toes or mother-in-law’s irritating laugh!

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