Movin' Right Along

So I'm back and still pregnant – undeniably so. Sometimes I see my reflection in a mirror or a window and I can't believe it's really me.

When you're in the thick of infertility treatments, as I was mere months ago, you think that once you're pregnant, you'll have crossed some sort of invisible line – that (at least once you see a heartbeat) you'll be somehow home free. You think that those who have crossed that line must feel a smug satisfaction, a sense that they have beaten infertility. That they must now be in a state of constant maternal bliss as they shop for baby clothes and choose nursery paint.

The reality, at least for me, has been much more complicated. Yes, there have been many, many moments of sheer joy and optimism as I look forward to the arrival of this long-pined-for child. But there have also been an equal number of moments of real fear, of obsessive worry.

The first trimester is about blind faith. You're told you're pregnant, but while you don't feel all that great, there's no physical sign that tells you, definitively, that you are. You count the hours until your next ultrasound, and for a moment while you look at that pulsating speck on the screen you feel at peace. But then you leave the doctor's office and there's nothing to do but wonder it's still alive. You recognize how fleeting it all can be, remembering what happened to you and so many others you know. You obsess about the symptoms you may or may not have, deluding yourself into thinking that they mean anything at all. You count the weeks until the next milestone, telling yourself that once you pass it you will allow yourself to relax.

In the second trimester, you reach some of those milestones. You've passed 12 weeks, you hear the heartbeat. You have two ultrasounds during which you see a real baby frolicking around inside of you. You may or may not call the nurse more than once, in a panic, begging her for an extra heartbeat check. That moment in which you exhale and feel that overwhelming sense of calm never comes, but you do feel a vague shift and a sense of growing confidence. You begin to expect that your regularly scheduled OB appointment might just be routine – you don't even play out the worst-case scenarios that used to seize your mind as you sat in that pregnant-lady waiting room. And then you feel bubbles inside that are definitely not the rumblings of your own stomach. And you forget yourself for a moment, you let yourself just be inside the awe-inspiring moment that that really is.

As I move into the third trimester (28 weeks on Tuesday), no longer fumbling, perhaps, but still a little uncertain, I am not yet sure what to expect. I am learning to trust more in medical science than the constant voice of rumination in my head. I am learning to trust in this baby, who so often seems like a force of nature that is happening to me rather than the other way around. I still feel so, so vulnerable at times, and terribly frightened of this love I feel – like it or not – for this child. But I'm moving right along in spite of it.

Nothing Rhymes with Previa

Yesterday I had my 20-week prenatal appointment. I will say this much: I was a lot less nervous going in this time. I felt like a normal person, which is a pretty unusual feeling for me. My list of questions were less "if I accidentally eat bacon will it permanently damage my baby" than "tell me what's normal for fetal movement (which I'm now feeling)" and "talk to me about placenta previa." I had hope that she might not leave the exam room shaking her head and wondering how I managed to get pregnant in the first place.

But then she talked to me about placenta previa, and then I felt anxious again. I told her I wanted information but I didn't, if she knew what I meant. I think she really only gave me the highlights, but even those were less than uplifting. Contrary to what the nurse suggested, in cases of complete previa like mine, the odds of it moving up out of the cervix by term are pretty low. So barring my being in the lucky minority (ha!) I'm pretty much looking at a c-section at 37 weeks. Until then, I am to call her office and demand to be seen at any spot of bleeding, and if a lot of bleeding happens while I am alone, I am to call an ambulance. There is a lot I can say about this, but instead I am just going to pretend it doesn't exist.

I am trying to find ways to think of all of it in some sort of light way. I even tried to think of a little poem or song I could sing about it, but you try coming up with a word that rhymes with previa. The only thing I could think of was stevia, which is this new sweetener out there that I drank accidentally in my 8th or 9th week and then called the nurse in a panic, thinking that it would give my baby at least two heads. So that wasn't very helpful. Suggestions welcome.

Meanwhile, I have started a list of why a scheduled c-section is actually a good thing:

-No surprises. The date of your baby's arrival is on the calendar and lots of precise planning can take place. Good for control freaks like me.
-You're guaranteed to get your own doctor. Someone you've formed at least a casual relationship with is going to be all up and in your business, versus the awkward moment of meeting someone for the first time when a human being is sliding out your lady parts.
-No pooping on the table. Enough said.
-Most likely you will never experience a full-on contraction. And, really, who needs that?
-Longer recovery means more doting by nurses, your husband and loved ones who offer to help you out.
-Did I say no pooping on the table? Let me say it again.
-The baby does not come out of your vagina. So said vagina stays tidy. No more pressure to do Kegels. No worrying about implications for sex. No peeing your pants.

I'm sure there are about a thousand more reasons why a c-section is actually a good thing. And I'm sure I'll think of all of them as I spend my time not Googling about placenta previa or c-sections.