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Monday, May 31, 2010

Sunday, August 16, 2009 "The Pregnancy Chronicles: TMI is only the beginning..."

Finding Out to Week 7 or 8 (they aren’t sure):

I went into work on July 15 and got nauseated on my way in. I told my boss and she made a joke, “Maybe you’re pregnant.” Ha. She’d recently had a flu-like virus that had started off as nausea one day. We were pretty sure she’d given it to me. We figured I could just take the pregnancy test to rule out the flu. After work slowed down I went to CVS and grabbed a pack of the digitals (Pregnant/Not Pregnant) and took two into the employee bathroom. I peed on both. I was supposed to let Jim know, as soon as I took them, what the answer was. Both said “Pregnant.” Breathe. My heart raced and I had to overrule myself with logic. Okay, call the doctor. I called OBGYN Associates in Charlottesville. “I took a pregnancy test, well two, and they say I’m pregnant. I need to get that confirmed.” (Honestly, it was to be a second opinion and a possibility that my tests were faulty. Phew!) “Oh, we don’t confirm those anymore. We use the same tests here to tell you so if you took one and it said you were, then that’s what it is. We could have you come in for a blood test, but honestly, if the test was faulty, it’d usually say you weren’t pregnant when you were.” “Oh.” Breathe. They said they usually make appointments for the 8th to 10th week (that long from now!?!) and she asked me when the first day of my last period was. June 15th? June 20th? I’m pretty certain that the general female population doesn’t chart that on a calendar. At least, no one had told me that they were charting theirs. She made my appointment for the 10th of August (a day after my birthday… no more celebrating like I used to! Bummer!) and then she told me, “Congratulations.” Yeah, thanks. Breathe. Step two. Email Jim. He calls. Not a lot of talking. “Are you okay?” “Are you okay?” Breathe. Then I walked into my supervisor’s office and closed the door that adjoins her office to someone else’s. I started crying. She panicked. “I’m pregnant.” That was followed by a lot of “Oh my God!”s from her to me. “I know it’s scary,” she said. She used to be a doula, so she was comforting, but I was in crisis mode. She told me I could have the rest of the day off, but I couldn’t because Jim and I had to go to a court ordered parenting class for the Taylor custody dispute. She told me I could have the next day off, then.

Regardless of the fear and panic and feeling like I may die, that everything was going to be different forever, and again, the absolute fear and panic, I felt very purposeful. I smiled while driving. Everything I did for that day held a new purpose. I was going to be someone’s mother. My status was upgraded. Unplanned and upgraded.

Cut to prenatal vitamins, worrying over what I could no longer eat, and huge boobs. Constipation, general nausea only satiated by food, and sleepiness. Pants that don’t fit as well and did I say huge boobs? I got books galore. Jim and I figured what room we could transition into a baby room. We figure we won’t tell anyone until we’re past the 12th week. In the clear, so to speak.

Then I facebooked it. I’m terrible at waiting. We, well I, figured that the people I was telling (including the fb’ers that I don’t see everyday) would be the people dealing with me in the event of a miscarriage. So, I told the world. We decide we won’t tell Taylor until the safety zone though, because that can be tricky for an 8 year old. Even though I know she’s smart enough to understand it, I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up. (I still get hung up on the miscarriage thing. I’m nervous to be too excited because I’m trying to be realistic so I don’t downward spiral over something that is completely natural. In the even that there is a genetic defect and my body terminates this for safety; I know that that’s the best thing. Everything always works out for the best purpose, regardless of whether you can see it at the time.)
Shortly after, Mom hooked me up with a 1st Trimester gift basket (including shirts a size up, pajama pants, crackers, ginger ale, prenatal vitamins, belly bars, a cosmo, a piggy bank, lotion, and all sorts of stuff!) The shirts have come in super handy, and have been my favorite part of the basket, by far! Go Mom!

We go to Washington State to get Taylor from Gramma’s and spend time at the lake house in Idaho. Right before that I’d already gone into the high fructose corn syrup = mercury = autism phase. The only thing I was doing wrong was smoking cigarettes. Then I realize on or around our last day at the lake that I’d been downing G2 like no body’s business and the second ingredient is HFCS. Great. I cut myself some slack.

We go to the first appointment. She talks to us and then does a pap smear and internal ultrasound. We see it. Heart beat and all. She measures it. 132 bpm. I say that I think it’s “gross.” The NP says she thinks it’s pretty incredible. I feel like I said the wrong thing, but I do think it’s gross. It’s sort of creepy to grow a person. It’s a bfd. I’m making organs at this very moment. That’s pretty gross to me. I don’t care what everyone else thinks. Sure it’s also a miracle and really cool, but the whole deal is pretty weird too. She doesn’t crucify me for smoking, but gives me options in stead. “We’re going to ask you to quit,” she says. That makes perfect sense to me. So it’s tricky, but we’re working on it. Will power was never one of my strengths, but I pray about it. Anywho, upon the appointment, I was certain we were in week 8. I don’t know if it was faulty math or me trying rush to the safety point, but the NP says I was maybe 6.5. That pushes me farther away from safety, and makes me feel like my pants should fit better than they do. So we go again on September 2nd and we’ll see then. She’s going to measure then to get a better estimate. Currently, we’re due on April 1. Which is pretty lucky considering my FMLA isn’t valid until March 13th. Ahh!

So that’s where I am. When I started the journey, I weighed myself for the first time in forever. I don’t keep a scale at my house so that I don’t ever really know. People are very excited for me to be fat, so I figure I’ll Bridget Jones it: I’m not sure what I was before this started, but I was 118lbs at the Bobb’s house. I was also 118lbs (or 119lbs, the weight lady doesn’t really give you a chance to gauge it before she says you’re done) at the first appointment.

More to come in a in a week or few.

Oh, and somewhere in there, I got stung by a bee and bought a bellaband :)

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