Panic At The... Clinic?

What a ride, ladies and gents. What. A. Ride.

Several weeks ago, Husbeast and I went in for our 18-ish week ultrasound. Squall looked normal; nuchal translucency was within normal parameters; we verified that yes, he is indeed a boy, and we found all ten fingers and toes. What we also found was that Squall’s umbilical cord is one artery shy of the norm. Babies are supposed to have two arteries and one vein in the umbilicus. The doctor said that his heart looked great though, and he was growing a little ahead of the expectation, so they weren’t terribly worried. They did order a fetal echocardiogram for four weeks out, however, to make absolutely certain that his heart was healthy.

Fast forward to last Friday. I took the day off for multiple doctor’s appointments, both for me and for Lil Man. As Husbeast couldn’t go and my stepmother has been baby crazy ever since I announced that we were pregnant, I invited her to go along and see the baby on screen.

The pediatric cardiologist doing the ultrasound was not talkative; excusing his silence before the scan even began by saying that he needed to concentrate. We didn’t fuss much. As it turns out, however, Squall has a small hole between the lower two chambers of his heart. The doctor explained that it’s not something that concerns him, but we will need to monitor it because one of three things could happen:

1.)    It could resolve itself (heal up) before Squall is born,

2.)    It could resolve itself during Squall’s childhood, or

3.)    It could get bigger, resulting in the need for surgery.

I played it relatively cool, but texted Husbeast, my dad and my besty (Mama.) They all showed appropriate concern, but unfortunately I left Mama hanging, as we were called in to my normal OB appointment right after I sent the texts. She may have flipped out a bit and left work to come take care of me. This worked out to my advantage, as I had helpers on the dresser I’ve been slowly refurbishing for Squall; and Lil Man’s Auntie and Gramma were able to accompany us to his appointment that afternoon.

We went to pick Lil Man up from school after lunch, and took him to the pediatric endocrinologist at The Big Hospital to learn how to do his first shot of Testosterone. He’s always been afraid of needles (though he’s been working on that lately), and I was worried he’d have trouble, but he powered right through it after a few deep breaths and did a GREAT job! We were very proud of him. We took him out to dinner at a local Chinese joint that also makes pretty decent sushi and parted upon our return to my place.

Once everyone was gone, I began to freak out. The baby. Has a hole. In his heart. Sure, that COULD mean nothing, or it could mean that he’ll be whisked away for major surgery the moment he’s born. The thought was torture. Husbeast was reassuring as always, but I just couldn’t get out of my own head about it.

About a week later, I confessed to a former coworker-turned-friend that I was having trouble coping with this news (which I had not, until that point, shared with her). She gently rebuked me for not having mentioned it sooner; that her son had been born with TWO holes in his heart, and that they had resolved themselves within weeks of the baby’s birth. I breathed again. Granted, that’s anecdotal, but then I called my OB’s office to ask if flying was a risk to the baby. I had to fly to Pittsburgh for work, and wanted to make sure I didn’t need to cancel the trip in light of this news. She reassured me that while Squall is still in utero, he’d be fine. She also mentioned that if the doctors were truly concerned about him, I’d already be making plans to deliver in Boston, so that Squall would have the country’s best doctors on standby the moment he was born.

I have since contented myself by making progress – albeit slow progress – on preparing for Squall’s arrival. I’ve received a crib and built it; and done a bit of work on the “Baby Closet;” and I have a comfy rocking recliner sitting in the van waiting to be brought upstairs, where I can both rock and comfortably feed him when he arrives. And as I mentioned; I’ve been slowly working on stripping decades of paint off an old dresser to refinish as a bureau and changing table.

Squall's New Room: Before.

How on earth am I almost 19 weeks pregnant already? Oh, right. Time. Duh.

Squall is now palpably wiggly and seems, like the previous tenants of the Uber Ute, to thoroughly enjoy kicking Husbeast in the back while we’re trying to sleep. Husbeast can’t feel it yet of course, but I can. And Catbutt has resumed his game of flicking my belly with his tail, waiting for a kick, and retaliating repeatedly. I think cats must be able to sense the movement somehow.

I spent today rearranging the furniture in my room (with Lil Man’s help, not to worry) so that we can turn what was originally my office (aka “Shame Closet”) into a little bedroom for Squall. I have to admit: I was reticent to vacate the space because I really enjoyed the privacy but with the movement of the bedroom furniture to new spaces, I now have the entire west wall of the room for my office, which allows me A LOT more room.

I know a lot of moms – far more stylish than I – decide on a “theme” for their nurseries. I had my mind set: Squall isn’t going to care about the décor in the least, until he’s at least three, if not older than that. So why would I bother doing much for decoration in that tiny space? And then I foolishly went on Pinterest. More often than not, I skim over the themed nursery pins suggested by the app but this morning while I lay in bed, summoning the motivation to get out of bed, I stopped scrolling at one named, “Adventure.” Now, some of the decorations were just downright silly – but the idea clicked with me.

Husbeast and I are avid H.P. Lovecraft fans, but obviously we wouldn’t decorate a nursery with Cthulhu or Yog Sothoth – it’d traumatize the kid. However; the Cthulhu mythos revolves around a certain amount of exploration, and THAT could make a pretty interesting child’s room. So 1920’s to 1940’s explorer is now our theme. Toss in a bit of Steampunk where it fits, and MAYBE a little Serenity (Firefly) hiding on the ceiling, and I think we’ve got a theme.

The room is tiny, but we’ll be moving out of here once Lil Man graduates high school, so Squall won’t be using the space for too long.

Here's the "before."

And Squall Is...

First item of note: "Squall" is the nickname I chose for the baby, because until the last few weeks, it kept causing panic storms in the form of spotting and light bleeding. (I realize it wasn't the baby's fault, but it felt apropos when it popped into my head.)

Now that our families have been informed, I can make the announcement official. But first, the background.

Due to my diagnosis of “advanced maternal age,” the OBs at the Big Hospital felt that it would be prudent to couple my 12-week ultrasound – where they measure nuchal translucency – with Non Invasive Prenatal Testing. This involves the drawing of a single vial of blood from my arm. As it turns out, some of Squall’s blood can be found in my blood stream (thanks, placenta!) This allows a laboratory in Massachusetts to identify Squall’s blood within the sample I provided, and detect any chromosomal abnormalities in the blood.

The good news is: Between the ultrasound and NIPT results, the doctors have determined that Squall is perfectly normal.

The part I forgot about the NIPT, is that it can tell you what gender the baby is. So when my Favorite Nurse at The Big Hospital called me yesterday to tell me that everything looked okay, she asked if I wanted to know Squall’s sex.

“Oh! I forgot you could do that! YES!” I responded dazedly.

“Are you sure you want to know?” She asked, trying to be sure I understood the offer.

“Yes,” I replied enthusiastically, “My husband and I agreed ages ago that we want to know.”

“Well then, it’s a boy,” my Favorite Nurse supplied; an audible smile in her voice.

I thanked her, hung up, and proceeded to tell everyone in my family. EVERYONE.

And now you all know, too! Honestly, I didn’t care whether the baby was male or female. I just wanted a healthy baby. I’m thrilled it’s a boy, but I’d be just as thrilled if my Favorite Nurse had said it was a girl.

Squall, On The Big Screen

Yesterday Husbeast and I went to the Big Hospital for our 12-week ultrasound! (This meant an early release from work for both of us, which was a marvelous little change from the usual.)

I will admit to you, ladies and gents, that I was a little nervous. What if there was something seriously wrong? What if the placenta was covering my cervix (placenta previa)? Not that it's a death sentence or anything, but I hate surgery. I'm very afraid of being cut open. What if, what if, what if?

As it turns out, Squall is growing nicely. S/he has all the necessary bits, and was easily as squirmy as his/her brother was, back in 2000. S/he did not want to be bothered or photographed or otherwise prodded. In fact, I'm quite certain I felt Squall kick the sonographer's wand several times, most likely in protest. S/he IS Husbeast's and my child, after all.

You know, after going through this process with me, three times, I kinda thought all this would be old-hat to Husbeast. But it turns out he didn't really pay attention during my pregnancies with Wiggle-Worm, Tempest and Nugget; so all this is completely new and fascinating. During the scan yesterday, he informed me and the sonographer - we'll call her the Raven-Haired Beauty, since she's done the last three scans - that he hadn't expected Squall to be this developed. Thought it would still be an amorphous blob. SURPRISE!

Lil Man has informed me that he hopes Squall is a boy, and that he plans to whisk the baby away to become his apprentice. He says that Squall will be named "Dude," will be born with the knowledge and motor control to care for himself, and that I will never see "Dude" again because he will become a little troglodyte in Lil Man's room.

Anyway; I'm sure the family (biological and otherwise) is anxious to see the photos, so I must oblige.

Here we have Squall in profile, just before s/he turned away:

Here we see Squall's tiny right foot:

Here we have a full-frontal, in which we get to see Squall's brain, left claw-like hand, and some other random bones which, being an accountant and not a sonographer, I can't be certain I can specify:

And one more wiggly profile:

Bleary-Eyed Post

Fair warning: Today’s blog post may be a little “off,” as Husbeast and I drove Lil Man to visit a friend not far outside Boston last night, and didn’t get home till 1:00 this morning.

I got to leave work early yesterday, to attend my first official, scheduled OB visit yesterday. Unfortunately Husbeast wasn’t able to come – I hadn’t given him enough notice for him to be able to request the afternoon off. But we agreed that I’d schedule appointments several months out, so he can go to the rest of them.

I’ll call the doctor I met yesterday, “Dr. Sweet.” This is not to imply that she’s anything less than highly professional and knowledgeable; but she was very reassuring and very compassionate, and that was the first thing that struck me. Don’t get me wrong; all of the doctors in OB at The Big Hospital are wonderful, but since I don’t use real names, I have to distinguish them somehow.

Anyway, Dr. Sweet went through my pregnancy history, asked about my spotting and said she’d check the size of my uterus. She mentioned that minor chorionic hemorrhage is not uncommon, and that as long as my uterus was still growing appropriately for gestational age, she wouldn’t worry overmuch. We talked about exercise, diet and appropriate weight gain for pregnancy, and she did a basic physical  and pelvic exam.

As it turns out, my uterus is about the size of a grapefruit – appropriate size for being ten weeks along – and my “What to Expect” app says that the Baby is about the size of a prune. We also discussed prenatal screenings for abnormalities (because of my age), and scheduled the blood work for it. I also have an ultrasound in two weeks, to check for development and nuchal translucency.

On my way out to the waiting room, I got a chance to chat with my friend, the Kickass Nerd, who works at the desk in OB. She's always so much fun, and so supportive and encouraging. I was also completely flattered to learn that she's read this blog! Whee! 

As I finished scheduling my appointments, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to find my friend BAMF, who’s due to have her baby in a couple weeks, standing right behind me! She’s an adorable, badass little preggosaur, who I’m confident will power through labor and delivery like a machine!

Roller Coaster Ride

What a rubbish, panicky month it’s been. No joke: It's been a total roller coaster, guys and dolls.

Not even two days after my last post, I started bleeding. Well, spotting really, as it turns out: but I panicked. I called the doctor and they said to lie down and rest, avoid lifting anything heavy and don’t overdo it. Of course, anyone who knows me knows I’m rubbish at sitting still for long, but I did as I was told.

The bleeding STILL hasn’t stopped (I'm nine weeks along); and I went to and from the emergency room and doctor’s appointments and been stuck in bed during the last two weeks (excluding this week.) I’ve had another ultrasound confirming Baby’s heartbeat which was good and strong, so that’s an upshot. We also confirmed that yes, my due date is exactly what I had calculated: February 15, 2017.

I cannot tell you what a horrid feeling it is to find yourself producing bright red blood when you’re not supposed to. The doctors have reassured me that as long as I’m not meeting a significant threshold, then it’s probably fine, and that plenty of women spot during their pregnancies. The problem is that I have NEVER, EVER spotted. I had a single scare with the last baby I birthed, but it resolved itself and that was the last of it.

I have an appointment on the 20^th with one of the younger OBs at the Big Hospital whom I have yet to meet in my various pregnancy adventures. I hope things slow up by then and I’m able to have a normal rest-of-my-pregnancy.

Husbeast and I have also decided that, given all these scares, we’re not going to try for a home birth after all. I’m sure that the midwives would tell me that this is not out of the normal range and that I’m still a good candidate, but I’ll feel much more at ease in the hospital, I think. Thankfully, hospitals here are much less intervention-happy than other states. They try to stick to a laboring woman’s birth plan as closely as they can; they don’t push drugs, and elective cesarean sections are absolutely out of the question.

More after my doctor’s appointment.

Catching Up

Wow; I guess I've been really, horribly remiss in keeping my little blog updated. Where to begin?

Clearly I did not get pregnant last August; else I'd have been posting long before now. We did have something of a (re)birth last summer though. Pooka informed us that she would like us to refer to her in the masculine. Therefore "Pooka" is now "Lil Man," and I shall henceforth refer to my child using the pronouns: he, him and his.

Back in February we nearly lost Catbutt to hepatic lipidosis, or fatty liver disease. We had taken on a foster kitten for a friend who needed a temporary home for this cat, and a several-evenings-a-week babysitter for her giant, snuggly, adorable American bulldog. How could we say no? Anyway, Catbutt (aka. Catbutt Fatbutt, aka Fatty - yes, his name really is Catbutt. He chose it.) really liked Pickles the cat. Pickles, however, did not like Fatty. Her human found another human who we all agreed would be a fantastic match for Pickles (and we were right), so in Pickles' best interest, we re-homed her.

Unfortunately this led Fatty into a legitimate depression. He stopped eating. Neither Husbeast nor Lil Man nor I noticed, as we all assumed that one of the other two were feeding him each morning. Finally his weight loss became visible, and we rushed him to the vet. He was prescribed anti-nausea pills and special treats to encourage him to eat. No dice. He wasn't having it. We were referred to a specialty clinic for ultrasound, where we were told that yes, he had hepatic lipidosis. Another doctor came to meet with me and offered several treatment plans; all with ASTRONOMICAL price tags. Tearfully, I had to refuse the doctor.

Now here's the really disgusting part: When I refused both treatment plans, the doctor asked in a tone I can only describe as callous, "Do you want me to just take him out back and euthanize him for you, then?" Lil Man was out of town, and Husbeast was at work. Appalled, I told her no, that we needed to prepare Lil Man for this, and have time to say goodbye.

Several days later and with heavy hearts, Husbeast and I packed Fatty into his carrier for one last car ride. Our regular vet's staff were supportive and sympathetic as they led us into the exam room. When the vet came in with Fatty's chart in hand, he asked, "I'm sorry if this comes out the wrong way, but why are you putting Catbutt down?" We explained that the specialist had told us that Fatty was dying and that the only hope for him was a feeding tube in the side of his neck, which was going to cost multiple thousands of dollars, and only had a 20-30% chance of actually saving him. The vet balked and said he could do the same procedure for a literal fraction of that cost, and that his chances of survival were actually quite good.

Relieved beyond words, we agreed and I brought him in the next day for surgery. Over the next (I don't actually know how long, but it seemed like months), Husbeast and I took turns feeding him every 4-5 hours, cleaning up the vomit when he couldn't handle the liquefied food, taking him to the emergency vet when the tube insertion site got infected, and fretting over whether or not he would actually recover.

The vet suggested, as we neared the end of his recovery period, that Fatty might do well to be given a new companion; to encourage him to eat, to stay active and to keep him from being lonely. An old friend who works at the emergency vet's office mentioned that she knew of a one-eyed kitten that needed a home. Being HUGE fans of Terry Pratchett and envisioning Nanny Ogg's cat Greebo, we eagerly agreed to meet the kitten and see if she was a good match for us. She was, but she's definitely no Greebo. This little miss is most DEFINITELY a prissy princess with her floofy tail and her prim and proper way of doing everything. Husbeast and I call her Small Cat (to which she responds), and Lil Man calls her Hime (hee-may, which is Japanese for Princess; to which she also responds.) She has been hugely therapeutic for Fatty, who is now really living up to his nickname.

In other news...

Lil Man has just finished up his sophomore year in high school (how the hell did that happen?), and will be starting a graphic arts and design program at the local Tech Center. He's very excited, as apparently it's not easy to be accepted into this particular school. Husbeast and I are so proud of him, and can't wait to see what kind of amazing artwork he comes up with next year!

I left my job at the State, for a position with a private sector company nearer to home. Wow, what a mistake. They're really a fabulous company, but I am just not wired to get excited about corporate profit. I'm built for public service, so I start a new job tomorrow with an adult education program - counting beans as usual, but I'm breathing a huge sigh of relief to be back in a service-oriented position again.

Oh... And I'm pregnant. Finally.

Last Saturday (the 18th), I got up around 6:30 to use the loo and had noted a decided lack of menses for a couple weeks. Having had more disheartening negative tests than I'd care to discuss over the last year-plus, I was loathe to get my hopes up. I was just about to toss the home pregnancy test in the trash and give it up as another "no," when I noticed a second pink line in the window. Shrieking, I ran to the bedroom and jumped on the bed, startling the hell out of Husbeast. We snuggled for a bit before we had to get up and go to our respective jobs (Right! I forgot to mention: I left my previous second job as well, took a couple months off and then wound up picking up a weekend gig at a similar place - we have way too much fun there). Something else went wrong around 11:00 that morning and I had to rush out in a hurry.

Saturday night I started having some significant pelvic pain on my right side. I had been told to lay low and take it easy for the rest of the weekend, but I made an appointment to see the OB's at the Big Hospital on Monday morning anyway.

Monday morning, Husbeast and I got up early and headed in for an ultrasound. The tech found a massive Corpus Luteum Cyst on my right ovary. (I learned something new already! The Corpus Luteum Cyst grows from the ovary that produced the now-fertilized egg, and secretes progesterone to maintain the uterine lining until the placenta develops to support the embryo in the uterus.)

What the ultrasound tech DIDN'T find, was an embryo.

The doctor sent me downstairs for blood work to test for beta hCG (pregnancy hormone) levels. Now, for reference: my initial levels around this time[ish] for Wiggle Worm were 563. For Tempest they were 89. For Nugget they were 176. Last Monday, my beta hCG levels were 1,700. Needless to say, there was no doubt that I was pregnant.

The question was: Was the pregnancy too small to see just yet, or was it ectopic (in the fallopian tube, and therefore not one that could continue, else it could kill me)?

Husbeast assured me that it was just too small to see and that all would be well. But what did he know? To him, the entire female reproductive system is "magic and pixie ducks." So of course I spent all day Monday and much of Tuesday in a panic, thinking that the pain just inside my right hip bone was an ectopic pregnancy.

Wednesday morning arrived, and I went in for blood work at 7:00. My hCG levels came back 3,615 - more than double the value of the previous 48 hours. This was a good sign, but the doctor still wanted me to come back in for another ultrasound.

This time, not only did we see the embryo, but I got to see the "fetal pole:" what amounts to the beginnings of the brain and spinal column. This put me at about 5 weeks gestation, according to the doc. By that calculation, I should be due the day after Valentine's Day.

Husbeast and I met with a potential home birth midwife yesterday, and she puts me due around February 22, because my normal cycles are around 33 days, not the expected 28 that most women have. We have a confirmation of heartbeat ultrasound scheduled for July 6, and that may help us nail down a date a bit more solidly. I'll keep you all posted.

In the meantime, check out the beginnings of Baby!

P.S. Lil Man was not excited in the slightest by the prospect of gaining a sibling when we were in the "trying" stage, but now that this is a thing he's been extremely attentive and very sweet to me. I love my boy, and I'm so lucky to have him.