Suffice it to say that (almost) everything about yesterday sucked.

However.

The one teeny tiny silver lining was that because we had the CVS done – and Sprog is, btw, free from chromosomal defects like Downs or Trisomy 18, so that’s a good thing too – we also got to learn what flavor we’re getting about 6 weeks earlier than normal.

Drumroll please! (For those of you who didn’t recognize the nursery rhyme.)

We’re having a son.  Sprog’s a boy.

Holy crap.  There’s a boy in there.

So, let the naming madness begin!  Thus far, Boris and Robin have both been axed as potential tags for our eventual offspring.  As have Napoleon, Sherman, and Hezekiah.  Along with approximately 560 other names of varying degrees of offensiveness to either myself or the Boy.

In fact, the way we’re burning through the baby name book, Sprog might very well be “baby boy sprog” on his birth certificate, if we don’t learn to compromise a little better…

And my project for the day is to start looking for clothing that doesn’t try to make a 3-month-old baby look like a construction worker.  I mean, really – is khaki absolutely necessary to preserve an infant’s feelings of masculinity?  I’m totally dressing the kid in bright colors until he’s old enough to complain.  Just sayin’.

Chorionic Villus Sampling prenatal test was today.  And – oh my – am I ever glad that’s over.

Basically, what happens is that the doctor snips out a teensy bit of the baby’s placenta and that – rather than baby-cells – gets tested for genetic problems.  The advantage is that it’s a test that can be done very early, and the results are pretty damned definitive – they’re also available in 24 hours, unlike the week or so you sometimes have to wait to get amnio results back.  And in the hands of a specialist, it’s as safe or safer than amnio.  This all sounds great, right?  Well, maybe it does until you take into account that there are only two ways that Doc is getting into your uterus to take a sample – it’s either cervically or trans-abdominally.  Being the lucky girl that I am, I got to have both my CVSs done trans-abdominally.  Needles instead of flexible catheters.

Seriously, I thought I was past worrying about needles by this stage of the game, but these were really big honkin’ needles.   Not to worry anyone who’s considering this test, but it really sucked.

Not the needle-jab itself.  That was no big deal.  I mean, needles in the belly, yuck, but whatever.  We’ve all done this by now, right?  Once the pointy part is actually past that top layer of skin you just don’t feel it.  Doc doesn’t even do the numbing cream thing, because really, skin just isn’t that sensitive.  But my peritoneal lining?  Let’s just say it’s a damned shame they couldn’t have slathered a numbing cream onto that, because it felt like the doctor’s entire hand was poking around in my belly up to, about, his wrist.  (The Boy assures me it was just a needle, but I’m not entirely sure I believe him.)

Owie.

To be fair, Doc said that because of the angle of my uterus, he had to go in at an oblique angle, so that probably made it more uncomfortable than it would be normally.

And to be even more fair, it wasn’t like I was in writhing agony with tears running down my face (though I did whimper a couple of times.)  It just felt gut-wrenchingly – if you’ll pardon the pun - wrong.  Wrong to have anything moving around in there that wasn’t, you know, gas or half-digested food.  The full-to-almost-leaking bladder didn’t help matters either.  You know, staying tense so as not to wet myself sort of made it hard to relax those belly muscles when the time came to relax.

And then I got another jab because I’m rh-negative, and needed a rhogam shot.  I just can’t get me enough of those needles!

Anyway, I’m glad it’s over.  It sucked, but it still wasn’t as bad as I was expecting, and it was FAST.  Took longer to wipe my entire lower body down with iodine & alcohol than it did to actually do both procedures.   It will take even longer to remove all that iodine, I’m sure.  Which I’m about to go do.

But all that said?  I’m still really (really really) glad it’s over.  Going to go try to catch up on some of the sleep I lost last night, worrying about this procedure.  Sleep sounds like a really good thing right now…

Lamb Stew is in the fridge waiting to be reheated.
Sourdough boule and pumpernickel baguette are waiting to be sliced.
Apples are set out in a bowl.
Soprasetta is sliced and ready to be et.
Ditto with cheeses of all sorts.
Hard cider is chilling for the non-pregnant geeks, ginger ale for the knocked up one.
Strawberries have been mashed with a bit of sugar.
Shortcake is cooling.
Whipped cream is chilling.
Seed crackers for the cheese & sausage are waiting to be put out.
Bagels are awaiting their cream cheese and lox (or butter & tomato pour moi)
Eggs and breakfast sausage (for anyone feeling peckish after all this) are at the ready.
Teapot is filled, and ready for constant use over the next 14 hours.

We’re all set for the guests to arrive.

Happy Lord of the Rings (and eating like a hobbit) Day!!!

(gollum.)

Sorry to anyone who was anxious.  A late night at work and a bout of snoring once I got home.  But all is pretty much well.

My new endocrinologist is a doll.  He’s about 80, behaves like a favorite grandfather, and since his daughter lives in Brooklyn, I’m ok in his book.  Or so he says.  We were actually chatting up a storm.  (He’s way too friendly to be a doctor.  Honestly, NYC doctors are among the nicest guys I’ve ever met.  Doctors aren’t this pleasant in the southwest.  What’s up with that?)

Anyway, my thyroid gland is enlarged, but it happens in pregnancy, so he’s not too worried.  We ran more bloodwork, the results from which won’t be back before next week, but he advised me to take an extra prednisone during the procedures for its immune suppressant properties, and assured me I’d be fine.  My pulserate was high (90bpm), but I told him it was because I was in a doctor’s office.  He checked again in a few minutes after we’d been talking about chickens and the Grand Canyon and it was lower (80bpm) so he laughed and told me not to worry so much.

(BTW, I’m sensing a doctor’s advice theme here, since it’s the second time I’ve heard that advice from a fatherly-type doctor in the last few months) which is sort of sucky because I’m so much better than I used to be.  Can’t I get some credit for that?  If they’d known me in full-on worry mode, they’d've probably checked me into an institution for the dangerously anxious.

Anyway, my blood pressure is still great, so he told me that unless I started presenting some symptoms other than a highish heartrate, they’d probably just monitor me (Yay! More blood work appointments!) and not try to medicate me with no cause (Yay!  MIght still be able to breastfeed safely!)  He said there was every chance that this would resolve on its own in another 6 weeks or so, and I decided that’s what I’m going to hope for.

It was very reassuring.  And I don’t have to dread going back there, because he’s a nice guy.  And I’m fairly convinced I’m not going to die next week or lose Sprog.

Whew.  Now if I could just be allowed a few days with nothing to fret about, I’d be oh-so-grateful.

Of course, I’m back to the Realm of Pain today.  So much for that brilliant idea…

Sprogs are fine.  Sprog A is plugging along, wiggling and measuring a few days ahead of schedule.  Sprog B is still holding still, still measuring a week behind Sprog A.

And I have an appointment for this morning with an endocrinologist.  Yesterday’s OB appointment was delayed for about an hour while the doctor ran – literally – to catch an emergency delivery.  The woman showed up to L&D fully dilated.  We should all have labors that only last an hour.  Anyway, all of us – patients & stafff were doing everything but playing word games to pass the time, and I told the nurse I was having a hard time narrowing down which endocrinologist to call, blah blah blah.  So she got on her computer, I got on my iPod, and we narrowed it down to docs she knew who would take my insurance.

And she apparently gave me their personal office numbers, because when I called the first guy, he answered, “Hello?”  Me:  ”Oh, sorry, I was looking for Dr. B.”  ”That’s me.  What’s up?”  I gave him my sob story, about how my OB wants me to see someone stat because of the CVS next week, and he told me he no longer saw patients, but wanted to hear my numbers anyway.  Because my T3 & T4 numbers are elevated on top of my depressed TSH numbers, he agreed that I needed to be seen right away and that he’d make sure someone in his practice saw me immediately.  So he gave me a few numbers, and said he’d go over to the first one’s office to encourage his receptionist to make room for me in tomorrow’s schedule.

Wow.  It makes a difference to be able to wave names around – not to mention having the guy’s private number.

So I got in for an appointment at 11:30 this morning; I rearranged my work schedule so that I’ll work late tonight, and therefore not miss quite so many hours of work, and – hopefully – we can get this under control so that I can go back to worrying about productive things like the nasty-ass taste of the liquid B12 I’m taking.  Blech.

Since this most definitely is an immune thingy, and since I lost my last pregnancy during the week I came off of immune suppressants, it does make me wonder if this might have been behind that loss, since we never got a clear abnormal-genetic reason for it.  I don’t know how I feel about that.  Relieved to possibly have a reason?  Pissed off if my doctor never ordered thryoid-function tests as a routine part of my bloodwork?  I know he tested it pre-pregnancy, but since this is something that often only presents during pregnancy, what if it was never done after that BFP?  What if the prednisone pill I’m still popping is all that’s standing between me and another miscarriage?

Nah, never fear that I’ll run out of things to worry about.  More later, after the appointment.

See?  I knew I shouldn’t have said anything about feeling calmer.  Zen be damned, I’m back to panic stations.

SuperStarOB called me at work to tell me that my follow-up bloodwork came back & that I definitely have a hyperactive thyroid.

So of course I went to Dr. Google and scared the shit out of myself.  Hey – I’m now at risk of heart failure during a “thyroid storm” and my baby is at risk of stillbirth, miscarriage, or massive retardation!  I probably won’t be able to breastfeed!  My child has a possibility of developing hyperthyroidism too, immediately after birth!  Just because he’s lucky enough to be gestating in my malfunctioning body!  Woohoo!

Just once.  Once.  Could I NOT be on the wrong side of scary-ass statistics?  Please?  I have a regularly scheduled appointment with the OB tomorrow, and hope to pump him for more information, as well as a referral (Any NYC readers have a great endocrinologist they’d like to recommend?  I got dizzy looking at the sheer number of them on my insurance’s web site.)

Have I mentioned how tired I am of not being allowed to relax?  I just start to, and then something else comes up.  Something shitty.  Something scary.

Tired of this.  Want it to be September already.  Want to sleep til then.

Goddamnitall.

Eleven and a half weeks, and all seems well.  Spotting has (dare I say it aloud) ended.

Such.  A.  Relief.

Even though I’d stopped panicking each and every time I saw blood, it was still taking more out of me than I realized.  Because now that it’s gone (knock wood) it feels wonderful.  Like I’ve been handed a reprieve.  It’s been a long 5 weeks.

I’m bloated enough that I’m considering taking Colace, but I’m nervous about that.  Never had to worry about things like this before, but what happens if it takes effect while you’re out & about your day?  Yikes.  I’d say I’ll wait til a weekend, but I might just explode before then.  Constipation sucks.

The girls are very happy with their new C-cup accommodations, and I am enjoying the feeling of not bursting out the top of my bra, muffin-wise.  Definitely need to get my camera charged and start taking belly shots, because I’ve definitely developed a belly.  Of course, that could be the ‘eat what you can when you can’ mentality that I’ve adopted.  I’ve been too nervous to step on a scale since I am, technically, way too early to be gaining any weight yet.

Other than the street drama, the lovely weekend, and the work nastiness, nothing’s really changed.  I’ve an OB appointment tomorrow morning, and for the first time I think I can honestly say that I’d be ok if he had to cancel it.  I’m pregnant, and I have every bit of confidence that I’ll still be pregnant this time tomorrow.  And the day after that.

Wow.

It has been an uneventful couple of days, for which I am most grateful.  Nausea is definitely easing, which, as I creep up on 11 weeks, doesn’t freak me out too much.  Especially since heartburn/loss of appetite has totally taken its place.  Yesterday was a no-spotting day, and I feel like I should go release doves into the sky (not that the doves would thank me, snowy as it is), or just smile beneficently  at everyone I encounter.  Of course, since I live in Brooklyn, that would likely get me shot or arrested as a lunatic.  So maybe not.

However, the main thing going on with me is the extension of my front side.  This is seriously weird, and I feel like a dope for feeling like it’s weird, I mean, shoot, I’m pregnant.  That’s sort of the most obvious thing about being pregnant – but there it is.  Boobs are back into “take over the world” mode.  I’ve always been, well, modestly endowed.  So it’s weird to suddenly be, OMG, voluptuous.  It’s also a pain in the ass to suddenly not fit into any of my bras (and no, I still haven’t bestirred my lazy ass & gone to buy new ones, mostly because I don’t know where this expansion will stop. C-cup?  D?  EEEEEEE???)  But it’s damned weird to look down and see cleavage, from packing the girls into too-small bras.  Oh my.  Who’d've thought I’d ever have cleavage?

And the belly.  I’ve always been more of a pack-the-pounds-onto-my-hips kind of girl.  No matter how IVF-heavy I’ve gotten, I’ve always had a waist, always had a flat tummy.  But now, it’s poufy.  And it’s poufy out in front, though my waist has pretty much disappeared, too.  I’m feeling fortunate that I’ve never been a ‘wear tight pants’ type, because my work trousers still fit ok, but I can totally imagine a day (a day that’s maybe only a week or three away) when they don’t.  Weird.  Totally, I’m-incubating-an-alien-in-my-intestines weird.

I suppose I should combine the bra-buying expedition with a buy-maternity-pants trip, but I’m having a hard time not feeling like a total impostor when I browse maternity sites online.  And yet my clothes definitely fit differently, and those who know me are starting to direct meaningful glances toward my expando-boobs & ‘you been hitting too many cadbury eggs’ belly.  It’s made my manager from the sane branch give me all sorts of helpful advice from her hometown in Southern China on how to grow a healthy child (though, since she’s about 4′11″ & gave birth to a 10# daughter, I’m thinking I’m going to do the exact opposite of whatever she tells me.  10 pound baby.  Yikes!)  So far, it mostly seems to center around eating nasty things.  Which, I’m not doing so much of these days.  So I guess sprog won’t be giant-sized.  Whew.

But generally, I’m feeling pregnant, I’m scooting back toward zen-mode, and trying very hard to stay there.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go hire a crane to life my boobs off the desk so I can get dressed and head off to work through the foot & a half of snow on the ground.  Fortunately, if I fall over, the rescuers will have something to look for.  Boobs & Belly sticking out of the snow over on Smith street.  Call in the men with ropes…

Weird.

OK, sublingual B12 – even when (especialy when?) flavored with raspberry, ginger, etc. – is disgusting.  Gaggingly disgusting.  Bleccchhhhh!

Tums, on the other hand – I can now understand the love.  That stuff might be chalky, but it’s not too nasty, and it actually, um, works.  I am a convert.  Tums is my friend, and has earned a spot in my already-way-too-heavy purse.  I’ll never be without antacids again!

The nausea has gone away for the most part, I think in order to give me more opportunity to focus on heartburn and complete loss of appetite.  I mean, I’m hungry, stomach clenchingly so.  But the thought of actually putting food in my mouth?  Meh.   Not so nice a thought.  On the exciting side of things, however, the spotting has really, almost gone away.  The boobs are enormous, and so undeniably pregnant that I can’t even work myself up to a state of terror (since it has been almost 24 hours since a sonogram).

I did, however, manage to wake myself up at 4:30 this morning with complete Realm of Pain anxiety.  The level of dread I feel for going in to this place is akin to what I used to feel for orthodontist appointments.  (My orthodontist was elderly, and had allergies.  When you are 13, and presented with a giant, 70-year-old nose that’s dripping way too close to your wedged-open mouth, while the owner of the nose is busy with pliers to wrench your teeth into a more socially-acceptable, though agonizing alignment, the situation will figure prominently in your nightmares for the rest of your life.)  No, actually, I don’t think I’ve felt this much dread since 6th grade, which was the first time in my life that my teacher didn’t like me.  She used to taunt me when I tried to answer questions in class, and put such an active dislike of school into me that it took me years to get over it.  Nothing like being ridiculed by a sarcastic teacher for your 11th year to scar you for life.  And to this day I’m not entirely sure why she disliked me so very much.

At least I know why the Romanian Princess hates me.

I certainly know why she’s not my favorite person.

But oh, I really don’t want to be there today.  Or tomorrow.  Or the day after that.  And I bitterly resent having lost sleep over this person.

Yawn.

I might resent that the most of all.

For those who asked, in my fragile little mind these days, Sprog = Pregnancy.  Sprog = one of the two embryos I’m gestating.  Sprog = the baby I hope to hold in another 7 months.

To answer the unspoken question, yes I will still be going through with a reduction after my scheduled CVS in another 2 weeks.  One of the twins has not been doing as well as the other, and there is every possibility that the CVS will turn up a reason for this and the decision will be made for us.  But I’m not about to start choosing which one I’m looking forward to a future with just yet.  Hence the fact that I’m not exulting in the fact that we’ve got two heartbeats.  Hence the fact that my ticker shows only one baby and not two.  Hence the fact that these early ultrasounds are going straight into a box and not up on my refrigerator.  I’m trying to cope with my crappy situation, folks, and this is the way I’m doing it.

Yes.  This is an obvious cop out, but it’s also the only way my brain has found to cope with where I am – which is a truly shitty place to be.  And I’m sorry, but I just don’t want to talk about it here, mostly because I’m getting a bit tired of explaining and justifying something that I think I did a pretty thorough job of discussing for readers’ benefits a while back, and I’m tired of the patronizing comments and emails that are still showing up, asking me if I’ve “thought this through”.  This decision is hard, it’s making this pregnancy much less joyful than it should be, and it’s weighing heavily on my heart.

And I’m tired of talking about it on this blog.

So please, just take it on faith that my insomnia these days has a cause.  That yes, I’m duly terrified I’m going to lose both in my efforts to make a safe environment for one.  I’m aware that I’m going to hell, and that my child will hate me forever.  I get it.  I truly understand how you feel about my decision, but I’m quite tired of hearing about it.  And you know what?  This isn’t a debating forum, and I’m not a moderator.  I’m someone going through something that’s horrible, and although I’ve tried to be honest about it for the sake of other women going through the same thing, I’m getting a bit tired of putting myself out there as a target for the wingnuts.  Quite honestly, I’ve got enough going on in my life without inviting the crazy to come in, sit down, and have a cuppa.

So, as I’ve mentioned before, comments are not the place to ask mock-casual questions about what’s happening in the next few weeks.  If I feel like sharing my experiences, you’ll be the first to know.  But if this is your first time commenting, chances are good I’m not going to email you off-blog to confide in you.   If we’ve built up a relationship over the last couple of years and you’ve expressed an interest, as a couple of people have, I will email you privately to let you know what’s going on.  But if I have to moderate a comment  because my spam filter doesn’t recognize you, chances are good you’re going to have to take what’s posted on my public site as all the information I’m choosing to give you at this time.

I’ll get back to the regularly scheduled silliness tomorrow, but thought this needed saying sooner rather than later.