This morning I went for my second beta and the anxiety was, in a word, catastrophic. C was again working a 30 hour shift in the ICU so I was on my own for the last 24 hours, trying desperately to distract myself and legitimately contemplating whether I could request 24 hours of anesthesia or some other powerful sedative. Hey doc, just wake me when you get the bloodwork back. Seriously.
Which is why, after my early morning blood letting, sweaty, panicked and flustered, I drove around aimlessly for a while – there is literally nothing open at 8:45 am on a Sunday, it turns out – before arriving at the grocery store where I proceeded to
longingly at the gaggle of toddlers and infants and baby Bjorns that apparently
proliferate grocery stores early in the morning walk as slowly as possible
through every single aisle pausing to intently consider whether 11 dollar
amaranth flour was something I should be incorporating into my diet.
And the grocery store – the check out line to be specific, being asked if I wanted “cash back”– is where I found myself when I got THE CALL. Although I’m certain I blacked out, I seem to have emerged from the store having paid and with groceries in hand,
and only six or seven impulse
Anyway. The nurse was exceptionally patient with me – she told me what to expect in the next couple weeks (nausea!) and entertained my barrage of questions which included such gems as can I do crunches? and other this-is-totally-surreal-nonsense. Ready to like wrap it the hell up already because I have 30 other women to call, she left me with her assurances that while everything is a day at a time early in pregnancy, things appeared to be “progressing normally” and my numbers “looked good”. (She clearly has no idea my level of pessimism).
So here I am. Tentative and terrified, though slightly buoyed by having passed this teeny-tiny-nearly-insignificant hurdle in what appears to be 40 weeks of petrifying milestones. So whatever you guys did – your fist pumping and your positive vibes and whatever omnipotent beings you did or did not pray to, thank you. I hope you’ll keep reading as I plunder along through this vast unknown. And, if the occasion should present itself, I promise to live blog my miscarriage or, in the alternative, if things proceed, ahem, toward baby-dom, I promise not to become a sanctimommy. But I will dress my future child in non-gender-specific leg warmers and make it play a pan flute.
Edited to add: not to be a freak or anything (I'm being a totally paranoid freak) but for those of you who happen to know me in real life - hi! - while I'm blogging pseudo anonymously about all this, I'm still not being "public" about it. No coming out party on Facebook, etc. So when you see me in person,
pretend we never met I'll be super awkward
about it. I know, it doesn't make sense - I never promised consistency and I
never denied indulging in hypocrisy. pleaseandthankyou.
 Sometimes a girl just needs 8 dollar organic jellybeans. For the baby.
 Since I know you’re on pins and needles: my second number was 444, just slightly more than double my first of 141. The trolls on the interwebs tell me this number is terrible, awful and no good. But a special online calculator thingy tells me that a doubling time of 43.51 hours and increase of 214.9% is super duper (medical term). Oh, and an actual medical professional also said so. Whatever.
 Mostly about putting on or taking off my bra. Because. Holyshiticannotexplainthislevelofboobpain.
 Whatever you do today, read this. You will laugh so hard you will cry.