seventh week stretch

Just a note: this is, unabashedly, a post about pregnancy. Yes, it’s also about infertility and fear of loss and the anxiety, creeping like vines, up my back, and threatening to eat me whole, and also the moments of joy that punctuate, on occasion, that anxiety. I know there are intrepid readers who are still trying and if today is not a day you can muster the wherewithal to read about pregnancy – and not that I fault you, oh boy do I not fault you; I too had my days and may well again – then please, let me encourage you stop here and proceed to this very special video. You’re welcome.

You guys, why didn’t anyone prepare me? The first ultrasound is like… it’s like… tripping on acid in the middle of a rainbow. It’s bananas. Over breakfast this morning – plain oatmeal for her, greek yogurt, fruit and granola for him, becauseblandohsobland – C turned to me and stated plainly, we’re going to cry today. Hrmph! Speak for yourself buddy. Is what I was thinking. The truth is that I hadn’t really thought about how I would react today – my only thoughts had been about actually getting here. It was about this arbitrary milestone in a series of (seemingly arbitrary) milestones, each with their own baggage and expectation and apprehension and, fine, potential for ahem, joy. Of course, when C said we were going to cry, he meant for good – for seeing a yolk sac, for hearing a heartbeat, for acknowledging that holyshitthisisreallyhappening. So, readers on the edge of your seats, waiting with bated breath – we I transvaginal ultrasounded, we saw, we cried[1], we got a due date that wasn’t generated by web-bots, we brought home pictures. One heartbeat, strong and steady, sounding like galoshes in the spring rain. Baby galoshes.

It was incredible; it made it more real; it validated the persistent nausea and my absolutely disgusting diet of late. But <drumroll please> infertility changes you. So when we left the exam room and returned to the waiting area and C was joyously ogling our scroll of yolk-sac-headshots[2], I admonished him to put them away already – there were other women in the waiting room, other women who were there in year 4 of their baby-quest, other women who had recently miscarried, other women who might not share in our (seemingly) unfettered joy.

Infertility has changed the equation. It doesn’t mean today wasn’t amazing and it doesn’t mean I’m not happy – for the love of all things good I HUGGED, LIKE REALLY HUGGED the ultrasound tech, you know, the really enthusiastic one who sounds like her thickly accented Bahston drawl is being bled through a radiator. We told our parents and I sent a text to a couple close friends – something along the lines of “heartbeat/shit just got real[3].” But I am also cautious, remaining tempered and C-says-negative-but-I-say-objective. (Potato, Potahtoe, right?) It’s just that I don’t believe that nothing bad can happen to me; that loss can only happen to other women. I’m an only child – my mother miscarried, twice, at around 10 weeks, after having me. Boom. Another (arbitrary but not so arbitrary) milestone to contend with.

Speaking of arbitrary milestones, I ate a baked potato today, thus adding a COMPLETELY NEW food group to my exceptionally diverse and exciting diet. Huzzah!

p.s. We’re leaving tomorrow for about 12 days of vacation. Because, you know, hiking, camping and long stretches of travel by plane, car and boat seem especially appropriate at this juncture. Posting from the proverbial road may be sporadic. See you guys soon.

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[1] Okay, mostly me. Because: obviously someone had to prove C right. Etc.

[2] Probably already a thing for crazy pregnant ladies. That or else I just struck gold.

[3] Because apparently that is the most effective shorthand way by which to both capture and convey my joy?