I signed up for a weekly newsletter that updates me on my pregnancy every Friday. It tells me how the little Fate Baby should be developing, what it can do (hear and sense light, recently), how I should expect to feel, and answers to common questions. All very fascinating. I'm not sure why this stuff still interests me, four babies on; it's hardly novel anymore. I guess it helps me feel connected to the little parasite taking over my belly.
For the record, this week the baby is the size of a turnip (last week he or she was an avocado).
DH got to come to my second doctor's appointment, which was last Tuesday. I can't remember how many times he accompanied me to OB visits in previous pregnancies, but I guarantee it wasn't very often (if at all). The first time, he was a busy medical student; then he was a busy resident; then he was one of only two doctors in an entire rural county and couldn't take time off. Now, as the director of the ER, he's the one making the schedule, woo-hoo-hoo-wah-ah-ah! Which may actually be irrelevant, because he makes the schedule way in advance. So really it was coincidental that he had that day off, but in any case I'm grateful. MIL came over to take the older two girls to school (their second-to-last day) and play with Tres. DH and I left the house just after 7am to make the 8:30 appointment; thanks to some unexpected construction, we showed up just a few minutes late ... and then had to wait for about two hours before the nurse called my name. Normally I'd be annoyed by that, but DH had me laughing all morning. It felt more like a date than a doctor's appointment. It's silly to say, but I felt wooed. :-)
...Until we got back to the room, of course, at which point I felt ganged up on, lol. I say that only half seriously; both my doctor and my husband want the best for me, which I appreciate, but I disagree with their conclusions about what that should be: They want me to prophylactically treat my clotting disorder, despite the fact that I've never personally had any problems because of it (my sister has, but I think she soaked up all the bad luck in the family and the rest of us are fine). Apparently I have a 10% greater chance than the average pg woman of having a blood clot. (The stats get worse for women who have a personal history of clotting already, or who have inherited the mutation from both parents instead of just one.) "That may not seem like a lot," the doctor said, "unless you consider that the potential bad outcome of, say, a pulmonary embolism is DEATH."
Oh sure, play the death card why don't you!
*Sigh.* The decision is allegedly mine, but I have a feeling that I'll be guilted into shooting myself in the legs a couple times a day, every day, with blood thinners that leave huge, ugly, painful bruises -- despite the 90% chance that it's for no reason at all, that I'd be "preventing" something that never would have happened to me in the first place.
Is it okay if I feel bitter about that? Because I do. Stupid mutated genes, grumble, grumble.
The rest of the appointment consisted of discussing my Advanced Maternal Age, yay. I'm still a spring chicken, birthing-wise, but I will turn 35 (the magic Old Lady age) before the end of the pregnancy and thus I've been dumped into that category of high risk and defective eggs. This means I get to consult with a Maternal-Fetal specialist a week from tomorrow (an appointment DH will also get to come to!): We will visit with a genetic counselor, have an ultrasound (I'll be 18 weeks -- maybe they'll be able to tell me what flavor this kid is?), then meet with the M/F specialist herself. Sounds like it'll be a fun way to spend a morning -- unless, of course, my eggs do turn out to have been defective in any way (in which case I'll be even more grateful that DH is there with me).
At last week's appointment we also decided which hospital I'll go to to have the baby (and we're definitely planning on induction, given the distance -- if I waited for contractions, I'd likely end up having the baby in the car somewhere in the middle of nowhere with bad cell phone reception). The city has two very good hospitals, one Catholic and one private. We decided to go with the Catholic hospital because it's closer by about 15 minutes (which may or may not be critical when it comes right down to it!), my OB says they have better digs for the dads, and plus what if they have nuns for nurses? Ooooh! LOL. I'm such a nerd, but that last part especially excites me.
Anyway, that's the news on the turnip for this week. I'm getting bigger (though mostly not in maternity clothes yet -- geez, I hate maternity clothes!) and soon even random strangers will know I'm knocked up. Quick funny story and then I'll end: We waited for quite a while to tell Uno and Dos because they are big blabber mouths. The Sunday after we told them, they blurted out the news to their Primary teacher at church. As the teacher related to me later, she said, "How exciting! Are your mom and dad telling people yet?" The girls answered, in all their enthusiasm and innocence, "No -- but we are!" Tee-hee.
And that is all for now.
~RCH~
to her by the light of their night light. It's not the book Dos wanted (or didn't want, depending on which moment you asked her) but it's calmed her down; the girls still get their story and I get to stick to my guns. It seems like a reasonable compromise all around, so I will not go in and remind them to go to sleep yet.
5 years ago
