The Third Thing

With my major fear assuaged, I headed toward the end of the first trimester feeling pretty good.  The nausea was letting up and my body seemed to stop fluctuating so much from day to day.  In fact, there was a dinner a few weeks ago, where I sat across from my husband at the table, eating food that smelled and tasted good, when I stood up and declared, "I feel...AWESOME!"  It was the most I had felt like myself in at least two months.  It was great.

As I progressed over the next few weeks, I was rewarded with a special surprise.  My ultra-sound revealed that Hummingbird was actually a week ahead of schedule!  Suddenly, I was even closer to end of the first trimester and got a new due date of August 29th.

The feeling of tiredness and aching feet/legs seemed to be the two most steady reminders that I am pregnant.  It is hard to tell if it is being pregnant or the fact that my students are thawing out into little crazy monsters that makes me so tired.

Last year I had recieved a melanoma diagnosis that scared my family and I, but surgery removed all the dangerous cells and there have been no signs of it coming back.  However, I am still on a regimine of quarterly dermotology visits.  In these visits, a very nice doctor looks in all my nooks and crannies for erroneous cells and then works his way down to my incision site (just above my right knee).  There he presses into the scar and checks the surrounding tissue.  All good there, so I sigh with relief and stop paying attention as he works his way down my pale legs to my feet, when suddenly I hear, "Hey look at that!"  Never a good thing.  "What?", I ask.

"Looks like you got a corn, there!"

Corn?  CORN!?  Who gets corns under the age of 50?  Apparently, I do!  My swollen, tired feet decided to rebel against me and start forming vegetable named ouchies on my peds.  For those who haven't had the pleasure of a doctor comedically pointing out that you have one, let me fill you in:

Corn: (pronounced KERN) a mega callous that forms on a bone. Usually one that protrudes above the other foot bones, so it is already noticeable, but then takes on a shiny, red look.

I walked out of the office, replaying the scene in my head.  Then I smiled, because I suddenly remembered how to handle this situation.  The first person to ask about my premature foot ailment will be greeted with Liz Lemon grace.

"Baby, baby, can't you hear my heartbeat?"

At the second appointment, we sat in the waiting room, quiet with the excitement of hearing the heartbeat.  A nurse walked us back to the room, put me on the scale, took a urine sample, then sat me on the table.  My husband and I talked quietly, waiting for the little knock of our kind doctor.  He entered the room with a fetal doppler device, which is like a microphone and speaker.  He put some goo on my guts and placed the microphone over where the baby is nesting.  He moved the microphone around, everyone sat quiet.  A minute passed, I started to sweat.  He confirmed my dates, told me that because of my body size he should be able to hear it, and kept looking.  

A heartbeat.  For a second I felt relief, but then I recognized the ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump from the speaker as the same rhythm in my chest.  

He tried again for a few minutes and I felt my eyes welling up.  Where was my little hummingbird's heart?

He handed me some towels to clean myself up and sat down in the office chair next to me.  "We are going to schedule an ultra-sound for you.  In truth, we should have been able to hear the heartbeat today, but if the dates are off at all, it could keep us from hearing it.  Your ultrasound may be good or it may be bad.  One if four pregnancies end in a miscarriage."  

He put his hand on my arm, "I hope it is good."

At the check out desk, the woman called two locations to try and get an ultra-sound scheduled for us, but the first available appointment was 48 hours away.  

In the car, there was a lot of crying.  It was so heartbreaking to even think that I may not get to meet this child.  I had no symptoms to make me think that perhaps this pregnancy was ending, but the fear was there.  I thought of those I know who had that terrible fear become reality, I cried for them.  

The next two days were trying, but those that knew my secret (at this point we had made no announcement), carried me though.  God kept me calm and my husband kept me sane.

Two days later we entered a small, dim office.  We took a seat and waited our turn.  Knowing that our questions would be answered soon, we enjoyed easy conversation for the first time in a while.  The technician called my name and we went to the room.  Within two minutes, I was on the table, the goo was squirted, and the machine was on.

And there (s)he was.  Heartbeat and all.

The Second Sign

After a positive test and 5 week absence of lady business, it was time to make an appointment with a doctor.  At what we later learned was 6 weeks, I had my first appointment.  The doctor had lots of questions about my health history, my mom's health history, and about how things were going.  Our conversation went as follows:
D-Are you feeling nauseous?
Me-Yes, pretty much all the time, but especially in the evening.
D-Are you feeling tired?  Fatigued?
Me-Yes, pretty much all the time, but especially in the evening.
(By now the nurse has really set up shop in the crook of my arm, and is on vile of blood #5)
D- Well, I know it is unfair, but the worse you feel, generally the better the pregnancy.
Me-Super.

Meanwhile, I look over at my counterpart, who is quiet.  

We schedule an appointment for 4 weeks away, making me 10 weeks along, and head out to the car.  My husband laughs and says, "You can't feel good about being the father while in the doctor's office.  The doctor asks you about how terrible you feel, I feel fine.  I just sat there like, this is my fault.  Yep, I did this."

The weeks raged on and I felt pretty icky, but was able to make it without vomiting once!  There were close calls, but thankfully I only had to abandon my students twice to run to the loo.  The latter was a memorable one.  As I sat there, with my head above the bowl, doing that shaky breathing thing, in the student bathroom, with the stall door open, I thought two things 1) for public school toilets, this one was really clean and I needed to tell Miss Ramona good job and 2) I was not going to throw up.  I talked myself out of it, and walked on to the teacher dining room.  I opened the door feeling like Squints at the pool.  I, with my secret and looking like death.  My friends looking concerned and saying things like "Yaya, (s)he looks pretty crappy".  A kind soul gave me some money for a sprite, I pushed my glasses up, and I came back alive no worse for the wear.

Month two was filled with ginger ale and buttered toast.  This vomit elixir was effective, but also added a pound on the scale.  As the second month drew to a close, I was given some reprieve from the icky feelings during the day and started to feel a little back to normal.

The First Indicator

We knew there was a chance that there could be a bun in this oven, but it was too early to tell, and it was Christmas.  There were 1,005 distractions to occupy my mind and movies on TV that kept me from thinking at night.  After 6 months of not really "trying" but not not trying, we had learned only get a little excited at the possibility.

"Expanded!  Just like your frogs expand!  Don't you frogs expand?"

The first indicator (I didn't know it then) that something was awry, were some  gastro-intestinal changes.  I started having to find excuses to leave the room  A few trips to the car, a quick run to the kitchen to some water, looking for a lost sock.  Farts. On. Parade.

My insides expanded(like a frog-see photo) and ached.  They made terrible noises of anger and hostility. 

This new change in my body, only told my brain, "Hey. Something is different here.  Maybe don't put cheese on everything?"  Each day I adjusted the food intake, 3 Christmas cookies instead of 5, something from a category other than the top or bottom sections of the food pyramid, but each night, the parade returned.  

There was never a moment of clarity, like "Aha!  I am pregnant." No foretelling dream.  No sudden cravings.  Not even lucky enough to be graced with a morning spew session.  Just Farts.   Then the that all-telling, late lady business. About a week later, a pee test gave me the pink plus sign and we were off and running.

When I think about this child I am joyful for so many reasons.  In particular, that this miracle of life decided to announce its presence on the planet with a parade of farts.  Not only is this litte bean the result of my husband and I's ridiculous love for each other, but this child announced it's presence on this planet with our humor.  It went for the third grade laugh, that my husband is a master of, and let me know it is here.  I know that this kid is ours.