B.O.B. - The First Month & Change

In the interest of full disclosure, (and I do mean fairly FULL, so if you're easily squicked out by personal details please do not continue to read this blog post), and in the interest of total recall, (because my brain lately has had more in common with cottage cheese than a functioning bioelectrical memory storage unit), I'll be writing down everything I can remember about the first three months of this pregnancy. So that later, when this baby is old enough to appreciate the full horror of what it did to me, I can give it very detailed guilt trips. (Parenting! Already I am awesome at it!)

This has not been an easy pregnancy, and I'm only just on the cusp of the 5th month. I have a feeling the third trimester will be full of further and additional torments, the likes of which I can only imagine, here in the relatively calm waters of my 16th week o' preggo. So if you're considering getting pregnant, ever, you probably shouldn't read this either.

But I digress. This pregnancy began, well - in the way that virtually every pregnancy begins, (at least, certainly the ones they term natural...errrrr; fairly natural), and if you are unfamiliar with the mechanics of that act I encourage you to give your mom or dad a call, because they've got some explaining to do. I've got at least 5 years before I have to touch on that conversation with anyone, and I'm not going to do it before I absolutely have to, okay?

There IS something about me and pregnancy that I think is just freaking fascinating though - and having done some due diligence on the internet, it's not just me that it happens to - and that is the relationship between ovulation, and erotic dreaming. BOTH times I've gotten pregnant, intimacy was initiated* because I had an "exciting" dream. Since I've got a bit of a wonky menstrual cycle, (45 days long! And I don't think I ovulate every time, either), I think it's particularly considerate of my body to provide me with an ovulation "alarm." And how completely amazing is it, that one's body provides one's brain with a way to interpret that surge of hormones and act upon it appropriately, (if the appropriate act is to get pregnant)??? There are times when I just can't believe how extraordinary the act of living is.

(I told you there were going to be squicky personal details! It's your own fault you're still reading this!)

Anyway. Moving right along. At the time that this egg was doing a tango with a fallopian tube, San and I were up in Vermont, visiting Burlington. Which is why this baby is going to be named Flatbread Pizza. (If Gwyneth Paltrow can name her offspring Apple, I see no problem with Pizza. And Flatbread Pizza is the shizz. For real. If you've got a Whole Foods near you, they've got Flatbread Pizza in their frozen foods section. It is entirely acceptable in its frozen form, but getting it at the actual restaurant is much, much better.)

A little over a week after we returned from Burlington, Pooka let me know that I was pregnant. He did this by becoming ridiculously over-protective of me, leaping to his feet to woo-woo-wooooo at any vehicles pulling down our driveway, and menacing our lawn care team.** The first time I became pregnant, this behavior was a cipher to me. This time around, I knew exactly what was happening, and I went out and bought a home pregnancy test.

I told Sandy that I thought I might be pregnant again. He said, "I don't think so." I said, "No really, I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant." He said, "That's what you thought the last time." I said, "SANDY, I WAS PREGNANT THE LAST TIME!" He didn't believe me the first time around, either. When I became pregnant in the spring, (the pregnancy I miscarried), he was completely incredulous and refused to believe me. He insisted that there was no way that I could possibly get pregnant the VERY first and only time we didn't use birth control, and that if I WAS pregnant, he was going to sell his...well, he was going to sell it on the open market. So, when I had my first positive pregnancy test, I sent him a text message with the loving words, "Better get an Ebay account" and a picture of the stick. We're a very romantic couple, okay?

Honestly, I figured between my breasts suddenly feeling like they'd been used as a punching bag by Mohammed Ali, and Pooka*** suddenly being a total freak, I didn't really need to see the little plus sign. And a good thing, too, because this time the thingy I got was high tech and didn't HAVE a plus sign. But clearly Sandy needed proof.

Yeah. Kind of Impossible to Misread.

I went into the doctor's office to get a blood test, which came back positive. So then I called my OB/GYN to let him know I was once again in the family way. He asked how far along I thought I was, and when I told him I was guessing 4 weeks****, he suggested I come in for an ultrasound. I was surprised. "So soon?" I asked. "Yeah...I just want to make sure that your egg sac is in your uterus."

I had to stare at the phone for a second, like a moron. Then I asked, carefully: "did my blood tests come back with numbers that make you think this pregnancy might be ectopic?" Dr. G replied, "No, no...nothing like that."

I stared at the phone again. Then I said: "Well, Dr. G - then where else do you think my egg sac could have gone???"

Anyway - I went in for the ultrasound. The egg sac, as it happened, WAS in my uterus.

My doctor had me take another blood test, and he scheduled me to come in for another ultrasound in two weeks, and to have another blood test weekly until the second ultrasound. I was to call for the blood test results two days after they drew it - this would let me know how the pregnancy was progressing. A dip in my progesterone production, (the hormone that supports the pregnancy while the placenta develops), would signal another miscarriage.

On the Thursday before the 6 week ultrasound, I called for my blood test results, and the nurse let me know that my progesterone level was now at 13. From 18. And the blood had been drawn on Monday! Who knows how low it had sunk from Monday to Thursday, when I called...

DOOM.

Another miscarriage seemed imminent.

I asked to leave a message for Dr. G, requesting that he call me at his earliest convenience. I knew that there was a product out there called Prometrium, normally given to women experiencing menopause, but that was, in essence, a progesterone hormone replacement drug. If my doc thought it was a good idea, I could take that while we waited to see how the embryo developed...it would prevent me from miscarrying long enough to give the pregnancy, (if it was healthy), a chance.

I hung up, and waited three hours. I confess, a significant portion of that time period was spent hand-wringing, with a few sobbing squalls thrown in for good measure. Dr. G must have been having a truly crazy day, because he didn't call back. My brain was full of the fact that 72 hours had already passed since that low number had been recorded, and I could miscarry at any moment, and oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

The phone still didn't ring.

Generally speaking, I'm not good at being a squeaky wheel demanding grease. I'm usually the person who stands politely in a line, waiting her turn. I'm the one who will stand behind someone while they have a conversation, and wait for them to finish that conversation before saying hello. Even if the conversation is 15 minutes long. I'll stand there long enough for it to be screamingly awkward, and I won't care. But this time, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't wait. I wanted to get on that drug pronto. I wanted on it yesterday. I wanted it called in, and in my body, within the hour. I was possessed by a Prometrium fervor. So I called the OB office again. I explained that I had left a message several hours prior for Dr. G, and the situation, and that I was feeling fairly anxious, and if he wasn't available was there perhaps someone else I could speak to about maybe getting a prescription? (Honestly, if she had said no I don't know what I would have done. Possibly borrowed a gun and held up the pharmacy.) She put me on hold. Then she came back and said she was going to try and patch me through to Dr. G, who was working out of their satellite office that day. I was put on hold again. Then she picked up again and said that that hadn't worked out, but that he'd call me within the next five minutes.

I felt like a total asshole for being pushy, (excuse my language), but I also felt relieved. And he DID call within the next five minutes, and he said that going on the Prometrium was a fine idea. He cautioned me that if there was something wrong with this pregnancy, as there had been something wrong with the prior one, that the Prometrium wouldn't fix it, but it WOULD probably buy us the time we needed to determine whether or not the pregnancy was flawed. He called in the prescription. First though, he offered me a choice between an oral dose, or a (gawdelpme) vaginal suppository. I chose the oral dose. (Wouldn't you???) And as it happened, that proved to be a terrible mistake - but that's a story for another blog post.

By late that afternoon, I was on Prometrium. And the Prometrium deserves an entire blog post devoted just to it, so I'll be stopping here, for now.

Footnotes:

* Good god, I sound like a total prat. Or a therapist. (Six of one, half dozen of the other?)

** And by "menacing" I mean "run at, wooing, with tail going a million miles a minute, and as soon as he reaches the guys, asking for pets. Then galloping back to stand in front of me, keeping himself between the lawn guys and I."

*** AKC registered name: Kloofbear's Mischievous Spirit (Pooka) CGC, BBTD, EPT

**** Pregnancy math is one of the great, unexplained mysteries of the universe. If you conceived two weeks ago, then you are FOUR weeks pregnant. This is because doctors don't trust women to know when they actually GOT pregnant, so they time things from the first day of the last menstrual period. But since my cycle is 45 days long, (instead of the normal 28), that would mean that if I had conceived two weeks ago, I would be considered SIX weeks pregnant, dating from my last menstrual cycle. Which would be completely insane, and throw everyone and everything into madness and confusion. So, since I know the date of conception, (thanks to my brain's erotic dream generator), I just have to add two weeks to however far along I am since the conception date. When doctors ask me when the first day of my last menstrual cycle was, I know I'm going to be there for a little while, explaining. It's totally asinine, but that's how it works.