sueeeus

Today’s ultrasound went very well. There is a rotating team, it seems, and I had a completely different technician and doctor today, and I liked both much, much better than the last team. The technician narrated as she worked. It was great to have the ongoing explanation. My little peanut is a wiggle-worm, though, and just wouldn’t stay put long enough to get any level of detail that they really needed. The technician also wasn’t able to clearly tell the gender, but from the briefest of glances that she was able to see, she said she gives it a 70% chance of being… …a… …GIRL!!!! But not to get all worked up about it, because only time will tell.

The doctor came in later and rescanned, trying to get more clear data on the heart. She spent a lot of time looking at the heart, and I was beginning to get a bit anxious, but she explained that the baby is just moving too much, and she can’t get clear enough details to say one way or another, if all is well or not. Apart from that, all the things that could be read were very good. Kidneys, check. Heart rate, check. Stomach, check. Intestines, check. The doctor said that they should be able to tell much more at my 20 week scan, in which they can do a more thorough anatomy check, and she recommended I come back at week 21 or 22 for a detailed echo with the pediatric cardiology specialist. She also said that she and her colleague were in disagreement as to the usefulness of the blood work screen with the Down Syndrome marker, because they have no data for the sake of comparison, with women of ‘advanced maternal age’ who have diabetes. The diabetes can throw off other hormonal measurements, so she doesn’t think they can rely much on any accuracy wrt that marker. Which is fine by me. I know this baby is fine, anyway. I just know it. So I’m continuing to try to uphold my peaceful frame of mind.

The baby likes to flail its arms. Such an active little thing! And such a beautiful profile! The picture doesn’t do it justice. But what can you do, when your little peanut just won’t hold still. I’m smitten. Completely. Totally. Absolutely. Smitten.

Ahhhhhhhh.

I’m wondering about whether I should taper off the Zoloft, or keep on it. I’ve read a gazillion different internet articles, medical based and personal blog based, about Zoloft and pregnancy. My doctor said it’s okay to stay on it, and in fact I might find that later on I may even need to increase the dose. I don’t want to increase! It’s been a tough decision to even go on it, so increasing is, to me, a step in the wrong direction. However, I read a post that Dooce made about going off Zoloft and how it was the worst thing she could have ever done to herself. I’ve also read that the baby can have withdrawal symptoms the first few days after birth, since they no longer will be getting the Zoloft in their system. And if that is true, then obviously the baby is getting the Zoloft now too, and that kind of bothers me, thinking that I’m already messing with the seratonin reception and/or production in an assumably perfect human being. And I also read that continuing the Zoloft could be the ‘lesser of two evils’ since the effect on the mother after stopping it could be much more disastrous than the withdrawal experienced by the child. Nice. Now, I don’t consider myself a super hard case, in that I’ve lived until now (for the last decade, at least) with a basic level of anxiety and depression and just assumed that that was how I was, that that was ‘me’. It wasn’t in any way unbearable, but I do actually like the more stable way I feel now. I’m a much nicer person to my husband (of course he’s always the one to get the full brunt of my moods!) Anyhow, because I’m not, or wasn’t, a complete basket case (well, that’s debatable…) without the Zoloft, I wonder if I ought to try to gradually taper off. Of course I will talk to my doctors about it before I try anything.

I’ve just about convinced myself that I will gradually taper off, but I’m torn, so torn, over it all. What to do, what to do.

And then I go and read some of the comments on the Dooce post, and wonder if perhaps I shouldn’t consider tapering off after all.  All those comments about how ludicrous it would be not to treat diabetes or cancer if one were diagnosed with those things, so why is there such stigma to treating depression and anxiety.  I accept (for the most part) my diabetes and take my Metformin faithfully, as well as watch what I eat (for the most part) and measure my blood sugar regularly, so why would I waffle as to whether I should continue with the Zoloft?  I guess it’s a question as to whether depression and anxiety are truly a ‘disease’, or whether one can just decide or will oneself out of either or both conditions.  I like to think that I can will myself into happiness and emotional stability.  Isn’t it all a frame of mind anyway?  But if I can, then why haven’t I?  And, I see little point to trying ‘natural alternatives’.  Just because an herbal or natural supplement is natural, doesn’t mean it’s not chemical, so what difference does it make whether I self treat with natural remedies or use a controlled prescription?  Both are affecting the brain via chemical interactions.   And Zoloft is a heck of a lot cheaper than SAM-e or 5-HTP ($12 for 90 days)!

Oh, I think too much!  Way.Too.Much.  And I still don’t know what to do.

I’ve officially reached my second trimester (I’m somewhere in the 14th week), and am just now allowing myself to take some deep breaths. Funny, it would seem that the morning all-day sickness has decided to visit me now. Either that, or it’s my body’s reaction to the jet lag from changing 19 time zones in short order (there are 24 time zones, right, so each hour represents a zone?). No complaints though! I count any symptoms as happy signs.

This picture was taken on Fitzroy in Melbourne. Completely unrelated to this post!

I have the next scan and blood test, phase two of my integrated scan, on the 24th. It may be possible to learn the baby’s gender at that scan! I definitely want to know. I want to know everything that I can, as soon as I can. Knowledge is comfort.

While I have a thousand 989 pictures taken during my recent trip to the land Down Under, which need to be sorted and eventually uploaded somewhere for sharing, and while I have several posts milling about in my head about my adventures and all the wonderful people I’ve had the pleasure of sharing time with, and while my Google Reader shows 94 unread posts, I will forgo all of these things for now, and begin with the status of my little Joey-Roo.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going to experience the joys of first trimester nausea in the second trimester instead. I’ve been feeling a bit iffy for the last few days, and am not sure if it’s due to the whirlwind of travel or the little one within. Today I heard the heartbeat! It was a healthy, steady 162 bpm. Oh, the joy! The nuchal numbers from the last screen came out well within the normal range, and the presence of the nasal bone is also encouraging. The blood test came back with a positive marker for Down Syndrome, with a 1 in 33 chance. I’d been told I had a 1 in 25 chance due to my age alone (good heavens, I’m on the cusp of 43), so that number doesn’t worry me. I know my little sprogget is just fine. So today, apart from being jet-lagged, I’m on top of the world.

My Beautiful Boy and I had toast for breakfast and I snuggled him as much as he would let me (which was a lot!).  I can tell that he is very happy that I’m home.  He was so proud of his ball cap with the kangaroo embroidered on it that he asked to wear it to daycare to show Babcia, so he didn’t even try to beg me to stay home this time.

He and Gadget made a pirate ship while I was gone. If only I could describe the smile that crossed his face when I noticed it on my desk, and told him how much I liked it, and what a good job he’d done. He was so proud, he literally beamed. My boy is growing up. Two weeks, and he seems a bit more mature. It’s a marvel.

For those who will need to recognize me at airport terminals in the very near future, I give you this. Go ahead. Click. It’s me. Larger than life.

I really wanted to wash that grey right out of my hair, but first trimester trumps vanity, so calico I remain.

But enough about me. Let’s get to the important news. Today I had my integrated screen, now called the sequential screen, and got to see my little Poppet, floating around in her* watery world. How incredible! I’ve been calmly awaiting this day for some time, but as the day drew nigh, I could feel some anxiety trying to shoulder its way in. I resisted as well as I could, and tried to maintain the most positive attitude possible**. And look! The miracle of life.

In this picture, the little wonder is waving an arm. It’s a side view of mostly head with an arm up by the left side of the face. Just like Boo, when he was in utero. It’s not much as pictures go, but the important thing, as far as I’m concerned, is that the baby is still ALIVE!!!

As far as the genetic counseling goes. Hmmm. Statistics are grim for women of my age. When I had Boo there was a triple screen, or maybe the quad screen was brand new. That gave way to the integrated screen which integrates the quad screen with a detailed ultrasound for nuchal measurements and accompanying blood test. The sequential screen takes the integrated screen and adds another detailed ultrasound for growth measurements, and maybe another blood test, and all the results are cranked through some super dee duper computer and spit out a statistic with 92% accuracy. They didn’t tell me much at this point, but I could see a squirming little peanut in there, and I could see a little heart beating, so I am relieved! And finally, the doctor did make a comment that most babies that do have Down Syndrome don’t have a bone in their nose bridge and MY baby does. So at least she gave me some encouraging news. I don’t think I much liked that office though. They were friendly enough, but intense, and not very forthcoming with information. At least not the information I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that the baby looks healthy for this stage, or the heartbeat is right in range (I saw her mark down 140 bpm – is that good?). The dating estimated me at 12 weeks 2 days, rather than 11 weeks 1 day. But I think I’m 11 weeks 1 day. So that worries me a bit that maybe this baby is already getting too much blood sugar and growing too fatty too soon. So now I have to wait until somebody will explain the details to me.

*Yes, I say ‘her’. I just have a feeling. With nothing at all to base it upon. Time will tell and we shall see! The technician did say that it could possibly be a boy, as there was a teeny tiny nub visible, but she said it’s too soon to tell. (I still hope it’s a girl, but I will be delighted with a boy as well.)

**Case in point. This post has been floating about in my head, and I decided to preempt real time and write it before actually living it***. So how’s that for positive thinking?

***Thank GOD that the living reality panned out to the hoped for outcome!

Seems like tonight this morning is a repeat of last night yesterday morning.  Oh wait.  That’s because it is.

A full bladder, a bed hog restless three year old climbing up and over me to find his comfy place, racing thoughts and vivid dreams (compliments of Zoloft), and a grumbling stomach all work together to force me from my warm and cozy bed.  On the up side, as I lie there, trying to ignore the bladder and brain, I feel a sweet little kiss on the back of my head, and am forced to smile.  I play possum, under the assumption that pretending to sleep and ignoring the child will make him give up trying to talk to me and return to the land of nod.  Even though I want to face him and snuggle him and sing Twinkle Twinkle Wittle Stah and Bitsy Bitsy Spidah with him.  Eventually it works.  For him.  But I give in to the physical forces at hand, and find myself at my computer in the middle of the night.

I’ve been craving milk, and I’m generally not a milk drinker (except in coffee and tea).  It’s very satisfying, but after one glass, I want more.  I think it wakens the carbohydrate-addicted monster.

Compounding the frustration of being awake at such an hour, knowing that this interlude will wreak havoc with the day to come, the computer is excruciatingly slow, working its way through its nightly virus scan.  I’m tempted to turn off the virus scan, but caution prevails and I stumble along at a snail’s pace.

I’ve begun to notice some hormonal sensitivities.  Smell aversions, actually.  My MIL made a cabbage patch soup for Mr. Gadget’s birthday lunch get-together, and I almost wanted to leave the house, it smelled so awful to me!  I’ve had that soup before and liked it, but could barely tolerate even a few bites.  Worse, she made a giant batch that took up two stock pots.  There were only about five of us there, so it was clear that we’d be coming home with leftovers.  To my utter dismay.  I told Mr. Gadget that he was on his own this time, with full responsibility for leftover consumption.

The other odd one is chicken soup.  I recently made chicken stock and then a nice batch of chicken and vegetable soup (carrots, celery, onion, kidney beans, tomatoes, corn — sort of a minestrone) but the smell of simmering chicken seems to have permeated the house and lingered for days.  I could even smell it in the dishwasher, after multiple loads have been washed.  I could smell it in my CPAP hose and mask, for crying out loud.  At least, I imagined that I could.  It was bad enough that it forced me from my bed last night.  I couldn’t stand the thought of breathing chicken infused forced air for another moment, let alone a full night.  Now it smells faintly of bleach, but I prefer that to chicken.

Mostly I crave milk and bread.  I’d love to have a big warm hearty loaf slice of artisan bread (with butter!) and a glass of milk.  Not so good for diabetes control, but it sure sounds good.

It’s been snowing, raining, and slushing, and the sky has been mostly gray all day. But it’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood. That’s the song that’s spinning through my mind today (good old Mister Rogers).

Because…

Houston, we have a H E A R T B E A T !!!!

158 beautiful beats per minute!

7 weeks 4 days (I was spot on in my estimation).

Due date: September 11, 2008 (but my OB is still basing it on LMP, so it’s officially September 9, 2008)

Praise the holy heavens!! The only other time I made it this far with a heartbeat, I was blessed with my beautiful boy. So. Things are looking very promising and I’m full of hope. I have an ultrasound scan, but it’s just a little white blob with no recognizable parts — not nearly as impressive as Blue Moon Girl’s little spudster, in which you can clearly see the head and body — so I won’t bother posting mine.

I’ve been cleared to travel, so the Australia trip is still a GO! I just have a non-invasive screening right before, and a follow-up ob appointment directly after. And I’ve purchased compression hose to help thwart deep vein thrombosis. Shudder. I’m going to request an aisle seat so that I can easily stand, stretch, and make my way to the bathroom. I’ll pull the middle-aged pregnant lady card if need be.

…sometimes it feels good to feel bad…

1. low grade nausea
2. fatigue
3. aching back and hips
4. heartburn
5. aching legs
6. burning breasts
7. leg cramps

I wasn’t going to say anything. I didn’t want to jinx anything. I’ve been repeating in my mind, like a mantra, over and over and over again. Whatever will be will be. Que sera sera. I’ve been trying, with effort of valiant proportion*, not to worry. Not to obsess. And yet, I can think of almost nothing else. Whatever will be will be. I wasn’t going to say anything. I was trying to wait.

And then I realized that holding back is acknowledging the fear, and I don’t want to be afraid. I’m not broadcasting to my family or in-the-flesh friends, because I’m just not quite ready for that. But to the blog world? This is my journal where I work out the issues of my heart.**

So I say that I don’t want to be afraid, but the simple action of typing out those words has raised them to the forefront of my mind and I realize, as the tears fall from my face, that I am, indeed, terrified. If a day goes by in which I don’t notice symptoms, my heart shudders. Whatever will be will be. Consoling myself. Preparing myself.

I think that things are going better this time. I feel it. I hope so. Oh GOD, I hope so.

I think I am about six weeks along.*** My first appointment isn’t until the 28th, and the first ultrasound probably won’t happen that day, so I have to wait for what feels like an eternity to see that beautiful white heartbeat. I’m praying for that beautiful white heartbeat and the sound of galloping horses.

Lucky Number Seven. This is my seventh pregnancy. I hope it ends well, with the birth of a healthy child.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*I have my good friend Zoloft, a very helpful friend indeed, to thank for this.

**Narcissistic? A little. Or maybe a lot. But c’mon, it helps me, and I really do cherish the kindness that droppers by share.

***Which puts me right around 12-13 weeks for my trip to Australia. I’m still going. No matter what. I bought the ticket, and it’s non-refundable. I’m going.

Of the seven WOCBA in my family, there are only three who are not with child, and of these three, two are happy with the situation.

WOCBA

women of child bearing age

That is all.

(I am very happy for all of them.  Just sad for me, in my own selfish way.)

Two pairs of pants, four shirts, three sets of pyjamas, three towels, a set of sheets, and a couple of blankets, resulting in five loads of laundry. That was the casualty count from Beautiful Boy’s upset tummy bout on Wednesday evening. Poor little guy. He was boisterous and happy, with no fever. He didn’t seem to be feeling poorly at all.

Having requested assistance in cleaning up the mess on the sheets and bedding, and being told “I am quite capable of doing this without your help,” while I was struggling to clean the child while not spreading the spew any further than necessary, imagine the level of pleasantry in my attitude when I discovered that the bedding remained piled in a laundry basket, rather than in the washing machine, washing merrily away. Apparently, the part he was quite capable of was limited to removing the sheets from the mattress, and gosh, why would, should, or could I interpret that to mean that he would actually take the bedding downstairs, rinse off the chunks if necessary, transfer the bedding to the washing machine, and turn it on

So, I muttered something and threw the sheets in the machine, without rinsing off the chunks. Later, I speculated out loud as to whether the washing machine can handle chunks that size (moderately chewed grape halves), to which I was reprimanded for not knowing better, that one should remove the large debris before putting the soiled items in the machine. Okay, I knew that, and yes, I was being a bit lazy in not rinsing the sheets, but I was miffed that I had to contend with the sheets at all. So, I nearly exploded, because, hello Why is he reprimanding me, when he implied that he would take care of it in the first place To which he said, “Don’t even go there…” Which nearly sent me ballistic, as I was already on the verge of explosion. As if there were any remote way that I somehow might have shirked on my responsibilities? I think he uses that “Don’t even…” as some kind of a distraction tactic, because there are no grounds! Ever!

Because… I do most things related to keeping up a household (laundry, cooking, cleaning, shopping). He takes out the garbage. Okay, he does the gadget-centric tasks that spring up now and then, but I figure those get counterbalanced by the computing/techno things that spring up which I take care of. Therefore, in my view, things are grossly out of balance, so yes, it takes only the most miniscule hint of criticism or finger pointing to send me postal. Oh, so frustrating!

Thursday morning, he carefully inquires as to whether I will be able to make a doctor’s appointment for Beautiful Boy. I try to be calm and not get frustrated. I don’t know why he thinks that going to the doctor will make a difference in how fast he gets better. It’s an upset tummy. It will pass. He has no symptoms of anything serious. I just don’t see how a doctor’s visit will be helpful. I would have to keep him home until the time of the appointment, which wouldn’t allow me to get any work done, and then we’d go to the appointment and the doctor would most likely tell me to watch his fluids so that he doesn’t get dehydrated, and wait it out, which is what I am already doing. After which I’d have to drop him off at daycare, where he will cry and cry because that is what he does when I’m the one who drops him off, especially when he’s had a long and leisurely morning with me, so then I will cry on my way back home, because it breaks my heart when he does that. And then I’ll only be able to get a couple of hours of work done at best. So, all in all, a doctor’s visit would cause me a great deal of unnecessary stress.

I blew off the doctor appointment suggestion and proceeded with my work day. Things at the office started to get some resolve, although new things cropped up to keep me incredibly busy. All these things, so that I hrumph about in a snarly funk for a while, but then I notice a blazing blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds and it instantly washes my ire away. It’s amazing how that happens. A small part of me wanted to stay miffed a bit longer, because I wanted to attempt to express all that frustration to Mr. Gadget, but I was glad for the healing sunbreak. Also, he called and said something funny, to diffuse things, because, after all, we needed to be made up by the evening if we were to stick to our TTC schedule. So I forgave him.

Friday has arrived, and with it a nauseous headache. Maybe you’re pregnant, he says, puffing out his chest proudly. Mister Super Sperm. Right. Symptoms after less than twelve hours I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ve even ovulated yet, although we should be in that window right now. There have been no signs. The headache may be hormonal, so things may be on the verge. Who knows. All this elevated emotion of the past few days is no doubt exacerbated by hormone changes taking place. I should cut myself some slack and try not to get so worked up over every little thing, even though I do think my recent frustrations are justified!

Meanwhile, how thankful I am for a venue in which I can ramble on and on and on and get it all out.   A nice long whinge now and then does a body good.