For the past couple of days, the fear has been winning.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night completely panicked that I am somehow no longer pregnant. That the heartbeat has stopped.
I know, I know, this is normal. ALL pregnant women, infertile or not, experience this fear.
Yeah, well, it still sucks.
My next ultrasound is on the 26th. That is 11 days away.
When I called last week to make the appointment with the OB, and they told me the next available time was on the 26th, I felt the panic set in immediately. My heart pounded and I felt sweat begin to bead on my forehead as I squeaked, "Isn't that a long time from now?" The nurse or secretary or whomever I was speaking with laughed and said, "Honey we never see anybody before the 8th- 10th week."
I tried to sound breezy and casual. "Oh. All right then."
But see, I'm NOT anybody. I am not your average pregnant person. I don't believe that any woman who has struggled with infertility is, regardless of how "normally" their pregnancy progresses. You see, physically speaking, I have felt two things for an entire year:
1. Completely and totally out of control of what my body decides to do. No matter how involved and informed in my treatment I chose to be, what happened inside of me was the result of my doctor's protocol and the whimsy of my reproductive system. I had no say over how many follicles developed, what size they were, the level of estrogen and progesterone in my system, etc. etc.
2. Although I couldn't control what was happening in my body, I damn sure KNEW about what was going on. I was monitored thoroughly, almost obsessively, so that my doctors and I knew what my body was doing. How many follicles, what size, estrogen level... you name it, I could recite the exact numbers.
So now, well, now I've still got number 1. But number 2 is no longer there. And, oh, how I miss it. It's hard to go from daily appointments to one every couple of weeks. I thought they would be more gradual in their weening. It was doctors who made me needy and dependent, and now they are just throwing me out into the street, expecting me to quit them almost cold turkey. It's cruel, really.
How am I supposed to wait another 11 days for another glimpse at what is going on inside of me? It feels like torture.
It's so bad that I'm considering concocting a fake emergency so that I can get in sooner. What do you think? Falling down the steps? Spotting? Skin turning bright green? Surely "obsessive irrational worries" just won't cut it?
Without medical monitoring, I'm forced to rely upon Dr. Google and my own subjective interpretation of my symptoms. Which goes a little like this:
(kneading my breasts vigorously) Well, the right one is a little sore over here. But, was it more sore yesterday? Yes, it was, I'm sure it was! And I think I only had to pee 6 times today. Surely that isn't enough. Or maybe it was 7. But I did drink lots of water, so maybe I'm just peeing because of additional water intake, not because my uterus is expanding. I think I felt queasy today, but was I really sick, or was it my imagination? Am I really craving those olives, or have I just convinced myself that I want to crave olives?!
11 more days of this? I wonder who I will drive insane first, myself or my husband.