pregnantnotpregnant
Scan today at 7.5 weeks. No heartbeat. Little Tomato didn't make it.
ERPC tomorrow.
After that...I honestly don't know.
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ERPC tomorrow.
After that...I honestly don't know.
You are in a crowded train station at rush hour and you are not sure where you need to go. Do you:
a) Quickly move yourself and your bags to an out-of-the-way position, consult your map/the signs/a passerby, decide where you need to be, and look carefully before rejoining the morass of moving bodies?
b) Stop in your tracks and stare around you like a lost cow, then start moving aimlessly in one direction while gazing confusedly in the opposite direction, mowing down several innocent commuters, a newspaper vendor and an old lady in the process?
You and your wife have boarded a train and are slightly perplexed as to where to store your awkwardly shaped luggage. A kindly passenger tells you that it might fit underneath the seats. Do you:
a) Thank her and decide for yourself whether she is as correct as she is gorgeous?
b) Look shocked that a prole has spoken to you and turn away quickly, most likely thinking: What is she doing in First Class anyway? That t-shirt is clearly not designer?
You are walking along a moving walkway in the underground station along with several other harried commuters. You reach someone who is not walking as fast as you and is therefore blocking your progress. Do you:
a) Say "Excuse me", and thank the nice, stylish lady as she steps out of your path?
b) Stick your sharp, bony elbows in her ribs and bodily shove her out of the way, and when she protests tell her to "Get out the fuckin' way" in a strident South London accent, thus proving that you are as mannerless as you are ugly?
You work behind the till in a shop. A customer brings several items to you for payment. When the transaction is finished, the customer smiles warmly and thanks you. You:
a) Smile back and say "You're welcome!"
b) Stare blankly at her as if trying to remember what these strange sounds coming out of her mouth might be, then grunt and snatch the next customer's purchases off the counter by which time you've already forgotten what it was you were trying to recall and the black cloak of your own ignorace and total lack of anything approaching manners has descended again.
You are reading a blog in which the blogger says something you really disagree with (it's actually a joke, but you haven't realised it). Do you:
a) Leave a comment in which you respectfully state your position and offer a few well-thought-out arguments against hers?
b) Engage in drive-by commenting in which you forcefully state your own position as the only sensible position to occupy, and question her intelligence, her sanity and her worthiness to be a parent?
Scoring: Give yourself 10 points for every (a) answer, and 0 points for every (b) answer.
40-50 points: Congratulations! You are a decent human being who should be given a license to hunt fuckwits.
20-30 points: You're not all bad, but sometimes you can be a real dickhead.
0-10 points: You are an unmitigated fuckwit, and at some point I have probably wanted very much to tell you so on the 7.25 to Paddington, the Bakerloo Line, my local shopping centre or divorce court.
I gave in to the crazies and booked myself an appointment with a private OB/Gyn who will do a 'viability scan' (nice) for £100. Small price to pay for a tiny bit of peace of mind, though how long that feeling will last (assuming I get it) is another question.
I'm feeling very down, and just when I thought I couldn't get any lower, I stopped by one of my favourite blogs to discover that Danae, whom you may remember got a positive pregnancy test after her umpteenth IVF cycle has iffy Beta-HCG numbers and may be getting ready to miscarry.
You know, it just sucks a really, really lot. I know how bad this is going to sound, but honestly, I look around me and I see drop-out, chain-smoking, couldn't-care-less women pushing around eleventy-seven brats in a buggy probably paid for by the state, and I just wonder how in any way shape or form that is fair. It just seems there are so many wonderful women who have got their shit together, earn a decent living (and by decent, I don't necessarily mean a big pay packet, just pay earned through hard, honest work), and are in loving relationships who just cannot seem to conceive or carry to term. It makes me so sad. Really desperately sad.
I hope that I am going to be one of the lucky ones this time. Husband and I have had the unbelievably wonderful sight of a beating heart at 6 weeks, and I am so hopeful that I will see it again on Wednesday. But even if I do beat what seem to me to be terrible odds (though I know they're actually not), I will still never entirely lose the sadness. Because I will always know that out there are women who are still struggling to overcome their bodies' inefficiencies, to cling to some little ray of hope; women who with their partners are faced again and again with the kind of grief that comes from losing a baby (real or potential) along with your hope and your faith and maybe even your ability to try again.
How I wish I could mend every single one of those broken hearts.
Both times, Husband has been there stroking hair, drying tears and giving the obligatory pep talk, but it hasn't really helped. Because every time he says "It's going to be OK", I think, "You don't know that." For every "There's no reason why it should have gone wrong," my mind points out that, by that same token, there's no reason it should have gone right, either. Let's face it: it hasn't exactly gone right before, has it.
And the thing is, I'm right. We have no guarantees that this pregnancy will be different from the others. Yes, we've seen a heartbeat, but things can still go wrong even after a heartbeat has been seen (5% of the time, in fact, and more often for the over-35s).
Frankly, I'm not sure how long I can take this. Although the crying jags only last half an hour or so, the feeling of dread lingers. Every change in symptom is a cause for alarm. Every twinge stops my heart for a few seconds. Everyday occurrences become omens. And how do you fix it? If they send me for another scan, the worry will be magnified into a particular timescale, and I think the stess might kill me. Yet, eventually, I'm going to have to face it.
I just feel like I'm being cheated out of my pregnancy. If I do get past the first trimester with a live fetus, I know I'll look back and think, Damn! I'll never get those 3 months back again. I should have been enjoying them. But as hard as I try--and I do--I can't enjoy this time. I can't relax. All I can do is try to make it past the next panic attack and wonder just how long this is going to go on. Will I relax after the next scan? Or the one after that? Will I ever again be able to live life without the near-debilitating fear that something is about to go horribly wrong?
A: A Hotbed of Insecurity and Obssessive Worry
Q: What is Lola's life, Pat?
That's correct! You've just won an ultrasound for 2...
And Lord (see how that works) does it apply today.
I managed to make it through the mediation session with the ex-husband and came out the other side with an actual agreement. This was in no way thanks to the mediators, I should add. These women were woefully unprepared; didn't actually seem to have the first clue as to what was supposed to be addressed let alone agreed on. One of them wanted to know what Catherine was like...I mean, physically. Eh? WHY?
My ex himself brought a new proposal to the table, which was reasonable and to which I agreed immediately (and even then the mediators didn't seem to know what to do...). So why, you ask, was it necessary to spend hard-earned cash? Why didn't he just write it to our lawyers, or even directly to me and save us all alot of time and trouble? I couldn't say for sure, but I have a theory.
My theory goes like this: my ex needs the conflict. He needs the constant butting of heads. He needs for there to be an unresolved issue, because it allows him to maintain some sort of presence in, some semblance of control over, my life. And more importantly, he needs it to escalate to a point where a face-to-face meeting is required. This is a man who has never had another relationship since I left him, a man who seemingly is not happy unless there is something to worry at, some issue, be it central or marginal, that he can obsess over, analyse and use as a springboard to arrange contact with me. Can you say obsessed, children?
The brilliant thing about today is that he's cleared the way for me to walk away from it all. He stated that he would not communicate with me unless I wrote handwritten letters because he believes that the typed letters are actually written by my husband. No really. Like Husband and I have this little scheme going on where we spend our days writing letters for each other and going BWAH-HA-HA in evil genius glee-mode. Anyway, when faced with the fact that I would continue to type my letters, he pretty much refused to have anything to do with it.
Fantatsic! A life free of writing or receiving letters from my fuckwit ex. Marvellous!
(Of course, I would like to say for the record that of course I wold communicate in the case of a medical emergency or similar situation. I just don't want to be constantly bogged down in the kind of pathetic muck-raking in which he likes to engage.)
The biggest worry about today was that I would start bleeding as a result. The last two losses have come at times when I was under enormous stress because of his behaviour (and, people, no matter how many times you tell me not to let him get to me, the fact is: he does). But two underwear checks later and all seems well. We'll just have to see how it turns out.
So I'm moving on with life. A big millstone has been taken from round my neck. Now I can concentrate on being pregnant and perpetually terrified of another loss.
Lord...
Erm, well, yes. To all of that. Unfortunately, achieving that kind of grown-up compromise is apparently far beyond the abilities of my fuckwit ex-husband, despite the fact that he is a whole 15 and a half years older than me and really should know better.
Let me give you the potted history. I left in 1997. He decided it couldn't possibly be because he's an emotially stunted, workshy fuckwit with control issues and a big old bullying streak and must be because I was bonking another man (he even picked him out). I took our daughter, but had every intention of accommodating generous contact with her dad. He petitioned the court for Residence (it's the big girl's blouse version of custody in the UK), and nearly got it because, get this, I had a career and teh Social Worker thought an unemployed nutjob would do a better job of looking after my daughter. At the last minute, he agreed to Shared Residence (presumably because the thought of actually having full time responsibility for her was just a little more than he baragined for).
Now Shared Residence is a a great concept. Unfortunately, British Law doesn't sufficiently recognise it for it to work in practice. I won't bore you with the details, but let's just say that the law has enabled my ex-husband to bully me officially, in a way that wouldn't have been possible when we were married.
I've suffered from 7 straight years of abusive letters and phone calls (more letters than calls; like all bullies, my ex is a coward and can't handle face-to-face confrontation on a level playing field). More recently, since my new and frankly fabulous husband arrived on the scene, my ex has refused to engage in any sort of discussion about practicalities sucha s arranging summer holidays, Christmas arrangements, etc. AND THEN he writes me abusive letters accusing me of being a bad mother for not, erm, engaging in discussions about my daughter's welfare. The Police have been involved and told him he could be arrested for harrassment and the letters have now slowed, if not stopped entirely. Now he send nasty notes via my daughter instead, who, Husband and I recently disovered, is ripping them up and hiding them in her closet. You go, Girl!!
Husband and I have had to take him to court twice and have spent literally thousands of pounds attaining court orders that he then ignores. And our latest lawyer, who seems to know a thing or two, finally admitted to us that when it comes to cases involving children, the courts won't actually enforce a court order.
Give me STRENGTH.
So, on Thursday, I will be spending upwards of £100 to sit in a mediation room, trying to get my ex to agree that it is actually a good idea to adhere to the court order that specifies that we arrange summer holidays by Easter (as opposed to his chosen method of refusing to discuss it and accusing me of whatever shortcoming he has dreamed up in his paranoid psychosis that morning).
And seriously, apart from worrying that this will be the day that I crack and set to bashing his skull against the nearest wall, I can't help but be concerned about the Little Tomato. Is it coincidence that both my miscarriages happened during times of inordinate stress caused by the ex? Probably it is, but I really don't want to take any chances.
So, spare a thought for me. Send calm vibes my way. And leave lots and lots of nasty comments about my Ex so that I can remember them on Thursday, laugh my ass off and treat the whole session like the joke it is.
Stressed? Me? Never.
But this morning, I graduated to actual emesis in the very grubby loos at my local train station. Not pleasant, but I have never been happier in my life.
See, with the first loss, I had no symptoms at all, and that turned out bad. Then with the second loss, I had instantly sore boobs with a modicum of retching now and again, but it never really seemed to go anywhere, and that turned out bad, too. So this increasing level of queasiness might just be a good sign.
Having seen the heartbeat on Saturday, I managed a good 3 hours of relaxation and happiness before hearing about a woman who lost two pregnancies at 12 weeks, after having seen a heartbeat. WHUMP!!! Back down to Earth with a crash. But with a little more distance, I have decided that I deserve a little happiness and with the reinforcement of the morning sickness, I am going to allow myself a little indulgence in thinking positive! If I wind up regretting it, then I will be having a word or two with God and they won't be pretty.
So, here I am, having been pegged at 6 and a bit weeks' gestation, with a little more than 33 weeks to go. I'm hoping to puke my way through the next 5 or 6 until the next time I can have another scan and see the evidence again for myself.
But I promise...no more posts about vomit!
It was right there on the monitor, beating away like crazy, visible instantly! Dear God, I may actually be having a baby.
I know that things still could...happen. But for now I want to revel in feeling this utter joy! My baby is alive inside me right now. I have the photograph to prove it.
Husband watched the previous ultrasounds, the ones that resulted in the silence then the "I'm sorry, but..." bit.
"It looked different this time," he said. "Better." The relief on his face, in his whole demeanour, was palpable. That man has been my rock, focusing totally on me.
We can hardly believe it. We keep giggling and hugging each other. This foreign feeling? Could it be hope? I think it might be.
Then I thought about it some more. And I concluded that miscarriage not only takes away a life, it also takes away the potential of that life. When parents bond with their unborn baby, from the earliest moments after the stick turns blue, they are not bonding with a clump of 2, 4, 6, 8 cells, or with a blastomere or blastocyst or zygote. They bond with the potential that those cells represent. They commit themselves to a life of watching a baby grow into a child, into a teenager, into a man or woman. They earnestly imagine a life of joy, tempered with only a little sadness. They accept that reality might not be so rosy but know that nothing can end the love they feel for their child. Miscarriage destroys that potential. There is no future for those cells. The little arm and leg buds will never develop into strong, sinewy limbs for climbing and playing and running and dancing. The little heart will never beat, will never love. And that's worse.
The bloody spectre of miscarriage, the monster who claws at the womb causing pain and bleeding, who rips out the heart but not enough to stop it hurting, is only a small part of the story. The true evil is miscarriage the silent thief, who, while you are prostrate with physical and emotional pain, steals your hope.
The next pregnancy is fraught with worry. Despite your best intentions you can't relax, can't 'think positive' or embrace the potential. Feelings like joy and hope are reserved for those who have never known the quiet desperation of waiting for that second scan, waiting for the bleeding to start, wondering whether that twinge is the start of cramping, secretly fearing that despite the signs of pregnancy, the womb is empty. Those who have lost a precious baby dare not allow themselves hope, for even if they did it would never be as pure as it once was. And that is the worst.
My scan is due in 20 hours' time. I am not hoping, not praying, just waiting. I can do nothing else.
Truly.
You all already know that I'm verklempt waiting for the scan. Nothing has raised my ire or tickled my fancy enough this week to merit me telling you all about it. Michael Jackson is SOOO last week. Really, what is there to talk about?
Well, there is one bit of good news, actually! Danae, who is one of my Blogging Muses, has had a successful IVF tratment and is officially pregnant! Yea for Danae!!!!
Erm, but, seriously, that's it. I'll try to work myself up into high dudgeon over something so that I can have a good rant tomorrow. To keep my mind off the Possibility of Impending Doom at Saturday's appointment.
Any suggestions?
