And every bit of it is already accounted for.
You see, my husband and I have been struggling with fertility. After four mysterious second-trimester miscarriages, my body decided it wasn't even going to let me get pregnant anymore. Two-and-a-half very frustrating, very exasperating years had crawled past before we were given the green light to embark on the journey through IVF. We paid visits to the geneticist, the OB/Gyn, and the specialists. Blood tests, compatibility tests, and some rather embarrassing "down there" tests were all taken and the results came back: clear. Fertility speaking, we were fine. IVF wasn't suitable for us. Nothing was wrong. There really was nothing they could do but let nature take its course. And hope for the best.
I refused to believe something wasn't wrong.
Another hospital, another round of specialists, and the new doctor said, "I have a hunch. Would you mind another battery of tests?" More blood was given, but this time I had heart ultrasounds, circulation investigations, and long term blood pressure readings. I thought it was odd but, hey, anything to find out what is wrong. Right? Sure enough his hunch was correct. 12 weeks later I had to repeat the exact same tests to confirm the results before they diagnosed me with "Antiphosopholipid Syndrome" or Hughes Syndrome. A blood clotting disorder.
Suddenly absolutely everything was explained. Even issues outside our fertility ones. It was no longer dumb luck. It was no longer a mystery. And most of all, it was treatable. A low-dose aspirin taken every day could literally erase the problem.
But it was too late.
Somehow, some way, through all the stress, through all the testing, and through all the anxiety, I managed to become pregnant. On my own (well, with husband's help of course). Without drugs, without IVF, without aspirin treatment, and frankly without a snowball's chance you know where. At first there was a great relief. It quickly melted into a sort of fear. Would this one even make it?
At 8 weeks the heart was beating strong and my blood pressure and circulation were normal. So far, so good. At 12 weeks the signs of a healthy baby were there and for most women this is the moment they could all relax. For me, this is the moment when all my problems start. Week 13, 14, 15 go by. I worked hard to keep my stress levels down and to eat healthy. Come on body, don't hurt this one. Week 16 and we had an amniocentesis to check for chromosomal abnormalities (something we have a history of, plus my age makes it more likely). Week 17, 18, 19, so far my body was responding normally and the baby was growing just fine and the amnio came back clear. Week 20 rolls around. The "do or die" week. The week when Hughes Syndrome, at least for me, usually reared its ugly head and changed lives forever. It was literally the longest week of my life. The quiet before the storm.
But no storm came.
Week 21 we had another scan. My blood pressure was normal, the baby was normal, the blood flow between us was normal. Never had the word normal sounded so amazing. We made it to the other side. And most of all, the baby made it through alive.
Today is officially the first day of week 22. We know I will have to take injections for my blood for 6 weeks after the birth. We know I run higher risks of Pre-eclampsia. But mixed in with the reality of now is the possibility of the future. We know our baby will be a girl. We already have a name picked out. We already are working on a plan to reshuffle rooms to make way for a nursery. But, still, I haven't done anything tangible, anything real yet.
So I bought 20-and-a-half yards of baby pink material because, for "reals," I can make curtains and quilts and sheets and diaper bags and storage bins for a nursery for a baby.
A healthy, normal baby.
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