I have been wanting to tell people, this past week. I am tired of living inside myself, of walking around worrying about things only I know about, of holding back.
I have become very aware of how isolated I am on campus. This year's IVF adventures are at least partly responsible: I've been physically gone for all but the most minimal set of job-required activities, and I haven't been telling people why, and I've said so little that they can tell that I'm not telling them why.
My grandmother's health is a generally applicable cover story. But people notice when you don't tell them details. Hey! I told you all about my father's illness and death last year, how I struggled with choosing a home care aide and how long it took to settle the estate! And _I_ told you all about my divorce! Why aren't you telling me about your sorrow? Don't you trust me? (And it just makes it worse, I think, that there's a whole other category of sorrow that I haven't been telling them about at all.)
I have finally been happy, full of a good secret. I wanted to let it out and make other people happy too.
The doctor located the heartbeat at least 3 times, but didn't say anything for a while. I could hear it, and see the pulses on the screen. That's too slow, I thought. Slower than mine, only like a beat per second.
What are the odds at this point? I couldn't get a number out of him. I wanted to kill him. What he said in words translated to between 10 and 50 percent chance of miscarriage. His tone, his body language, the way he put a hand on my knee and said, "Don't tell anyone yet," read to me as 70 percent, or higher.
At 7w1d, growth was normal, or nearly normal (6w5d), but the heartrate was only 67. The combination of normal growth and slow heartbeat seemed to throw the doctor off. "There's only one indicator. Usually we see more than one. Come back in a week and get a scan on the 3D machine. We'll be able to see structural abnormalities then. Sometimes there's a heart block and the rate can correct itself."
2. I've been bad and reading a due-date-club over at MDC. When it gets started this early, there are unavoidably going to be miscarriages. It seems that these often occur, in the non-infertile population, in something like the following way: someone goes in for a scan at 8 or 10 weeks, and learn that the fetus stopped developing at 6 weeks or so. If those women had gotten scans at 7 weeks, would they have seen what we saw today?
The hospital has remodeled some of its lobby restrooms to "family" restrooms. I waited to use one on my way out. It was silent but locked for a long time.
Finally a short, middle-aged female doctor rushed out; her eyes held sideways, sniffling a long harrumphing sniffle as she went through the door. I went in and looked around the space. If I needed someplace quiet to cry, if I worked there and needed to hold it together the rest of the time, it'd be a fine place to go. Space. Locks. No one would know where you were.
As I drove back to Granolaton, clouds gathered and it started to rain. Huge drops thwacking on the windshield, like the beginning of a thunderstorm. Ha! I thought. Exactly.
But then the clouds drifted away and, by the time I took the exit ramp into town, the sun streamed through their grey remnants.
Today's doctor said to stay on the progesterone and come back in a week. I need to confirm that with Cornell, of course. But I made an appointment for another scan next Thursday.
Meanwhile I am pregnant. There is something in there growing. I am not crazy when I feel bloated or tired or nauseous or crampy or cranky. But what is growing is probably broken.
If you read infertility blogs (and if you read this one you must have been reading them for a long damn time!) you know that any bad news at all this early is honestly bad news. I know that too.
I'm not going to ask Dr. Google about this one. It was overwhelming back when when Miss T. measured 6w5d at 7w0d. I'm just going to wait for the next observation.
Of course I was lying about not asking Dr. Google. And, as it turns out, Dr. Google has a strong opinion.