I ate something wrong.
I’ve been very lucky in that I have not been very sick. The only time I’ve been sick is when I have eaten something too sweet. This morning I ate half a banana muffin and I think it has nearly killed me. I didn’t think a muffin would count. But I’ve felt like a real pregnant lady all day and I have not liked it one bit. I almost — but did not — threw up today and I even went as far as saying aloud in front of my kids, “Ugh, I feel so sick.” To which they replied, “You should have stayed home so we could have a substitute!” Which really made me feel like teacher of the year, let me tell you. Again, I can’t complain. But it is my blog, so I am.
So I have something else to complain about. It is so hard not to worry. I’m trying to be level-headed about this whole pregnancy thing. I mean, I am a little up-in-the-air to begin with, and I tend to worry too much. So I thought the best and healthiest tactic would be to assume nothing is wrong with the pregnancy and go about as if I didn’t know anything about such evils as Trisomy 18 and all the other things that will kill a child before its first birthday. I think so far I’ve done a pretty good job. Now that I’ve told some people, since I’m officially according to the doctor in the clear, I’m even a little more nervous that something will go wrong.
I was ok until my doctor’s appointment. It kinda sucked. I was eight weeks and three days pregnant. I knew this. I even had a letter from my other doctor from the week before saying I was seven weeks and three days pregnant. So after making me wait two hours, then handing me some terrible pamphlets about all the things that could be wrong with my little dickens, before she even sat down with me, the doctor took a brief internal ultrasound and decided I was nine weeks pregnant. Now she knew that I am gay and that I underwent fertility treatment. I was so sick from the subway and tired from being there on a school night and waiting two hours, and you know, pregnant, I couldn’t tell her the exact date of my insemination. So then she argued with me about the age of my embryo. Why? Because the size of the embryo was not consistent with eight weeks, it was consistent with nine weeks. Her computer told her so. So? Can’t my embryo just be big for its age?
So then I started wondering if there is something wrong with the little thing. Does it have gigantism? A huge cyst on its head perhaps? What the hell?
I also started looking around for a midwife. I don’t know what I was doing in a damn doctor’s office to begin with. No matter how much of my mind I have lost, I need to know who I am and what I need. And a freaking doctor is not it. So if any of you New Yorkers know of a midwife who delivers at Roosevelt Hospital and has a working relationship with a doctor there, please let me know. I’m working on one such place, but nothing has been finalized. Gracias.