One full month after getting all hopeful and deciding that everything would be all right, I sat in a specialist's office in Westchester. He asked me what my blood type was. Interesting. It's B+. I get the universe's little funny message. Be Postive. What. Ever.
I made it to 12 weeks, tummy growing, hungry an awful lot. Pleased with myself. Then I went in for my 12 week first trimester screening. "Um, why is my baby holding a punching balloon?" I asked the sonogram technician. "Let's look around," she said. After getting a picture of the baby, and making measurements of the back of it's neck, she sent me down to the midwife. Before she ever said the word "Omphalocele" she had made me an appointment with a fetal-maternal specialist at Westchester Medical. Four agonizing days away. She didn't even tell me what that meant. I only walked out with the words omphalocele, N.T. of 2.1 and amnio in my head. My husband and I were stunned. I had a lot of Googling to do. Often, omphalocele's are met with chromosomal abnormalities. Of course they are.
My poor husband had to go back to Boston for work, so we had to wait for the appointment separately. That's an awful kind of torture, I promise you. But I distracted myself with some massive house cleaning, and my dear friend who came and slept over just so I wouldn't have to be alone. I love girlfriends.
I was sane by the time we got to the doctor, and then sat in a waiting room full of big fat pregnant ladies and lots of babies. Yet another kind of torture. This one reminiscent of the fertility days. If not for my husband's strength and my knitting bag, I would have run out immediately. My doctor resembled Captain Kangaroo minus 40 pounds and he was lovely and reassuring. He said that 2/3 of the time there's no abnormalities other than the physical ones. OK, I can live with that stat. But there are really some scary stats out there.
Supposed to get the call today, but still waiting.
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