I’ve been trying to write this post since yesterday. I don’t even know where to begin, and I’m having a hard time getting my thoughts in order. I guess, with that opening, I should start by saying everything appears to be fine. No impending doom to report.
Try telling that to my continued anxiety. At therapy on Thursday, Dr. N tried to convince me that there will always be something to worry about, but it doesn’t do me any good to indulge in those worries. We discussed–again–strategies to help keep my fears in check: reframing negative thoughts, healthy distraction, one-mindfulness. All of which can work, to a point, but these thoughts just keep coming back.
Then she asked if I worried every day that Hubby would die in a car accident. I admitted that, no, I don’t, but I do worry that when he goes out for a bike ride by himself, he won’t come back. She didn’t want to touch that one.
I know this anxiety is getting me nowhere, is only taking away from the happiness I could be feeling about this pregnancy. To be fair, it’s not present every second. Hubby and I are able to discuss names, speculate on whether it’s a boy or a girl, and look forward to my first OB appointment next month. But the anxiety is there a lot, and I wish there was a switch I could flip to turn it off. I know it’s not that easy. It takes a lot of work, and I have to do it myself.
I do try to turn these thoughts on their heads when they come up. If I imagine myself suddenly bleeding, I try to remind myself that I’ve had no indication that anything is wrong, that the symptoms I do have–mostly constipation and fatigue–are constant and a good sign that things are progressing as they should.
And then there are the ultrasounds. The first one was a huge relief. Hearing and seeing that little flicker of a heartbeat did wonders to calm me–for a few days. On the second one, i could see that the baby had grown, and the heartbeat was even faster.
Then there was yesterday’s ultrasound. The baby was measuring 1-2 days ahead (depending on who you ask) at 8w3d. 19.22 mm. And the heart was beating away. it sounded faster than last week, but when I asked, the heart rate was only 123 bpm, which seemed low to me. I asked about this, but Dr. T (Dr. C is on vacation) assured me that anything above 110 was fine.
I’m trying to take his words to heart. I’m trying to believe this isn’t the first sign that this baby is dying a slow death. But it is so, so, so hard. I want to stop worrying, but I can’t seem to manage it. I want to focus on the positives. I want to finally write something in the pregnancy journal I bought. I want to be carefree and happy and make jokes.
Which leads me to a little game I like to call Poop Or Baby? I feel huge, but I’m pretty sure I’m not showing already. The IVF bloat has turned into pregnancy bloat, and I’m afraid certain people at work, who knew we were cycling, have viewed this as evidence that it worked (which, I guess, it is, but not in the way they might be thinking). Let’s see how the points stack up:
- I’m up 1-2 pounds since the start of IVF #2. I may be eating slightly more, or at least on a different schedule, but this point has to go to poop. This is totally gross, but I once weighed myself before and after throne-sitting, after having gone a few days without pooping at all, and I lost 1.4 pounds. Ew.
- I am wearing IVF-bloat and/or stretchy pants exclusively. None of my other pants will fit over this belly. That’s no baby bump. I’m sure part of it is gas, but poop wins this point, too.
- Upset stomach. No, it’s not nausea. It’s….lower. Point to poop. Again.
Sorry, baby. Maybe next trimester.
See? I feel better already. Now if Hubby would just get back from his death-ride, we could get back to our favorite healthy distraction–movie night on the couch. Which is about all the excitement this tuckered-out lady can handle.