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I’ve always been a worrier, even as a little girl. At first it
manifested itself in variations of the apocalypse. I’d wake up in the
dead of night, convinced I’d been left behind in the rapture. I’d check
on my parents; if they were still in bed, I hadn’t been damned yet (I
also, apparently, wasn’t very optimistic). Then it branched out to more
generic things. In third grade I was in the nurse’s office nearly every
day, convinced I had stomach cancer (must’ve been on Discovery Chanel,
or something). Every time my parents fought, I was sure they were
getting a divorce. If mom was five minutes late picking me up, I was
imagining a fiery crash on the freeway. I walked around with my
shoulders up near my ears, my back hunched over, eyes darting from
shadow to shadow.
No wonder I was always so skinny.
Well, I haven’t changed much. Aside from the skinny part. I’m a
worrier. I bite my nails, no matter how hard I try not to. If someone
passes me at work and doesn’t smile, she must be mad at me. If JS and
I have a little squabble, I’m sure he’s fantasizing about leaving (OK,
so maybe not really on that one, but still).
JS and I want to have a baby. We want a family. Over the summer I
went to a very popular and well renown OB/GYN for a check up, to make
sure all my parts were in working order and what not. All seemed well.
Except. Except, well, ever since the miscarriage,
I’ve been off. It’s not that unusual for hormones to take their time getting back to normal
after something like that, but I don’t think it’s quite that. Something
seems off. I went from a very regular, almost down to the hour, 28 day
cycle. Now I’m averaging 25, but with spotting up to a week before.
(Good-bye, male readers! Hope you come back. I’ll talk about cars, or
something). Every month for the past several months, I’ve convinced
myself that I’m pregnant. And each month, I’ve tried to convince myself
that I’m not as crushed as I really am when all the tests turn out
negative.
Next time. It’s a numbers game. Just relax, it’ll happen.
I ignored the signs that something might be wrong, because I always
hoped it was just an early pregnancy symptom. This month, though, this
month was just too much like the miscarriage, so I made an appointment.
I’m actually seeing a Nurse Practitioner at the office, not the doctor,
because he’s too high in demand to get in to see so quickly.
I’m more freaked out than I should be. I don’t know for sure what’s
wrong, or even if it’s certain that anything IS wrong. But I have a
strong hunch (progesterone deficiency or luteal phase defect) and lots
of Googling (note to self, STOP GOOGLING MEDICAL PROBLEMS). If I’m
right, then it’s something relatively simple and easy to fix, but that
doesn’t stop my imagination from running haywire with the worst case
scenarios.
One of the things that’s eating me the most is, what’s happening
with me now would have been SO easy to test for after the miscarriage.
A simple blood test. But, the doctor I was seeing didn’t do it. Didn’t
seem to think there was a reason to do any tests, save ruling out an
ectopic pregnancy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he made sure my life
wasn’t in danger. But, why not find out if there was a REASON the
pregnancy didn’t take, instead of just assuming it was “one of those
things?”
I know that every woman who wants a baby feels the same way, but I
just want it to be easy. I don’t want to need medical intervention to
sustain a pregnancy. I’m afraid of going nutty with hormone treatments,
like I did with my brief stint on birth control pills to help my
migraines. I don’t want to become baby crazed - that woman who can
think of nothing else. I mean, my life is pretty damn sweet as it is.
I’m afraid of losing perspective; I don’t want to become ungrateful.
But, more than all the things I don’t want is the one thing that I do want, that JS and I both want. I know that I’ll do what ever it takes to get there; and I’ll be very grateful.
