Amnio Results, For Real This Time

Results were supposed to be in this Wednesday. No results. Waited till Thursday to annoy the clinic, “Results today, for sure, Mrs. Fiend.” Ack! I worked on the computer with the phone perched six inches away from me. At 10:00 a telemarketer called. I replied viciously, venting six years of the aggravation, frustration and nastiness that I stockpile exclusively for people trying to sell me crap over the phone.

At noon another marketing company called wanting me to answer a survey. I fumed. I decided that those bastards from Ikea sold my phone number despite my written request to withhold it. I will send them such a vituperative letter. Anyway, at 12:30 Tennisfiend called, “Are the results in?” Poor sweet guy, I was cross with him. Ten minutes later, my Mom called, “How are you doing?” Poor woman, I was practically hysterical with her.

To empower myself, I bounced phone calls back and forth to Women’s Medical for the next two hours. At three thirty, a harassed receptionist called me to say that the fax arrived, and that all the results were normal. No Down’s Syndrome, Trisonomy 13 or other serious birth defects.

What a relief! I was so grateful and effusive with my thank-yous that I almost made the receptionist feel less annoyed. At last I feel like this is a “real” pregnancy. After three miscarriages, I can't begin to describe my joy over the positive test results. Now to make amends to my loved ones and order a truckload of maternity clothes. Yay!

How Not To

I’m aggravated. Sometimes I wish I could post a little list of helpful hints to guide people as they are searching for how to help me when something stressful and important hits my life.
So here’s my little bit of bile:

1. Please do not tell me how worried you are for me. Suck it up. I am already worried enough for both of us. Most of the time I can find a good mental spot where I am calm. Telling me you’re so worried for me really shoves everything in my face and increases my stress level. Instead, ask me if you can do something to help. 2. Don’t deliberately time a major flake out over your own enduring problems to coincide with my difficult time. Weeping over the phone to me about your life sucks out my energy. You don’t need to dramatize some other aspect of your life to compete with my problems. It’s disrespectful and selfish. Sheesh. I'm so bitchy, I can barely stand myself. That’s all.

Amnio Results

It's so hard to write with everything going on. I'm having trouble sharing my anxiety and fears. My worry over the baby being okay is surreal. I could spend all day obsessing over terrible incidents. There seems to be no limit to the circles of worry winding around my brain. and there is absolutely no end to the horrible things you can find on google. I pray that birth brings an end to this crushing anxiety and obsession.

Today, the amnio results were supposed to come in, but unfortunately the bit of blood that contaminated the sample will delay the results for another six days.

Five minutes after Loretta called me, I panicked, thinking that I would have to repeat the procedure. After a twenty minute Internet search, I broke down and called her. No, I won’t have to retake the test. Whew.

It's so hard to write with everything going on. I'm having trouble sharing my anxiety and fears. My worry over the baby being okay is surreal. I could spend all day obsessing over terrible incidents. There seems to be no limit to the circles of worry winding around my brain. And there is absolutely no end to the horrible things you can find on google. I pray that birth brings an end to this crushing anxiety and obsession.

It would be so much better if I could talk to someone. Egor shuts down and I feel that my mom has been freaking out non-stop since I got pregnant, adding to my stress. Thank god for Patricia, but I don't want to become her Charlotte, invading her tranquility with my non-stop preoccupations.

Amniocentesis

An unfortunate consequence of putting off child bearing until your thirties is the increased risk for having a child with a genetic disorder.

Accordingly, Tennisfiend and I decided to have a procedure called amniocentesis performed to identify any serious problems with our new baby. Now those of you who are familiar with the procedure know that it involves a very long needle. Those of you who are familiar with me know that I don’t like needles (please read "Why I Don’t Like Needles" for the horrifying details). Anyway, a needle is inserted into the abdomen to withdraw a sample of amniotic fluid, which is then tested for abnormalities.

I prepared for the procedure by reading avidly about it for two weeks straight. I then pretended that the test was never going to occur up until the moment that they whipped out the giant needle, which I vowed not to even glance at. As a result, I went into the procedure room cushioned by a Zen-like calm. When Loretta, the ultrasound tech handed me the legal paperwork, I read it dispassionately (having familiarized myself with the risks extensively two weeks ago), signing and initialing in the appropriate places.

Then Dr. Agitator entered the room. Dr. Agitator, the clinic’s amnio expert, resembles a smug, blond Stephen King. He swept into the exam room twenty minutes late, positioned himself tic-tac distance from my face and with intense, almost threatening eye contact, dramatically recounted every single risk associated with the procedure. Every sentence seemed like an accusation. I felt like a crime victim being cross-examined by a particularly hostile and morally outraged defense attorney.

My Zen-like calm disintegrated. It would have been replaced by mortal terror for my unborn child if I hadn’t been very determined and half pissed-off by the doctor’s theatrics. Prior to the test, I instructed Tennisfiend to distract me during the procedure, which was supposed to last under five minutes. Six minutes into the procedure, as Tennisfiend was nervously struggling to keep up conversation, when Dr. Agitator quietly exclaimed, “Huhn! That’s really weird!”

I then felt a punching where the needle was being inserted, followed by continued jerks of pressure and the certain rupturing of various tissues and organs. I was afraid to look up and find Dr. Agitator with one shoe on my hoo-hah and both elbows bellybutton deep in my abdomen. Tennisfiend went white and our banter died, just in time to hear Dr. Agitator faintly say, “Damn, look there’s blood!” My insides went cold. You know that feeling when you see your first crush kissing someone else when they are supposed to be your steady? A clenching in the bowels that indicates that something very, very wrong has happened? It was like that, but icier.

Containing my terror, I looked back at Tennisfiend and asked him (in Russian) to talk about our dog. He sputtered out a laugh and looked away. Then the hand that was clenching mine began to tremble. We stared at each mutely for a handful of excruciatingly long minutes until my quavering voice broke the silence with some inane remark that I had made three times before. At that moment, Dr. Agitator announced that the procedure was finished.

As the ultrasound tech swabbed my belly, I made eye contact with Dr. Agitator and gave him a weak smile. “Were you scared?” he asked. “I felt a few scary moments,” I confessed. “Well, I wasn’t scared at all,” he replied proudly, as if I should congratulate him for being so brave during my procedure. I laughed and quietly congratulated myself on not fainting, screaming, puking or crapping my pants during the ordeal. When Dr. Agitator left the exam room, I quizzed Loretta about the Doctor’s comments. As it turned out, my skin is extraordinarily thick and tough, so he had difficulty inserting the needle. This complication resulted in a wisp of my blood finding its way into the sample. Loretta soothed our frazzled nerves with an ultrasound of the baby, revealing to us that we are expecting a boy. Yay!

Why I Hate Needles

Every one has something that they dread enormously. After a loathing of black widow spiders, few things unsettle me more than hypodermic needles.

My dread originated when I underwent a glucose tolerance test in my teens. The afternoon-long test took place at our local hospital in a shabby trailer that was half bookmobile and half Big-O Tire Center. I clearly remember downing a nauseatingly sweet, gritty orange drink and having my blood taken at intervals by a variety of phlebotomists in-training. After the third draw, despite numerous frantic pokings, the specialist couldn’t find a vein (or something like that) and she called a nurse for advice.

The nurse recommended drawing from my ankles. The whole procedure seemed endless. Every half hour the jabbing resumed as over-concerned students and the Butcher of Dresden alternately tried to “find a vein.” By end of afternoon I was sore and nauseated. The sight of a needle sent cold prickles up my spine and an oily lurching in my bowels.

As if my transformation into a giant needle-fearing pussy was not complete, a veinogram at nineteen was the coup de gras. Returning late from a date with my Biology Lab instructor (shame on us) and Robert Mondovi (shame on me), I realized that I had locked myself out. I hopped the back fence and crawled in through the dog door to avoid waking my folks. The next day, the pain I experienced was more than a wine induced headache; my left foot and leg ached.

Three agonizing days later, x-rays revealed--nothing. Four days later, our concerned and cautious family doctor sent me to the hospital to have my leg injected with iodine isotopes to check for a deadly blood clot. In a battered room at the local hospital, I made the mistake of watching the nurse prepare my iodine IV. The needle seemed super-size, as if radioactive iodine was granulated like paving sand. I looked away as he inserted the IV and pumpded in what felt like ten million microscopic ants. Within seconds, the ants transformed into ipecac syrup and assaulted my stomach, producing the most intense nausea I have ever experienced.

I told the handsome linebacker-esque nurse that I might be ill. Brusquely, he instructed me to be still or the procedure might need to be repeated. With that, I fainted, transforming myself into a full-fledged trypanophobe . I vaguely recall regaining consciousness, feeling relief to the point of giddiness, and noting that the nurse seemed mildly disgusted with me. Fortunately, no clot was found and a second x-ray reading revealed an elusive stress fracture of my left foot. D’oh.

Since then, I am grateful for my fundamentally good health, as it has reduced my exposure to needles. When I must have my blood taken, I warn the phlebotomist of my squeamishness. Generally, the medical staff is kind to me and engages in my banter, helping me to recover some self respect.