Tuesday the follow up appointment went well.  Great, even. It was totally and completely the exact opposite of our visit last week.

In short, the pediatric cardiologist did see the focus, but said there was only one, it was tiny, they are common and basically not to worry about it at all.  He told the ultrasound tech not to even note it in the file because it was so small.

I cannot tell you the level of relief I felt after that appointment. And the difference between the two visits was like night and day.  The doctors this week were warm and friendly, even chatty. 

When the first doctor began the ultrasounding, I wasn’t exactly sure if he was the specialist or not.

"Are you the cardiologist?" I asked.

"No, I’m the janitor," he said.  "They let me come up here on Tuesdays just for fun."

A sarcastic and FUNNY physician??  What the?  Now THAT’S my kind of doctor!

Last week was like taking the train to Dicktown and then realizing, man, Dicktown really blows.

Tuesday felt like getting back on the train and going in the exact opposite direction to Doctor-In-Golf-Shirt Ville, which is nice and warm and comforting.  And I liked it there.

I did have a mild panic attack driving to the appointment, so thrown by my last experience and on my own since BeBop was at work.  But as I left, I felt such a lead weight lifted off my chest.

I can say I felt relieved, relaxed and, dare I say it, happy.  (At least I think that’s what it was.)

Can I include an awkward segue here?  Can I bring up something totally unrelated to the above?  I can?  Why thank you!  You’re the best!

So my belly has grown to epic proportions by now.  And while in the shower, it pretty much eclipses the nether regions.  You know…the va-jay-jay area and its accompanying foliage.

When trimming the hedges now, it’s like a Lewis and Clark expedition with a razor.  I am venturing into totally uncharted territory and just sort of…trying to recall where the bikini line once was so that I don’t veer off course and rupture an artery or something.

So here are my questions for you:  1) Do I have to resort to the torture that is a professional bikini wax, which I gave up years ago once BeBop and I were firmly ensconced in a relationship because, I thought, really — what’s the point? or 2) is the overgrown hedge sort of like those giant trucks with signs on the side that say ‘if you can’t see my side mirror I can’t see you,’ meaning, if I can’t see the fur is it a safe bet that others cannot see it either, or am I totally crazy?  Okay, don’t answer that.  Just the other parts.

We’re off tomorrow for a road trip down to Los Angeles so I can attend a good friend’s wedding, finally meet my little nephew for the first time and spend a relaxing couple of days at a spa for a mini Baby Moon trip. With the move coming up, this will likely be the only pre-babies vacation we take, so I plan on enjoying myself.

To everyone who’s seen a BFP recently I am so beyond happy for you, and I’m trying madly to keep up with and comment on your blogs.  To those of you still waiting, I’m still hoping.

Have a great week everyone, catch ya on the flip side. 

You know it’s hard out here for a pimp pregnant gal…

But thanks in large part to all of you, I’m feeling better. I did have a minor breakdown after the appointment, followed by much crying, self-pitying and overall carrying on, but I feel better now.

I think both of the twins are fine.  I am not worried enough to do the amnio.  I’m going into the heart scan next week with a Hail Mary, let’s see a miracle and have that annoying ICEF GONE attitude.  And if that doesn’t happen, I’ll see what that doctor says. If he or she manages to scare the crap out of me – again – maybe I’ll change my mind and decide that I am so nervous, an amnio might provide some much-needed reassurance.

Unless, of course, it doesn’t…and then I’m RUHLLY screwed.

But one step at a time.

BeBop has had it with both Drs. Unintelligible.  I think I’ve just been poked and prodded by so many different docs over the last five years, I don’t expect a lot in terms of bedside manner. He was distraught by their lack of concern or comfort.

"Maybe they’ve seen that ICEF a million times in their careers," he said.  "Or maybe they’ve seen it a million times THAT DAY, but that was scary and horrible for us and they were total assholes." 

He was grateful Dr. Viola! came out to give us further explanation and share that "Zee Dr. Irish/Scottish Brogue probableee suggested zee amnio because he has to, uh….cover his ass," but BeBop was totally offended that Dr. I/SB didn’t talk to us himself after confirming the presence of the spot.  He barely offered up any information, other than the dreaded ‘soft marker’ phrase, before leaving the room.

So BeBop would like me to find another office should we continue to do the monthly ultrasounds, and so I’ve asked my regular Ob Gyn for a different recommendation.  And I also asked him if he agrees that I should be getting these monthly scans.  (I haven’t heard back yet.)  He has just listened with the doppler and when he hears the two heartbeats, it’s buh-bye sucka, see ya in one month.

I’m such a frickin’ whiner.  I used to WANT the frequent ultrasounds. I complained incessantly about how with Dr. Z I was monitored so closely through the cycle I knew exactly what was going on.  And the same was true for all of the clomid and the clomid/IUI cycles too. But now, once pregnant and back with a regular doctor, I don’t get the same level of monitoring. 

When someone asks me, "how are the babies are doing?" I usually stare, open-mouthed like a recently caught trout and practically scream, "I DON’T KNOW what’s going on in there!!  I HAVE NO IDEA!" And they stare back at me and regret asking in the first place and slowly back away in case I started wielding sharp objects at them.

Last weekend a particularly annoying friend of my Mother’s asked me, "Are you excited?"  I guess she posed this question because she could sense my unease.  My anxiety.  I wanted to say, "NO, you asswipe.  NOT AT ALL.  After five long barren and depressing years, countless medical procedures, spending close to $30 grand, finally doing IVF and now being pregnant with boy girl twins…NO I’m not excited AT ALLLLL." But I think I just gave her the trout stare and mumbled something about how yes, we are very excited.

At the last check with my Ob Gyn, I was almost sad I ‘just’ got to hear the heartbeats and didn’t get to see the babies on the ultrasound screen.  But after this latest little jaunt to Anxiety Town, I’m not sure that the extra monitoring will give me more peace of mind. If they keep finding all of these potential issues, it has the chance of turning me into an even BIGGER freak and overall nervous wreck.

So I just have to evaluate what’s going to work for me.  Will the monthly scans help me relax and believe that everything is fine, or will they keep coming up with these soft markers for one thing or another and I’ll be a total basket case for the next four months? 

Chances are I WILL be a basket case, the question is, I guess: to what degree?

Thank you to everyone who commented, to those of you who have been through this and shared your stories with me and those of you who wished me and the babies the best, and to everyone keeping us in your thoughts and prayers.

It helps, let me tell you, it REALLY helps.  I sent BeBop many of your comments so he could see that others have gone through something very similar and that so many awesome people are out there sending us good thoughts.

And there is some good news around these parts:  We bought a house!  And if all goes well, we close on August 10th and move at the end of the month.  Yay!  The babies will get their own room that isn’t also BeBop’s office filled with his computer equipment, monster-sized speakers and a glow-in-the-dark 60s style poster of Silver Surfer comic book artwork that I bought him, never thinking the monstrosity would end up in my home. Bosco will finally have a yard.  Yay!  And yes, BeBop is still lobbying for the outdoor litter box Zen garden (Boo!) and at this point I’ll probably let him do whatever he wants out there.

Gotta pick your battles, people, gotta pick your battles.

FUCK.

And did I mention FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?

And OH!  I keep forgetting to tell you:  FUCK.

I left my level II ultrasound appointment yesterday with a handy little flier entitled, Patient Information:  Intracardiac Echogenic Focus.

FUCK.

Twin B has an echogenic focus in her heart, which confusingly enough doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the structure (or functioning) of the heart itself. Rather, it is another ‘soft marker’ for Down’s.

First of all, I fucking hate how the doctors use fucking air quotes when referring to these <bunny ears> soft markers.  And secondly, Twin A had the slightly higher risk based on the NT scan. So now this twin’s odds went from 1:500 to about 1:250, same as her brother.

The handy dandy reading material they gave me says, "You have recently learned your unborn baby has an ICEF. We expect that you may have questions about what this could mean for your developing baby [you fucking THINK!?] and hopefully this information will answer some of your questions."

It should also say, "And we hope that you don’t crap your pants in the waiting room after reading this pamphlet, which would make for a less than pleasant experience for your fellow patients."  (I don’t know why it doesn’t say that.)

Basically, the ICEF is a bright spot within the fetal heart picked up by the ultrasound. In most cases, the presence of one is nothing more than a ‘normal variation’ of anatomy, but in some cases it could mean there are other problems such as Down’s.

The appointment yesterday was just pure comedy.  Except of course,  the part about the ICEF and me leaving in tears. 

But before that part, the first technician was yelling at the technician-in-training to "turn on the machine like zis and put a tape in and viola! you can get started!"  He was Persian but had what sounded to me like a very strong French accent.  He was heaving the ultrasound machine around and banging it into the table and plugging cords into the wall and flinging the wires and cables around and I was trying to stay relaxed, but BeBop, who hasn’t been to too many appointments with me, was clearly out of his element and unnerved by the whole thing.

The technician finally got things going and once the babies could be seen on the screen, he kept yelling strange letters and numbers at the poor trainee who was furiously scribbling notes in my file.  It sounded like this: "Put 4.5 on E3, and CIRCLE IT! YES!!! NO!!  Put 4.5 on E3 over to zee RIGHT – ZEE RIGHT – and CIRCLE IT.  YES!  GOOD!"

"Do you feel zee babies moving yet?" he asked. "Um, I’m actually not sure," I said. "Well with za first baby you might not feel it for awhile.  It is called zee quickening."

"Will I know it when I feel it?"  "Oh yes," he answered.

Finally, he asked the doctor to come in and take a look. Immediately warning bells went off in my head, "does he always ask for a consult?" I asked the trainee.  She said yes, but honestly I was starting to freak out a bit.

The doctor turned out be like 100 years old, with a shock of white hair and the strongest Irish or Scottish accent you have EVER heard.  (Thus the comedy, had it not been happening to us.)

So the technician was showing him the bright spot (ironically named, no?) while he was babbling almost incoherently.  I kept interrupting them to ask questions and eventually I got the hang of their accents.  But poor BeBop was in a chair, and their backs were turned to him, so he literally could not understand one word of what they were saying.

After the doctor was done confirming the presence of the ICEF, we were in the waiting room waiting for the genetics specialist.  The first tech came out and said, "Did you understand Dr. Irish/Scottish Brogue? He speaks so fast and has zee strong accent and many peeeple cannot-uh understand him…"

Every time I would repeat a statement back to him to ensure I understood what he was saying, he would respond with an enthusiastic, "VIOLA!! YES!! You understand zee situation!!"

He went on to explain that about 4% of Caucasian couples have a baby with an ICEF picked up by the ultrasound.  In the vast majority of cases, it’s nothing. It either resolves itself and goes away or remains but the baby is perfectly healthy.

But.

In some cases, they have found that Down’s babies have an echogenic focus.  This is the same issue with the NT measurements, a higher number doesn’t mean you have a baby with Down’s, but some babies with Down’s were found to have the higher measurements. Thus the annoying term ‘soft marker’ I guess.

In the end, they were not too alarmed because we had done PGD. They didn’t come out and say we should do an amnio, but of course they offered it to us.  They did recommend we get a heart scan, but they said this was routine for all twin pregnancies.  This was news to me.

I have an appointment next Tuesday for a heart scan and I guess we’ll see what they say.  We still don’t want to do the amnio.  BeBop would support me if I decided I did want to do it, but I don’t.

Plus, at this point both babies are in the same risk category. Which twin would we test?  Pick one? Flip a coin?  Test BOTH?  Can you see the comedy in this whole scenario?? Yeah.  Me neither.  But I’m trying here.

Anyhoosers, after we walked out I was stunned, to say the least. "Can’t we just get some GOOD news?" I wailed. "Can’t we just catch a break and get a clean bill of health, so I could worry a little less instead of a lot more?" BeBop was parked in the other direction, so after he tried to console and reassure me, he headed off towards his car.  As I approached my own car, any semblance of focus, grace, balance and decorum went down the toilet as I managed to somehow turn my ankle stepping off the curb and FALL INTO ON-COMING  TRAFFIC.

Thankfully, the light at the end of the block was red, no cars were screaming by ready to smoosh my head into the pavement.  My keys went flying so after it dawned on me that, fucking hell, I had fallen again, I sort of lurched forward and grabbed my keys and stumbled into my car.

And dissolved into heaving, gasping-for-breath sobs.

Then I turned on the car and the song Little Wonders was playing on the radio.  I first heard this song just after I found out I was pregnant with twins, and it’s been a huge source of comfort to me every time I hear it.

let it go
let it rub out of your shoulder
don’t you know
the hardest part is over
let it in
let your clarity define you
in the end
we will only just remember
how it feels

chorus

our lives are made
in this small hours
these little wonders
these twisted turns of faith
time falls away
but these small hours
these small hours
still remain

let it slide
let your troubles fall behind you
let it shine
till you feel it all around you
and I don’t mind
if it’s me you need to turn to
we’ll get by
it’s the heart that really matters
in the end

chorus

all of my regrets
we’re washing it somehow
but I cannot forget the way I feel about now
in these small hours
these little wonders
these twisted turns of faith
these twisted turns of faith
time falls away
in these small hours
in these small hours
still remain
they still remain
these little wonders
these twisted turns of faith
time falls away
but the small hours
these little wonders
still remain.

BeBop is still convinced everything is just fine.  And that if it’s not, we’ll still be okay. I continue to wonder how on earth women go through this. 

I am waiting for the heart scan to see if they pick up anything else and recommend doing amnio, or perhaps don’t see the ICEF at all.

In the meantime I am trying to not think about it or cry too much at work or in the car, but rather just limp around on my sprained ankle and wonder when I’m going to need a full body suit of padding and a helmet because of my worsening clumsiness.

And I’m trying to stay calm, and have faith.  Faith that all of this will be okay, that my little wonders are just fine.

So it’s approximately 3:22 AM and let’s all hope I hit the ‘draft’ button instead of the ‘publish’ button or we’ll all be in trouble…these posts are barely coherent when I’m awake. Imagine the drivel when I’m half-asleep? The mind boggles!

I have insomnia and what I think is acid reflux. Or heartburn. Are they the same?

The first time I ever had what I thought was heartburn was a few months ago, right after the transfer when each of my 27 follicles was the size of a softball and after each meal, even a tiny, little itty-bitty meal, I would feel an extraordinary pain in my chest. The first time I experienced this sensation, I ran, clutching my chest, to the phone to call my sister.

(The girl knows heartburn, she can devour a giant bean and cheese burrito in about .000045 seconds flat and if you ever read this sister dear…I mean that in a GOOD way.)

Anyway, I staggered waddled to the phone, dialed her number and when she answered I yelled, "DYING! Pain! Think I am having fatal heart attack!"

"Who is this?" she asked, totally nonplussed about me and my impending death.

"It’s ME you idiot! And I am dying! I think I have heartburn," I choked. "Is it like your heart is on FIRE??" I demanded.

"Ummmm, yeah," she answered. "Thus the name."

"But seriously, it’s like my whole chest cavity is on fire. I’ve never experienced such AGONY." (I do have a flair for the dramatic, you could say.)

"Just don’t lie down, and take some Tums and you’ll be fine." Obviously used to my over-acting she didn’t fly into a panic and summon 911 to my house which I thought she would. But anyway, since that experience I know what heartburn is, and tonight I don’t feel as death-is-imminenty, so I’m self-diagnosing this as acid reflux. But they’re probably the same thing, no?

Anyhoosies, we put an offer on a second house. The first bid we wrote on a house was not accepted, which is fine because the house needed a lot of work so I tried to be all unattached and Zen about the whole process. But ‘Zen’ to me is crying incessantly about how, oh, I’m ONLY PREGNANT WITH TWINS no big deal and I’m sure we can move into the local Y and do they take dogs and WAAAAAAAAAA so perhaps I was not as unattached as I would like to think.

This house is nice, in a great neighborhood with two bedrooms and a bonus room that could be a great office/guest room. Unless you happen to have, like, a frillion dollars laying around, buying a home in the Bay Area is a fairly stressful endeavor. And that’s all I can say without my head exploding. But my point is, and YES every once in a while I actually have one is that it’s all about the compromise…only two small bedrooms but maybe two bathrooms instead of one, only one bathroom but a nice yard, virtually no closet space, but an alcove that could be used as an office, that kind of thing.

The house has a small back yard, with a sort of weird side yard area the current owners are using as a dog run. (Which? Is a totally mean not to mention deceptive term because it’s so small those damn dogs aren’t running anywhere, so it’s more of a lounging about space, but that’s besides the point and where was I?) Oh yeah! So BeBop and I were reading in bed the other night and he turned to me and said, "You know, if we get that house I’d love to turn that dog run area into a nice Zen garden, with maybe a large box with sand and some plantings and rocks and stuff."

"Well, dearest, that sounds like a creative and amazing idea," I responded.

Actually? That’s not what I said AT ALL. I guess pregnancy hormones are making me even crazier than normal because what I really said was the following:

"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?? That is the WORST idea ever! GAWD. Do you expect me to want a giant box of sand out in the yard? DO YOU? Like I’m going to go out there and scratch around and take a crap in it like a freaking FERAL CAT or something??? You’re crazy!" I shouted, not realizing the irony of that last part because I was truly beside myself, thinking of him installing a gigantic litter box in the yard. That we don’t even own yet. His eyes popped open so wide I thought his eyeballs might come shooting out of his head, and his jaw dropped to the floor. He looked at me like I had just turned into a Medusa-like creature and really, he wasn’t far off.

Buy anyway, we should find out tomorrow which is really later today and GODDAMN I need some sleep.

When we went to sign the documents the other night, I had changed out of my work clothes into a new sporty work-out pants and matching zip-up pullover ensemble. I thought it was quite fetching, kicky even!

When BeBop walked in the door and saw me, he started hysterically laughing. At me.

"Oh…my GOD," he gasped through his laughter. "What are you wearing?? Nice TRACK SUITE honey," he choked out.

"Ruuuuuuude!" I said, taken aback by how amusing he found my outfit. (It can be somewhat disconcerting to have someone look at you and be laughing so hard they can barely remain upright.) "I finally bought some new work out clothes…" I offered. (Which is a joke unto itself because my ‘workouts’ consist of me heaving myself up off the couch while watching Big Brother 8 when I need to pee.)

He was practically doubled over at this point, "Well," he laughed, "I just didn’t think you’d get all Pauly Walnuts on me" he gasped, which he thought was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. Since the Dawn of Time.

Since I can hear them delivering the morning paper, I better get my ass back to bed and try to get some sleep. And in my next post I must thank you all for your nickname suggestions.  You all are HI-larious!  And quite clever too.  So give yourselves a little pat on the back from me to you.

Sadly, BeBop was right. This is exactly what I looked like. Black warm up suit with white stripes and all.  God.  Pathetic.

Remember when I said that you’d probably regret being so nice and supportive?  And that you’d most likely end up wishing you hadn’t encouraged me to write what I’m feeling?

Yup.

I’m well on my way to making that prediction come true.  And I pity you.  I really do. 

After last week’s confession post you all were really, truly wonderful.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  I heart you.  You might have opened a crazy pregnant lady Pandora’s box (does that sound dirty or is it just me?), but I’m glad you did.

[And aaaaaaaany minute now you’ll be BEGGING me to stop whining and just tell a damn story about the magic crystals my Mom used to tape to various parts of our bodies when we had any kind of ache or pain…]

Pregnancy is just not anything like I expected it to be. And frankly, I’m shocked.  SHOCKED I tell you.  I don’t know why, but after almost five years of trying to get pregnant, I figured once I was there I would be sporting a delicious little ‘bump’ like they show in US W.eekly, my luminescent skin would literally light up the night sky and my hair would glow like a shampoo commercial.

I would somehow, (I guess, this wasn’t thought out very well) become independently wealthy and not have to drag my huge ass to work every day, but instead could sit around watching A Ba.by St.ory (eating an all-organic lunch) and decorating a gorgeous nursery. And I’d go on walks (or even easy jogs!) and then pre-natal yoga and then I’d talk to the babies and relax while BeBop fixed a delectable dinner and then I’d retire for a soothing night’s slumber filled with happy baby dreams.

How’s that working out for you, you ask? Not so hot. And where on earth did you get such a bizarre and totally unrealistic expectation of being pregnant?  Fuck if I know. 

BeBop asked me the other night if I was happy being pregnant. "Hmmm…" I answered.  "I’m happy I AM pregnant, but if you’re asking if I’m happy actually being pregnant, I dunno.  That’s a harder question."

The truth is this: I’ve been completely and thoroughly stressed out almost every second of every day since I found out I was pregnant. And yes, I do feel like shit saying that.

Part of it is the stress and worry of being pregnant and thinking about the health of my babies.  Work has been overwhelming.  My sister was on bed rest.  My Mom was torturing my sister with organic mattress pads and pro-biotics and causing all sorts of family strife that led to crying, yelling and nasty e-mails flying back and forth between all of us.  BeBop and I sold our condo, and don’t have a place to go. My Mom got sick on a layover in DC and sent my Dad on to South Africa without her, flying home and going straight to the hospital without telling us.  (Yes, that was a delightful little surprise.  After a colonoscopy, she found out she has an ulcer which is, honestly, the best case scenario.  But it was scary as hell.)  And the NT scan results. 

And I don’t mean to sound so ungrateful.  I guess I just wish I’d known that when you’re pregnant, ‘real life’ continues on around you, and for some strange reason I really did not consider this.

I am already getting the whole guilt-ridden, self-flagellation Mom thing down. 

I feel terrible I am so anxious when I should just be happy we’re pregnant with twins.  I should be making time for meditating and going to pre-natal yoga. I should be swimming regularly. I should be writing a weekly letter to the babies, shamelessly stealing the idea from other bloggers, but here I am at 17 weeks and have I managed to do this once?  No.

The goods news is, I’m totally prepared for a lifetime of feeling horribly guilty and knowing that no matter what I do, it’s not enough.

At least I got that going for me.

But here’s where you can help, because I know you’re just sitting there in front of your computer wondering, how can I help? (Unless, of course, after reading this you’re really thinking:  how can I defy the laws of physics and thread my body through the fiber optic network, reconstitute my body in Watson’s office and then STRANGLE THE VERY LIFE FROM HER?! Errr…in that case just move along.  Nothing more to see here.)

But if you are willing to help, I just haven’t been able to come up with a cute little nickname for the babies. The bugs?  The beans? 

I’m a girl who lives for nicknames, whose dog barely knows his real name because he’s always called something else, whose kids’ names will have built in nicknames because I’m such a fan, and yet I cannot think of a single thing to call them in utero. 

So can you give me some suggestions?  I don’t know how I’d manage without you.