Incorrect Co-ordinates

Our 4pm appointment eventually materialised at 5.15pm. I was actually reasonably calm when I hopped on the couch, but my heart pretty soon sank into my trousers, because everything looked wrongwrongwrong. There was a sac of sorts, but it was grey, fuzzy, and despite The Professor muttering ‘Well, there’s something in there’, I couldn’t see any sign of a recognisable foetus, let alone a heartbeat. The Professor was doing serious battle with the ultrasound machine, but whatever buttons she pressed and whatever knobs she twiddled, nothing good was coming into focus.

‘It doesn’t look awfully hopeful, does it?’ I stated. I was beginning to feel the numb disbelief settle on me. She scanned for another minute or so and then evidently decided to start again from scratch; she took the magnification right out and made a wide pelvic sweep.

Suddenly a large black sac flashed past.

‘A-HA!’

Thank God.

”THERE it is! AND a heartbeat!’

And everyone…breathe.

The professor was quick to poke fun at her several-OMG-so-long-minutes-worth-of-attempts to discern a foetus within (what turned out to be) my uterine cyst. She was evidently fairly unsettled by it, although once I had stopped shaking, I did comfort her with the honest fact that legions of experienced sonographers have come to abject professional grief regarding my anatomy over the years. She is not the first. She probably won’t be the last.

‘I know you told me it was on the left, but that uterus is quite incredibly lateral – it’s all twisted around, and it’s even managing to be more lateral than your ovary. All the usual markers are no clue whatsoever.’

Instead of the conventionally rare:

I seem to have something like:

 

So essentially, Turbo is sitting so far over, he practically out-lefts Karl Marx. (Your right, my left, remember.) 

Professor’s flusterment extended to her measuring, the first attempt at which measured 7-weeks-today Turbo at a satisfactorily chunky 9mm, and the second at a precocious and unfeasibly giant 12mm. Either way: larger than last week.

I am going back in a fortnight. I am relieved and pleased, but dreadfully anxious about the next couple of weeks, which are a common time of occuring disaster for genetic abnomalities.  I have also been instructed to ruthlessly harry my GP for nuchal scan referral paperwork, and – which seems indecently hasty and premature to me – a midwife appointment. Also, really bloody ridiculous, because I will have exactly no meaningful input from her if last time is anything to go by.

I promise faithfully to swear off the peesticks, which is an addict’s promise if ever there was one – I know there is zero information to be had from them now, so I am actually giving up nothing. You deserve more from me, so: I promise not to panic if the general Ickiness fades out again.

This doesn’t seem… real.

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I am SUCH a fucking dickhead

and Thalia has ridden in on a white horse to rescue me from the corner of Science Stupidity I’d painted myself into. Not the first time the lady has kindly extracted me from there, either.

If I dilute urine with, respectively, 50% and 90% water, my peestick series looks a wee bit different, no pun intended.

And furthermore, since late on Saturday, which was a lovely but tiring day (my pottery kicks ass; my burlesque dancing… well, also kicks ass after a fashion, mainly if you’re the unlucky girl stood directly in front of my uncontrolled limbs), I once again feel rough as old boots in the exhausted/light-headed/churny-tummy departments. Brownie points for everyone that reminded me that pregnancy symptoms are fickle visitors.

Conclusion: I am a tending-towards-neurotic bear of very little brain indeed who is pissing her readership off quite spectacularly with these rollercoasters of Up and Down. And if YOU are cross with me for the conflicting updates, spare a thought for the Hairy Farmer, who is rather more emotionally – and fiscally – invested than most, and has Suffered. 

Scan is at 4pm today. I am, naturally, keyed up to a fair level of apprehension, but am not now actively expecting doom and gloom. 

I will let you know.

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