This morning I had a deposition in the same office building as my former RE's office. Stepping into the building lobby and being hit with the familiar scent of medical-grade latex and antiseptics made my stomach furiously churn with nerves. Scents are very powerful memories; I don't know if I'll ever be able to smell medical supplies and not think of infertility.
I met the court reporter in the lobby and we made small talk. This court reporter and I are friendly and she asked me if I had any new developments in my life. I shared that I was pregnant. Immediately, I recognized the crestfallen look on her face of someone who has been trying unsuccessfully. If I could have kicked myself, I would have. What a jerk I was. Couldn't I have thought of another development in my life? Couldn't I talk about something other than pregnancy? The irony of this conversation being in my former doctor's office - argh.
While I was trying to get pregnant, I often felt as though other people were hitting me over the head with their pregnancy. Facebook, better known as over-sharer's anonymous or Fertile-book, was the worst. Ultrasound pictures, baby pictures, people complaining about their difficult life as a mom, 500 people "liking" a pregnancy announcement - sometimes it was too much for me to take. I really could not (and still cannot) take the people who post their positive pregnancy tests five seconds after they peed on them. How lucky they were to be so confident that their positive test would, in fact, develop into a baby?
When I finally saw the two lines, I took it just as that - two lines. Authorization to move to the blood testing part of the program. When the blood test was positive, I allowed myself to contemplate having an ultrasound. I also prepared myself for the possibility that the ultrasound would reveal an ectopic pregnancy or missed abortion. The first ultrasound at 5.5 weeks was normal, so I focused on the ultrasound at 7.5 weeks where we would hopefully hear the heartbeat. I spent two weeks googling signs of miscarriage and statistical changes of not hearing the heartbeat. I read dozens of blogs about miscarriage. I prayed and worried and prayed some more.
We heard the heartbeat. My fears were not allayed.
But everything changed at 12 weeks when we went in for our NT scan. It was the first time I'd had a test at a normal OB's office. The nurse doing the scan looked slightly disinterested, but I was fascinated. The blob at 5.5 and 7.5 weeks was a baby, one with hands and fingers and feet and a heartbeat of 155 bpm. It was real. It waived at me on the ultrasound: hi, Mommy! For the first time, I allowed myself to get excited. I finally began to look at cribs and think that a baby, my baby, would be in one.
But part of me is still stuck in infertility land. I still read infertility blogs, much more than I should. I feel guilty for "crossing over" and having been successful. The pain is still fresh in my mind. Even as I type this, I wonder if it will hurt someone. That's the last thing I want to do.
With that in mind, I've come to an uneasy truce between my infertile and pregnant self: recognize the past, but be excited for the future. I owe it to myself, to my husband, and to our baby to be happy. Just don't ask me to put it on Facebook.