July 13, 2005
Sigh of relief, my husband is not a carrier for cystic fibrosis.
With that scare come and gone, I question whether I will have some of the less definitive screenings done. Unlike the test for CF markers, these other blood screens only indicate the odds of your baby having certain birth defects. More invasive testing would be needed to confirm results. Since I'm not comfortable with the risks of amniocentesis, I'll forgo the whole kit and caboodle.
Funny, before the CF test, I thought I'd have all the non-invasive screenings my doctor had to offer. Now I realize it was because I never really expected any of them to come back positive. You know, that whole bad-results-happen-to-other-people mentality? Cousin to I'm-a-teenager-I'm-immortal? Well, I've had my reality check, and the potential for false positives and inconclusive alarm bells is more than this anxiety-prone chickadee can handle.
With the scare behind, things have gotten dull.
At eleven weeks, my life feels like a clogged hourglass. That is not a reference to my figure, though I guess it could be (I'm far from showing, but my waist has the ambiguous rectangle of a 9-year-old's.) Time has stopped. I am sure of it. The world is spinning more slowly. Our orbit around the sun has lost momentum. The second trimester is a door at the end of a hallway, a hallway that gets longer with my every step.
Maybe my problem is that I still don't feel pregnant. I've seen the baby in my womb, I have every first trimester symptom recorded, yet... I don't feel the baby inside of me, and I don't look like I have a baby inside of me. I'm just tired, cranky, and generally "blah."
I'm ready to pass the threat of miscarriage and the time of tight waistbands and start filling out those cute maternity clothes.
I Was Wrong
Back when I was waiting to try to conceive, I believed that would be the hardest wait. I envied women who were already trying, because at least they might be pregnant at the end of every cycle. I was downright angry (well, sort of) to see pregnant women complaining about time. After all they at least knew they'd have a baby in nine months, whereas I didn't know when or if I'd conceive.
Yet here I am, realizing that for me, the time did pass faster when I was waiting to conceive, and the time did pass faster when I was trying. Granted, the waits were grueling. The months dragged. Now, though, the weeks drag. The days drag.
The difference is probably as simple as the fact that not only am I waiting, but I am waiting with queasiness, sore boobs, heartburn, pimples, and fatigue. Physical discomfort can slow the clock.