My God is bigger

My God is bigger than all of my fears. He just simply is. Yes, you know what, this might turn out badly. And if it does, I will survive.

But it probably won't. Because my God is bigger. Because He has a plan, whether I can see it or not.


And in other news: I'm a homeowner!!!!!!
I didn't sleep well last night, so I'm cutting this short and heading to bed early, but I thought 2 happy posts in a row was warranted.

Thank you for all the positive comments, emails, IMs, phone calls, etc...they mean the world to me. Even if I don't respond. (I still love you! I promise!)

What a difference a day makes. Take 2.

Ok. I'm back.
And again, I say. I refuse to give up on my little Poppy.

Hey, we've made it this far! 10 weeks today! In my crazy-girl mind, I thought if I could just make it this long, I'd be fine. So I'm going to stick with that.

Everything is going to be fine. Besides, what is stressing about it getting me? A lot of sleepless nights and stress I just don't need to deal with. I'm sad and nothing has happened. Well now, if that's not silly, I just don't know what is. And it's not like I'm the only woman ever to have a tough pregnancy. So I'm telling myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.

Anyway, just thought I'd share.

Oh, and in other news, in 24 hours the HG and I will be homeowners! Whoo hooo!!!!

What a difference a day makes.

I take back my big sigh of relief.

I don't even know what to make of this anymore. I don't know how to cope. I don't know how to handle it. I don't know how to be optimistic anymore.

Above all, I don't know how this can turn out OK.

If it's possible, the spotting is worse and scarier than it's been. And yet it's not actual bleeding. Oh, it's blood, there is no question of that. But it's still just spotting. I'm not sure I'll be able to say that much longer.

After a fantastic day yesterday (no spotting! Heartbeat!!), I woke up to more of the same. More and worse. I have the HG on standby to leave for the ER. I have my doctor on speed dial. I took a shower and shaved my legs (hey, I'm not going to the hospital all nasty! I might be sad, but I'm not gross.) And now I'm lying in bed hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

It's raining out. A lot. And it really matches my mood. My babies (the Sir and Babygirl--the best kitties ever) are sitting at the foot of my bed. Babygirl is keeping a close eye on me and the sir is occasionally bumping me with his head to let me know he loves me. They're good babies. I'm glad it's raining. If it was sunny, they'd be out on the porch looking for bugs to terrorize. But instead they're here with me. The HG is in his man-cave working. I think that's good. I don't want to talk about it out loud.

I have a friend on the way over to watch movies and order in some dinner. I hope I can find the strength to be happy. I'm just so tired.

It just feels so cruel. I've tried for 2 years to get pregnant. We worked so hard at it. And yes, I got pregnant on a "break" cycle. I know that. We got lucky. But it doesn't feel so lucky anymore. It feels like a cruel, cruel joke. The second I allow myself to get excited or to be optimistic, the spotting starts up again. Just read my post from yesterday. I was so happy. So excited. So optimistic.

I even planned to go buy a Bella Band today (or whatever Motherhood's alternative is). And I kid you not, not 3 minutes after I solidified plans to go to the mall with a friend, the spotting started up again. Worse than ever. (I will spare you all the details. Even in this state of mind, I'm a giver.) So I ask you: What is the point of optimism? What is the point of thinking the best? All it does it make things worse. I can't do it any more. I don't want to think the worst, but I don't know how not to.

All I ever wanted was a happy, healthy pregnancy. I mean, we worked so hard to get here. So hard. And now....this? Really? It's just not fair. And I know, I know. Life isn't fair. Trust me, I get that. I know I'm blessed in many, many, many ways. Does that mean I'm not allowed to be blessed with a child, too? Does that mean I have to suffer so painfully right now? Because I'm blessed in other ways? Somehow that doesn't seem right. I know plenty of other people who are equally, if not more, blessed. I mean, when you count up my blessings, and I'm not complaining about them, but when you really look at them, they're not all that out of the ordinary. I have a good job. I married a good guy with a good job. We saved money and bought a house. I'm not sure I'm special. It all seems kind of normal to me. Not that I take them for granted, I do not. I know it could be very different. I know it could be worse. I know I could lose my job, the HG could lose his....a lot of "bad" things could happen to us. But because they haven't, I should somehow have to suffer through this? Is that how this works? I don't think so. That's not how I always understood the world to work. So why does it feel that way now?

Let me try to explain how I feel.
Some of you may know just how painfully afraid of flying I am. And for those of you who don't, let's just say, the HG likened me to a cat in a bath the first time he and I flew together. I was so terrified that I drew blood on his hand from grasping it so tightly. So flying is not my thing. We fly to Florida to see the Florida family at least once a year. It takes a night of not sleeping (so I'm nice and sleepy) and a triple dose of xanax to get me on the plane. Then I have to take 2 more doses of xanax on the flight. It's a 2 hour flight. I'm not just afraid of flying, I'm terrified of it. And the whole time I'm on the plane, I have the sensation that at any moment the plane will plunge from the sky. I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for that inevitable moment where I feel us rapidly losing altitude. Imagine how it would feel to be on a roller coaster, blindfolded, without a seatbelt. The drop is coming, you just don't know when. That's how I feel on a plane.

And that's how I've felt for the past almost 2.5 months. Only without the xanax.
And I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up.

Yes, I would take this feeling over the feeling of loss and despair I'd have should I actually lose this little baby. But I really can't take this feeling anymore, either. And I don't know how to stop it. Because I fear this anxiety and fear is just a precursor to the despair I'm about to feel.

How am I supposed to stop feeling this way? I can't stop the spotting. I can't stop the bleeding. I can't do anything but wait and see. Wait and see. Wait and see.

But for how long? Certainly this can't keep up for the next 30 weeks, right? And if it does, will I ever get used to it?

In the meantime, I think I'm going to continue to pay for COBRA. Our infertilty benefits were provided by my previous company's benefits. So we've been paying to keep them for the past year. I can keep them through next June. At this point it seems prudent to keep them. Just in case.

And now I'm going to go try to be happy. I'll let you know how it goes.

Big Sigh (Relief)

I have to say, it really sucks that they can't figure out what's wrong. But at least my doctor is really good about seeing me when I need to be seen.

The HG and I made an emergency trip to the OB this afternoon. After a very scary afternoon yesterday, I called the OB this morning and they wanted me in right away. Which, frankly, is easier said than done.

I was in the car on the way to a work meeting when the nurse called me back. It was a non-optional meeting. That was at 11am. We agreed I'd come in a 1pm. So my morning looked something like this:

11-11:30 Rush meeting with customer (hurry! stop talking! I have places to be.....)
11:30-11:45 Run to DD to feed my aching belly. Oh, so hungry. Also, change out of suit coat into sweater
11:45-12:05 Rush, rush, rush back to the office to tell them what's going on
12:05-12:10 Look frantically for someone to talk to. Damn this "lunch hour" thing.
12:10-12:11 Confess to boss that I'm pregnant. Went well. "Hi, I'm pregnant and my OB needs to see me ASAP." Blessesdly, my boss is a man and wasn't going to ask. I should have just told him it was that time of the month.
12:12-12:29 Fight traffic and torrential downpours to pick up the HG (hey, I'm not going through this alone) at work
12:30-12:55 Fight more traffic and rain to get to the hosptial
12:55-12:55:30 Change out of dress pants into jeans in the parking lot (hi, I soooo need to stop trying to wear my "regular clothes")
12:55:30-12:59 Navigate 3 foot deep puddles, some girl from the psych ward on her weekend pass, and broken elevators to get to the office on time
12:59-1:55 Wait in doctors office for my turn

Good times.

But finally the nurse came in and said she'd try to get the heartbeat on the little office ultrasound. "However," she said, "you're a big girl, so we'll see if I can get it." Hi, yeah, I prefer the term "fatty" thank you very much. Anyway. She also said that if she couldn't get the heartbeat, it didn't mean anything. We'd just be in "limbo" until I could get in for a real ultrasound on Monday. Now, to a normal person, this is a reasonable suggestion. I, however, am NOT a normal person. The prospect of having to wait all weekend for an answer was not a pleasant one.

But I didn't have to wait. After helpfully pushing my fat out of the way ("you hold your tummy out of the way, please" this nurse and I are gonna fight!), the nurse was able to find the heartbeat on the ultrasound right away.
Phew.

And as a bonus, she set me up for what she called a "Maternal Reassurance Check" on Wednesday. In other words, they'll let the crazy pregnant chick come back on Wednesday to check for a heartbeat again.

I'm feeling much better today! MUCH better!

I'm so over this.

Make it stop.
That is really all I have to say.

I am not so slowly going insane and frankly, it sucks.
And so I repeat.
Make is stop.

I'd like my life back, please.

I was ROBBED!

I was born in 1974 (if you do the math, you'll come up with 33. I'm not sure how that works, since I'm only 26, but I'm more an English girl anyway....) so I did a lot of growing up in the 80's. I have a picture of me in an acid wash mini-skirt with an oversizsed Guess? t-shirt, silver conch shell belt, keds, and like 4 pairs of socks to prove it. Spikey hair and all. And as a certified child of the 80's, I am a New Kids on the Block fan. Not like a super fan or anything. I never had posters, pins, books, a Trapper Keeper, sheets, shoes, dolls (excuse me "action figures"), or ok, even any of their tapes. But I was fan. And in my defense, we were under a veritable "media blackout" in my house.

No really. When I was around 10, my father decided that "secular" music, books, and TV was going to send us all to Hell. So the TV was moved to the closet (funny, though, the TV in my parent's room was allowed to stay. Guess dad wasn't worried about going to Hell....) and the radio was banned. All books were pre-screened for acceptability. It was pure craziness.

When my older sister learned to drive, she and I would ride around town listening to the "Evil" music on Kiss FM. Then we'd change the station back to the Christian one right before we pulled in. Somehow, we got busted every.single.time. How? Well, I'll tell you. The Christian station was one channel lower on the dial than Kiss. So my dad would get in the car, hit a button, and the last station played would come up.

Or so I thought. In reality what happened is that dad would get in the car, hit the "scan" button and the radio would automatically seek out the next station. Then he'd turn to us and say "Is there something you want to tell me?" And we'd confess. Man were we stupid. The best part of this story? Yeah. I just figured it out like last year.

But none of this kept me from loving NKOTB. In my sad, pre-adolescent mind, I was totally, totally Hangin Tough. Or something like that. All I know is that I knew every lyric of every song. Know. Not "knew" or remember. Know. Yeah, I'm pathetic. But you know what? I'm totally fine with it! So fine with it, in fact that when the local radio station started running a contest to win tickets to the concert this weekend, I dialed as fast as my bloated little fingers would dial. Ok, I have the station on speed dial. Stop nitpicking.

I have tried to win a couple of times (couple=everyday for the past 2 weeks) and haven't even gotten a busy signal. Until today. I dialed once. And heard: Caller 21!!
OMG OMG OMG I'M SO GOING TO SEE THE NKOTB!
I giddily waited for them to take my name and address and record my crazy squeals for everyone in the area to hear.

But all I heard was dial tone.
What?!? Where are my tickets? I was totally caller 21! I won!
But I got nothin but dial tone.

The radio robbed me. Sigh.

I suppose in the end it's for the best. I'm not sure how dancing to The Right Stuff all night would fit into my "pelvic rest". But really. That's not the point.
Stupid radio.

Maybe Dad was right. Radio is from the devil after all.

Back up off me.

Alright, alright. I know. It's been a long time since I blogged. I'm tired. Hi, I'm growing a human.

Ok, that's a terrible excuse. Like sitting on my fatty butt and typing for a few minutes is so difficult. It's more that I don't know what to say. I thought that NOT being pregnant was hard emotionally. Being pregnant is harder. If that's possible. What's that saying "be careful what you wish for...." I think it's true.

I soooo badly wanted to be pregnant. If I could just get pregnant, I'd be OK. I'd just KNOW everything was going to be OK. That's what all my friends said. You'll just know it's fine. You'll feel it in your heart. I feel nothing like that. I feel fear and panic on a daily basis.

But that's not all. I also feel a sort of peace. Yes, I'm spotting on a daily basis. And that is simply terrifying. And it makes me think of all kinds of terrible thoughts. Starting with "I'm going to miscarry" and ending somewhere along the lines of "My baby has a horrible defect and only the progesterone I'm taking is keeping me from miscarrying." Hi, I'm crazy. If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know that. If you're new, please make a note. I'm crazy. It really makes my mental ramblings easier to understand if you just accept that I'm not sane.

But Ok, so I'm spotting. It's not much (TMI alert...please skip the next sentence if you don't want to know)...it's generally just a dot or two of red. Or a red streak once or twice a day. I never need a panty liner. It doesn't last all day. (Hey, you were warned. Karma points for me for warning you.) My nurse calls it "scant". Whatever. I call it "scary as shit". Po-tay-toe/po-tah-toe. Then I think that if it was going to turn into more, it would have, right? (This is where you all chime in and tell me it'll be OK)

Let's discuss my day. I start off completely optimistic. I am pregnant! I'm going to be MOM. There is a little heartbeat (and legs! We saw them!) living inside me. And it's not mine! Yay! Then every time I go to the bathroom and have a "safe" trip, I feel more and more reassured that in April, we will come home with a healthy baby. Then it starts. Sometimes it's bearly noticeable. I wonder if it's really there or if it's all in my mind. So I keep checking. Until I get the confirmation of what I was afraid of. And then every reassurance I felt that everything is OK flies out the window. And the terror is back.

It's sad. My mom wants to talk about the baby. My sisters want to talk about it. My MIL wants to talk about it. Heck, **I** want to talk about it. But I feel like as soon as I start to feel good, it starts up again. So I avoid it. As though by avoiding talking about the baby I can prevent the spotting. As tough I have that kind of power. If I did, this stupid spotting would have stopped already. Because I try the mind body connection thing on a daily basis. You know, the new-age touchy feeling theory that you can heal yourself by thinking it. For the record, it doesn't work.

You know what else doesn't work? Prayer. I have prayed and prayed and prayed for it to just stop already. Just stop. I can't take it anymore. But it doesn't. Of course, I also pray and pray and pray for Poppy to be just fine and frankly, if I can only get 1/2 of what I pray for, I'll take that, thank you very much. So really, I'm not even complaining about that. Just pointing it out!

So I wonder. Will blogging about it have any effect? What do you think? Perhaps the Internet has some power I'm not aware of. Any chance I can ask you all to pray for me? And Poppy? And the poor HG? The HG has been a trooper. I have to say he's like the best and stuff. In addition to dealing with a really nasty work problem (think absolute terror on a daily basis of being fired--for the record, this won't happen and was never going to happen. But I, of all people, understand irrational fear), finishing his Master's thesis, and buying a house, he's been dealing with the crazy, terrorized wife. For real. If ever I wondered if I married the right guy (um, I never have but if I ever had), those thoughts would have been put to rest after all of this. He is a trooper. I don't know where he gets the strength to deal with it all. I wonder if he taps my Xanax....hmmmm....

To sum up this rambling, not so amusing post, I'm a crazy girl. Who is going crazier with every passing day. And as I cannot take any xanax, Valium, lithium, or even aspirin, please send help. Post haste.

PS--The HG has reassured me that he does not tap my Xanax: "It's expired anyway." Good to know.

We have heartbeat!

114 BPM!
The ultrasound tech made me lay down completely on the table, making it incredibly difficult for me to diagnose myself. So I had to ask her if she saw a flicker. She did. I immediately started crying. The HG panicked and said "What's a 'flicker'?" I love the HG. He had no idea if my tears were tears of joy or pain. Once I choked out "heartbeat" he started to tear up, too. Poppy is alone in there and has a heartbeat! Poppy's gestational sac measures 6 weeks, 2 days and our little overachiever is measuring at 7 weeks! What more could we ask for?

I'll tell you what more I could ask for....
Some symptoms. I'd love some morning sickness. Boobs that are sore to the touch. Heartburn. Something. I just don't feel very pregnant. I want to know everything is OK in there. I know, I know, I know. A heartbeat is the best news at this stage. There is nothing more I can know or ask for right now. I know. But it's hard not to want more.

And I'll tell you why I'm worried this time. I'm worried because my progesterone level dropped. It went from 14 up to 21 then down to 15. So I'm freaking out. But you know what? It's my own fault. I asked. The doctor had no interest in sharing it with me. She wasn't going to mention it. Why? Because she wasn't worried. So please, someone, please tell me why I am? Please? I just want to be able to relax and enjoy this and so far, I'm not. Even though everything is looking good. A heartbeat is a really good sign. It's the best indicator of a viable pregnancy. It's what I prayed for. And yet. Sigh. I want to stop worrying. Perhaps after next week's ultrasound, I'll feel better.

Yes, that's right, I get another one next week. Because I was released to OB. Yikes. That's scary. I like the comfort of seeing the RE every week. Of having repeat betas to see that number going up. But my RE is letting me go to OB because I have a "normal" pregnancy. Why doesn't that reassure me? What will reassure me? Probably labor.

And then I'm sure I'll find something new and fun to obsess over. This child will give me sleepless, prayer-filled nights from now till the end of time, won't it?