Rollercoaster Day Part 1

26/04/21

I headed in to the all too familiar room of my fertility doctor who I now refer to lovingly as Swifty Swift. This time Chris was with me.

In the dark room with the wooden furniture, the abdominal ultrasound didn't give a clear picture. Prepare the trans-vaginal ultrasound wand! So with Chris on one side of me and Swifty Swift on the other, the wand was inserted. Not much was said until, barely managing to hide the panic in my voice, I asked if everything was ok. That's when he turned the sound on and a "ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum" hit me in the chest like a shockwave. I was 7 weeks, 3 days and listening to a heartbeat.

The rollercoaster was on the up and up.

The joy though quickly turned to worry when I'd put my undies back on and sat in Swifty Swift's office. He talked us through my post-cancer-treatment body and its subsequent possible complications. Basically, why I'm so high risk comes down to the fact that I no longer have a cervix. So, despite there being stitch in place and me being on progesterone (to subtly remind my body to keep the damn baby inside), I was a bit of an unusual case. The risks were many and laid out in front of us.

In a matter of fact manner, we were told how babies from 24 weeks could survive. But 28 weeks was better. They had a 90% survival rate these days. So 28 weeks was the aim. To be honest though, 28 weeks seemed ridiculous to me. That's way too early! I was also told about the possibility of needing to finish up work at 20 weeks, needing to wrap myself in cotton wool throughout the second trimester, possibly requiring bed rest in hospital and, bluntly, the possibility of losing this baby before it was developed enough to attempt saving it.

The rollercoaster took a sudden drop and took my stomach with it.

With ultrasound pictures of this tiny thing with a tiny heartbeat in my hand, we left the medical centre sad. Which sucked! Because we had just heard the heartbeat of something that was part me and part Chris and that was bloody incredible. But the risks made it sound pointless and like we were playing some kind of sick waiting game, waiting for things to go wrong.

I cried properly for the first time since this pregnancy saga began when we got home. This was scary.

Chris headed off to a job interview around lunchtime (which went wonderfully) and a visit with mum and Pete and a cuddle with the happiest puppy dog that ever puppy dogged picked me up.

Slowly the rollercoaster putted back uphill.

By that afternoon I was feeling hopeful. In the same way that lots could go wrong, there was also the possibility that things went perfectly.

For the last 2 weeks, since finding out I was pregnant, I've been rushing to the bathroom regularly to check for bleeding. You see, each night I insert a capsule of progesterone into my vagina and, over the next 24 hours, it leaks back out in an oily, chalky consistency. And as I feel it leak out, I assume I'm bleeding and miscarrying. So, for the millionth time that day, around 6pm with Chris cooking dinner in the kitchen, I went to check for bleeding assuming I would find nothing wrong. Only this time, there was something wrong.

The rollercoaster plumetted.