On Pizza and Ultrasounds

There's a strong theme of self-blame among women who suffer miscarriages, and while I am very good at talking other women out of their self-punitive logic, I have a stubborn streak of my own that I just can't shake.

Monday, I took Elsie to Whole Foods for lazy (sick and exhausted) mom's lunch.  I bought her a juice box, a piece of pepperoni pizza and a little tub of pre-cut watermelon and let her go to town.  I had fasted for a week at that point due to my nausea and complete revulsion at the sight, smell, or mention of food.  Something shifted, there at that table in the market.  That pizza looked AMAZING.  It even smelled amazing.  I wanted it.  It was a huge piece.  Yes, I am sensitive to gluten, but surely there would be no harm in taking a little bite.  And another.  And another.

I ended up eating half the piece of pizza. I couldn't stop.  It felt so good to eat and to enjoy eating.  But with every delicious, ravenous, satisfying bite, this little nag in my head said, "If you miscarry tomorrow, you are going to hate yourself for eating gluten today." 

Almost exactly 24 hours later, in one fell swoop, I lost 95% of my pregnancy symptoms.

"What if I killed our baby with pizza?" I asked hub.

"What if pizza cured your morning sickness?" He responded.  "Maybe your body was telling you it needed pizza."


I was not amused.

*********

Since Tuesday, I have been seeking answers to my diminished nausea, breast tingling, and vivid dreams.

Connie is my wonderful and amazing primary care midwife.  She's a middle aged woman of compassion, pragmatism and big, Bonnie Raitt hair.  She, and most of the midwives at my practice, seem to have honed their trade during the Our Bodies Ourselves revolution, and I love them for it.  The spirit of feminism runs strong at the birth center, and it is completely fitting.  An inherent trust and confidence in women's ability to know and to do are not just gravy, they're a foundation for supporting healthy pregnancies and empowering natural childbirth, which is what most midwives do best.

Connie was happy to see me, squeezed in between appointments.  She remembered my story in great detail.  When I explained my worry, the urgency with which I wanted more information, and then apologized for being so incredibly paranoid, Connie stopped me.

"Don't be sorry.  We all live based on our own experiences, and you have more than enough experience to cause you to worry.  What's you're phone number?  I'm going to make sure you get your results as soon as possible."  Connie gave me a warm hug on my way out.

The results was 104185, a number delivered to me by Heidi, another midwife.  It represents HCG level.

"That's nice and high.  A good number for 7 weeks."  She reported.  "We'll see what your next number is at 48 hours."

I thanked her and hung up.  Ten seconds later, my phone rang again.


"Kate, it's Heidi.  I was thinking, you seem pretty worried, would you like me to order an ultrasound?  The HCG is high enough for it to be informative, and seeing is believing."

I explained that, yes, any information I could get before Saturday morning, when my husband leaves the country for three weeks, would be most appreciated.  Again, I apologized for my obsessive attitude, and again, I was offered heartfelt reassurances,

"Don't be sorry.  You're listening to your body, and that's exactly what you should be doing." 

I can't imagine any OB I've ever met saying these things.  I always feel as though doctors are inwardly rolling their eyes at me.  Five minutes later, the phone rang again.

"It's Heidi.  You're booked for an ultrasound tomorrow morning.  Drop by my office afterwords. 


**********

This morning, I skipped yoga to go to the hospital for my ultrasound.  Hub met me in the waiting room and joined me when a very sympathetic tech ushered us into the room.  She asked about my history.

"This is my fifth pregnancy."

She nodded and explained to me that she's not allowed to give diagnosis (read: bad news).  But that she would answer whatever information she could.

"You understand."  She said.  "You've been through this before."   I have.

She was able to see what she needed with external ultrasound, so no joystick vagina this time, which was a nice surprise.

"I just want to show you this" she said, momentarily swiveling the screen into my view.  "It's a heartbeat.  It's not a promise, it doesn't mean what's going to happen next week, just what's here now.  And right now, there's an embryo with a heartbeat. 143.  It's a good rate."

I started to cry, embarrassing Hub, I'm sure.

"Thank you."  I choked.  "I thought there would be nothing."

I thought there would be nothing.  But there is something:

 Findings: Transabdominal images demonstrate a single live intrauterine gestation with identification of a normal gestational sac, yolk sac, and fetal pole. Too early to assess the placenta. Adequate amount of amniotic fluid. The fetal heart rate is 143 beats per minute. The crown-rump length is compatible with 6 weeks 5 days which correlates with the dates by the last menstrual period of 9/29/2011. The uterus and ovaries appear unremarkable. No significant free fluid in the pelvis. Impression: Single normal live intrauterine gestation, size equals dates.

So that's that.  Where we are now.  I am not currently miscarrying.

Heidi gave me a big hug and sent me on my way.

"I'm STARVING."  I told Hub, no longer feeling my hunger as a bad omen.  He gave me a squeeze, and took me out for fish and chips.  Glutinous, deep-fried, delicious fish and chips.

Maybe pizza did cure my morning sickness after all.  Pregnancy is a strange beast.