Such a fun time, I'll never do it again
Sorry for the lack of update. Blogger can bite me.
Went to the doctor this afternoon thinking it would be a quick in-and-out--she'd check my cervix, tell me it was Braxton-Hicks contractions and to drink lots of water, and that would be the end of it. Instead she looked grave, said "I knew this could happen but I didn't think it would be so soon," and generally alarmed the shit out of me. The concern, of course, being preterm labor, though technically it's not really considered preterm labor until 20 weeks (and I'm 15w2d today). Fortunately, internal exam revealed my cervix was firmly closed. Transabdominal scan showed Bat Boy happy as a clam in his/her amniotic bubble (is it confusing that I refer to the baby as Bat Boy but also as him/her? To me too, a little). Transvaginal scan (yes, I got both! a rare treat!) to measure my cervix showed it nice and long, 3.2 cm. But just in case, TheGoodDoc sent me over to the hospital (maternal-fetal evaluation dept.) to get a better measurement on their super duper ultrasound. She said that although everything looked fine, because of my unicornuate uterus she wanted to be extra careful. I almost hugged her.
At the hospital, I once again got both cootercam and transabdominal treatment. Cootercam showed the cervix long (3.4 cm) and closed--and I could actually see my cervix, unlike on the machine at the doctor's office, where I have to take it on faith that the blob TheGoodDoc is measuring is my cervix and not, say, my hip bone. Then, for a treat, the tech busted out the transabdominal thingumabob and the warm (oooohhhh) ultrasound gel and did quick measurements of Bat Boy's major anatomy--head, femur, upper arm, etc. Everything measured perfect for dates and both the tech and the maternal-fetal specialist said Bat Boy was quite cute, though I'm sure they say that to everyone. I got to hear the heartbeat and see Bat Boy, now looking like a real baby instead of a half-lizard alien, moving around (a LOT) on the big screen TV so thoughtfully mounted over the bed, and came home with two lovely pictures (or as the tech cheerfully said, "Here's the cute profile shot!").
Ah, but here's the booby prize: TheGoodDoc wants me working from home, on modified bed rest again, for the rest of the week. (And the usual no sex rule, which my husband is just thrilled about, let me tell you.) She said since my cervix looked okay, there wasn't much point in treating me for preterm labor, but I should drink lots of water and take magnesium supplements, which I guess is the DIY version of the magnesium sulfate IV they typically give in the hospital to slow preterm labor. I have my 16-week appointment next Tuesday and if I'm doing better (I guess meaning no more contractions) by then, I can go back to work. I am skeptical that staying off my feet will actually do anything other than drive me crazy, though I'm willing to go along with it as long as it's not full bed rest--if I get ordered onto full bed rest, I may have to raise a stink.
I guess the question is, why did I wait so long to go to the doctor? Considering I called in the past when I had, like, a minute of spotting, why did it take almost 24 hours of fairly frequent contractions before I finally called? It's not because I was afraid of not being taken seriously--every time I've had the slightest concern, my doctor's office has been incredibly responsive and understanding. (Though I do have a little medical-PTSD-by-proxy, where I've heard so many asshole doctor stories that I always expect the worst.) After much consideration, I have to say that it's because I was fearing exactly what happened: alarming talk, being sent home, fears fulfilled.
My husband used to tease me that I secretly liked having all kinds of things wrong with me--liked going to the doctor and getting special attention, liked juggling medications and medical records, liked importantly explaining medical conditions to other people. And, okay, while I would prefer not to have a pregnancy complication associated with such a high rate of fetal death, there is a tiny (like 0.00001%) part of me that is actually glad to have a reason to get extra attention during this pregnancy--to not be so normal that I get shuffled in with all the "it only took once!" fertiles. I know that sounds terrible, and I would not wish a pregnancy-threatening birth defect like mine on anyone. But if there were some very tiny, not particularly dangerous but mildly interesting complication that would necessitate biweekly ultrasounds--or heck, if ACOG simply mandated that all women who have gone through fertility treatment must get double the attention from their OBs--well, I wouldn't say no to that.
So there's that. The "special" thing. The feeling that, having gone through IF, I shouldn't be treated like everyone else. But then there's the whole idea of normal. I was starting to almost enjoy the idea of being normal. I was thinking about cribs and color schemes. I was coming up on two weeks spotting-free. I was looking forward to maybe exercising, even (gasp!) maybe having sex again. There was a whiff of optimism in the air. I could see normal off in the distance, and I liked the look of it.
Now, bye-bye to normal. At least for now. That's what I was afraid of.
Interestingly, this whole time (the past few days), I have not been worried about Bat Boy. That is, I have been worried about Bat Boy, but I haven't been worried that he/she wasn't alive. I was worried that my uterus might prematurely expel him/her, but not that there was anything really wrong with the baby him/herself. I guess that marks a new stage in the evolution of worry for me.