Abu el Banat

After our last disastrously long wait at the hospital, both the Rock Star and I arrived with something to do this morning.

It’s a hideous autumn day here; alternating cold rain with bursts of sunshine, leading the unsuspecting out into the world sans umbrellas only to tip down on them again seconds later. After managing to aggressively pursue and capture one of the hospital’s elusive parking spaces, we splashed through the parking lot to the ante-natal clinic.

The outside of the clinic is always vaguely depressing due to the number of smokers (some of whom are even more depressingly pregnant) standing outside despite numerous signs in and around the hospital complex that reiterate the “HEY, THIS IS A MEDICAL FACILITY, DUMBASS, YOU CAN’T LIGHT UP HERE” message. So after running the gauntlet, we settled down into the waiting room, wondering if besides entertainment, we should have also thought to bring a camp stove and sleeping bags.

However, I’d not even had a chance to make it through the quotes in the preface of my novel before we were called back, more than making up for our marathon wait of a few weeks ago.

Our scan technician was an African gentleman with a positively bewildering accent. I always feel awful asking people with thick accents to repeat themselves, as it always feels more like a failing on MY part than anything else, but the simple phrase, “Do you have anything you’d like to ask me?” took a grand total of 4 repetitions to filter through into either mine or the Rock Star’s brains.

The scan went very well. All looks normal, which IS of course the most important thing. But of course, we were also kind of dying to know the gender.

One of our favorite TV shows of all time is The West Wing and The Rock Star has had this little monologue running through his head from the moment the scan technician opened his mouth to let us know the verdict.

PRESIDENT BARTLET
You know, 15 years ago, we took a trip to Egypt, all five of us, saw the
pyramids and Luxor, then headed up into the Sinai. We had a guide, a
Bedouin man, who called me “Abu el Banat.” Whenever we’d meet another
Bedouin, he’d introduce me as “Abu el Banat.” The Bedouin would laugh
and laugh and then offer me a cup of tea. And I’d go and pay them for
the tea, and they wouldn’t let me. “Abu el Banat” means “father of
daughters.” They thought the tea was the least they could do.

So, another girl for the Potahousehold. We’re looking forward to telling the Prawn the news, although my guess is that she’ll be like, “Sister! Great! Can I watch Dora now?” The reality of “competition” in the house probably won’t quite set in until the Squid is ensconced within our 4 walls. She is too young yet to understand that at the very least, she’ll get to do everything first, which will bug the living daylights out of Squid.

“She gets to wear make up! She gets to stay up later! She gets to wear a low cut dress! (don’t count on it) WHY CAN’T I??”

Of course, as with any scan that concludes that a fetus is a girl, we’ll still keep an open mind in case of hidden boyparts that might suddenly appear at birth.

Listening Skills

Since we have already somewhat touched upon the subject of pregnancy rage, I will simply begin with this thought in mind and leave it up to you, dear reader, to imagine what I may or may not be feeling at this moment.

The Rock Star has been working his pants off on a particular work project with a deadline of 2 pm today for some time. Unfortunately, other projects got in the way and he spent this weekend feeling a bit like a small thundercloud and having to work mornings before the Prawn woke up and evenings after she'd gone to bed. (Of course, on Saturday night, she staged an "I don't want to go to bed" type protest, depriving him of further working time.) All things being what they were, The Rock Star was one big ball of stress come this morning.

And now we rewind briefly to a midwife appointment that I attended last Wednesday.

Perhaps when we were first married, The Rock Star and I might have toyed around with the idea of a bigger family. I liked the idea of three children. However, as it became apparent that we wouldn't be able to start our family for some time due to fiscal concerns, we decided that two was probably a more reasonable number. This has been our thinking for at least 6 or 7 years now. So, one of the questions I had prepared for my midwife was the question of a tubal ligation, since I will most likely be having an elective caesarian this time around due to the manner of the Prawn's arrival. This is a decision that I don't really feel like debating with anybody. Do I wish they hadn't cut me open the first time? Yes. Do I want them to cut me open again? No. Do I think it's the best option for the baby? No. But do I need someone who lives on the other side of the ocean to come and look after my daughter during the birth? Yes. Do I trust my body to do something that it BLATANTLY wasn't going to do the first time around despite three days of labor? No way. So, as far as I'm concerned, that's the end of my debate.

She let me know that yes, that is an option, but that I needed to bring my husband to the consultant's appointment today so that they could be sure that both of us were on the same page.

This was one of those statements that completely went in one ear and out the other until I set foot outside the surgery when Pregnancy Rage caused an enormous mental pile up causing me to go, "HANG ON JUST ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE....if I want to be in control of my fertility, I have to ASK PERMISSION from my partner?"

Self Control sits in a much smaller office since Pregnancy Rage took over the company. It nervously put it's finger on the little buzzer.

"Erm....really? It's not that big a deal. A little...um...ignorant, but probably not worth getting...erm...too worked up about since we know that our partner is totally on board the no more babies train?"

"WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION, I'LL ASK FOR IT!" roared Rage.

"Yep, yep, okay, that's fine..." Self Control conceded.

"GO GET ME A DOUGHNUT!"

"Yep, that's cool, I'm going...."

So, the situation this morning stood this way. The Rock Star desperately needed to work but I was of the equal belief (as was he) that he needed to accompany me to the appointment to validate a choice that I'm OBVIOUSLY NOT QUALIFIED TO MAKE ON MY OWN. Our only consolation, the 11am appointment wouldn't last long and we'd be back to the office so that he could get on with things.

Around about the time the little hand was between the 11 and the 12 the big hand was on the everloving 9, both of us were starting to get a little stressed out. By the time the traitorous clock informed us that it was in fact 12.40, I kind of thought about calling the nearby Psych ward for the Rock Star, who looked like he might ACTUALLY burst into tears at any moment.

Of course, spending all of that quality time in the waiting room, we got to observe all kinds of domestic and familial drama, the chiefest being a 16 year old who'd come in for an early emergency scan who's mother loudly informed the entire waiting room (on the pretext of informing her daughter) that if anyone gave her the eye for being the youngest person in the waiting room that we could all "just shove it." and then proceeded to use extremely colorful language while leafing through a redecorating magazine (who would have thought that different kinds of wall paper would have required so many different uses of the F word?) despite the presence of a good number of children. Stroppy daughter then began complaining loudly about having to pee (despite the necessity of a full bladder for a scan) and I spent a good 15 minutes watching the rolling of eyeballs around the room as well as the sigh of relief that went up when she was finally called back. I then got the giggles inappropriately thinking of Mom from Futurama, the supposedly sweet industrialist, zipping up her old lady suit and informing her advisers, "I'm off to some charity BS for knocked-up teenage sluts!" (I'm terribly sorry. It was a very, very difficult morning and my brain doesn't know from appropriate anymore. I'm listening to Rage Against the Machine at the moment, so all is lost.)

For any of you not acquainted with my previous experience of baby birthing at this particular hospital, let's just wrap up a whole week into a neat little parcel; it blew. It both blew and sucked, making a mockery of physics. (If anyone is bound and determined to read at least the sanitized version of events, it's in the archives under March 2007) At the time, when I wrote my "birth story", I think I put it this way:

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

With the benefit of sober reflection nearly 2.5 years later, I can honest say that probably 60% of all that went wrong was just bad luck and couldn't have been avoided. However, the remaining 40% comprised a significant portion of the stuff that was the MOST mentally scarring. It was because of this 40% that have made me think long and hard about the birth of the Squid and exactly want I DO and DON'T want to happen. I am not the 17 year old girl in the waiting room. I am a woman and a mother who knows what's best for her and her family based on past experience, research and circumstances. To be treated as such is not, I think, an unreasonable expectation.

But, my NHS trust always has ways of surprising me. "However low the bar is, don't worry, WE'LL SET IT LOWER!"

I like to be fair to people. My consultant was not a bad person. Nor was she a bad doctor. But she clearly had the idea that I needed hand holding or coddling and that I probably hadn't really thought anything through very carefully.

Exhibit A: The c-section I had three major points.

a. I have had a previous caesarian.

b. We need my parents to look after our daughter and obviously they need to know WHEN to come.

c. Being 12 days past my due date and after 3 days in hospital with more drugs pumping through my body than were found in Janis Joplin's autopsy, my body did NOT want to give birth naturally. If you think I'm going through that again, I could do with whatever you're smoking.

What she responded with: "I understand that you might have had a difficult time last time around, but we don't like to do Caeserians for purely social reasons."

Pregnancy Rage was in the middle of taking an axe to the door "Shining" style when Self Control pressed the panic button.

"EXCUSE ME, LADY?" Rage screamed through the now splintered door. "WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO WHAT I JUST SAID? SOCIAL REASONS? SERIOUSLY?" Luckily, the watertight door between offices slammed to the ground and Self Control breathed a small squeak of relief to hear only muffled thumps coming from the other side.

Exhibit B: The tubal ligation I had only one major point.

a. WE DON'T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN. EVER. PERIOD. We've been married for 10 years and this has always been our plan since we began to think about a family seriously. I'm not 24. I'm 34. This is my fifth pregnancy. I'm done. Finito. Finished. Two kids.

What she responded with: "Well, tubal ligation is very PERMANENT and not easily reversible. I appreciate that this is your plan, but circumstances can change. I don't want to comment on your social situation in any way, but there are much less invasive forms of birth control."

A faint blowtorch line was beginning to appear on the watertight door and Self Control reached into her desk drawer, hands trembling, for the tranquilizer darts as she could just begin to hear,

"I'M SORRY, DID I NOT JUST MAKE MYSELF FUCKING CRYSTAL CLEAR ON THE POINT THAT WE DON'T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN? I'VE HAD TEN FUCKING YEARS TO THINK ABOUT THIS! I DIDN'T JUST WAKE UP THIS MORNING AND DECIDE OVER A CUP OF TEA AND CHEERIOS TO GET MY TUBES TIED!"

At this point, I made one last ditch effort to impress NICELY upon this well meaning woman how indescribably awful my previous birth experience had been and how I needed some form of control over my situation this time around, but as I feared, I became a blubbering mess, as I always do when I try to talk about The Prawn's birth, thereby eliminating any credibility I may have had as a mother-to-be not to be messed with.

I could almost hear Rage calling me the most awful names.

One of the worst features of the antenatal unit at our hospital is that it's in a port-a-cabin outside, so nothing is really designed for privacy, thereby forcing me to endure listening to the phone call that she placed in her next door office to the hospital's "Afterthought" service, politely explaining to them in nice terms that she had a very nice, but confused lady who needed to "talk to someone" in order to "process previous birth issues". The Rock Star (who suddenly realized that his presence at this appointment was, in fact, entirely unnecessary) and I contented ourselves by waving middle fingers at the closed door and giggling with insane disbelief.

So, the upshot of the interview- Sorry we gave you a c-section the first time, but no, you probably can't have another one because you don't have a good enough reason. Neither can you have a tubal ligation because you obviously haven't grasped what "never having any more kids" means. Oh, and finding care for your existing kid? Well, that's your problem.

Self Control is sleeping with one eye open.

Updates

So, where were we?

Ah yes. The Squid.

17 weeks today and all is going well. I had an appointment today with a very jolly midwife (who I wish I got to see ALL the time) who pronounced everything normal and above board. The Squid co-operated with the doppler, reassuring us that he/she is still jiving away in his/her uterine squat. In 3 weeks, we go in for the anomaly scan at which point hopefully we'll figure out if we have to buy a whole heap of clothes that aren't pink. I also have a consultant's appointment next week in which to discuss birth options (since the Prawn was a c-section) and also future contraceptive plans. (Tie those puppies off while you're in there!)

In other news, the Prawn spent Saturday running her father back and forth to the toilet and at one point, while seated on the throne, she began singing a lusty chorus of "Rule Britannia" (a natural potty song, I think you'll agree) which just about had Mr. DD paralytic on the floor with laughter. It made me sad to think that my mother-in-law (who, if there was a merciful deity, would NOT still be alive and suffering from CJD) was not about to see this, because I believe she would also have just about wet her knickers on the spot. ( No doubt, if my mother-in-law was about, the Prawn would already know a LOT of other songs, not all of them fit for polite company.)

Squid

14 weeks and all seems to be well.

The Squid (as this little bugger shall be known) seems to be doing his/her uterine thing. Little wiggles are detectable now, if I'm sitting or lying just the right way and I found the little escape artist's heartbeat for the first time just 15 minutes ago with my Home Sanity Saving Kit (My doppler) although, unlike the Prawn, who was happy to sit still while being poked and prodded, The Squid seems to like his/her personal space and will wriggle away from the magic pointy wand.

Mr. DD and I have been speculating as to the gender of The Squid since the 13 week scan went well. Although there's no scientific basis, since this pregnancy has already been vastly different, I'm beginning to be convinced that The Squid possesses a dingle dangle. Of course, I was convinced that the Prawn was a boy and THAT assumption cost me five quid to a friend who was equally certain she was a girl.

Six more weeks to wait and wonder!

UPDATE!

Just got the Nuchal Translucency test results and the Squid is decidedly LOW RISK for Downs. The Prawn was high risk, (1 in 230) so I was dreading the worry again, but the Squid is 1 in 8900. Go sqiddy!

So.

I was bleeding.

A lot.

It was red.

Did I mention that there was a lot?

I was escorted this morning to Waiting Room C at the hospital. I've been in it before, so I knew the way. While I'm glad this waiting room exists, it sucks. It's at the back of the antenatal unit, far away from pregnant bellies, but it' s tiny, and cold. It's the room for the early pregnancy unit where they also tend to put women who's scans won't be showing them anything to be happy about.

They finally did call my name and while waiting for the scan tech, I thought, "By the end of today, this is all going to be over. I can have a good cry tonight and then try to figure out what to do next." I was told in A&E on Saturday that they could book me in for an immediate D&C following the scan if need be. So I came totally prepared with pajamas, socks, pads and two books.

So imagine my absolute fucking shock when the technician turned the monitor my way.

"So, okay, here's your baby, and here's the heartbeat..."

Excuse me, the what?

Despite the copious red blood, despite everything...still there. My cervix is closed, the placenta is firmly attached and NOT covering my cervix, so she basically had no explanation for the blood other than "Sometimes women bleed during pregnancy." Of course, this has certainly not been the case for me. Some women may bleed during pregnancy, but I sure as hell haven't been one of them. If I see blood, RED blood, it's always been game over.

The NT scan, luckily, is booked for Thursday, so I'll have some more reassurance later in the week.

The scan put me at 12.5 weeks. This is my fifth pregnancy, but only my second ever second trimester.

I can't say how sorry I am for the roller coaster ride. From now on, I shall keep my mouth firmly shut in the event of any more scary shit until I know one way or the other. Thank you all so much for riding it with me.

Fuck the universe right in the ear.

I am official done with this reproducing shit.

On the way to hospital again.

Speechless

Okay, first things first.

9w 3d and we have a really little jumping bean with fingers and everything. I have finally gathered the courage to register with the midwife. Roll on, end of the first trimester.

Secondly.

I received a bill yesterday from Dr. BTG that had apparently been rejected by my insurance company. Hoping it was a mistake, I phoned them up only to be told by an Eastern European customer care operative that their "policy regarding fertility matters" had changed rather recently and my claims were now NOT covered. I commented on how nice it was to tell me this when I first sent them a letter detailing my treatment back in July. I could almost audibly hear the woman on the phone shrug her shoulders.

So, we were now responsible for £900 pounds of doctor's bills. I had a good old cry, upsetting the Prawn in the process, until Mr. DD pointed out that it was only money and we could probably take care of that amount in 3 or 4 months with careful budgeting. He is always right.

So, I had my final appointment with Dr. BTG this morning. The scan went very well and then, as we were leaving, I told him that the remainder of the bills needed to be forwarded to us rather than the insurance company.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, waving his hand dismissively, "just pay me in champagne."

We laughed.

"I'm serious," he said, "say...two bottles per visit, six in total?"

Then I nearly cried. Instead of owing £900, we were now only responsible for approximately £200 quid in champagne. (We WILL be getting the good stuff!)

Today was a Good Day.