Remember how, for my 8-week scan, I was feeling pretty optimistic going into it because I woke up and it was sunny outside? Well, today, we had a freak spring-time storm in which the sky began raining ice shards (even the Weather app on my iPhone showed little triangles falling from a cloud, so as to denote the shard-like nature of these stupid things). So yeah — because I always look for signs from a God I don’t really believe in, I started to panic. I kept taking deep breaths and repeating my mantra, “Don’t borrow problems from the future”, except then my stupid brain would retort, “BUT THE FUTURE IS NOW!”
Anyway, we get in the car, drive through the shards, and arrive at the waiting room of our new “regular person” clinic. You’d think I’d be excited to be free of the infertility waiting room, but hells to the no, my friends — I would much rather be surrounded by pleasing colour schemes, a plasma TV and flat-bellied people who are all in a similar state of nervousness than fluorescent lights and a million women with basketball bellies wearing yoga pants. Seriously, I was THE ONLY chick in there wearing skinny jeans and this made me all the more paranoid that nothing, in fact, was growing inside me. Deep breaths.
Finally we were called in. So this is how it works, at our particular clinic: I lie on a bed, next to the ultrasound tech, meaning I can’t see the screen. However, my husband sits on a chair at the foot of the bed and he CAN see the screen. At this point, I was cursing myself for not giving my hubs a more thorough rundown of what, precisely, he needs to be looking for. I was trying to stare at him in a way that telepathically communicated “LOOK FOR THE FLASHING THING IN THE CHEST AND THEN LOOK AT THE FLUID BEHIND THE NECK AND TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU SEE IMMEDIATELY!”
Fortunately, I married a superstar who once wrote an academic paper on empathy, so he not only knew what to look for but managed to tell me everything with a combination of sign language, lip-reading and, of course, moments of sudden jaw-drops and huge smiles. It was pretty adorable when he tried to mimic “kicking” with his hands.
Oh, another weird thing: The ultrasound gel is warmed up before it gets squirted onto your stomach. This actually kind of creeped me out because it felt a little… erm… like another substance, if you get my x-rated drift. I’d rather deal with momentary cold, thanks.
The tech performing the NT scan was nice but didn’t really say much. I am assuming everything is OK because she didn’t “go get the doctor” and she printed out photos for us, but what worries me slightly is that she wasn’t able to get a very accurate measurement of the nuchal fluid because Right On Time Fetus decided it wanted to take a nap, and no amount of prodding, jiggling, coughing, laughing or shaking would make it roll over. We knew it was alive and well because the heart rate was 157 and it was kicking, but apparently 1 p.m. is nap time, and there is no arguing about this. I am trying REALLY hard not to bring up the “lazy” moniker again, I swear.
We also did some bloodwork, which along with whatever measurements she was able to get, should give us results in a week’s time as to whether we have anything to worry about in terms of abnormalities. That is also when I’ll be meeting our OB for the first time. And yes, we decided to go with an OB rather than a midwife (both are covered here in Ontario, but you have to choose one or the other) — that’s a whole other post.
Without further ado, then, here’s the photo of ROTF, measuring 12 weeks 4 days:
Predictions as to whether it’s a boy or girl? I’m still thinking boy. Also, does anything here look weird to any of you?? The dots by its mouth are its fingers, which explains that, but I’m not really an expert on analyzing ultrasound photos.