Baby Basics

I sat in the cushy glider on Wednesday night, rocking gently, looking around, knowing I would be the only woman in the room without a baby bump. Slowly, the obviously pregnant women and their male counterparts filled up the gliders on either side of us. They tried to be inconspicuous as they eyed Dylan, Justin, Jimmi and me, wondering why we would be attending a Baby Basics class at Babies "R" Us. "Don't worry!" Jimmi said when my face told him exactly what I was thinking.

Is it too late to leave?

I wondered if the two women who were setting up to run the class would ask me questions. I wondered if I'd be put on the spot. I wondered if they would inquire about my relationship to whatever baby was coming soon, as it clearly couldn't be mine. I pulled at my oversized sweatshirt, which I'd worn on purpose, to try and make it puff out in the midsection. That worked for about three seconds until it deflated back down to my flat stomach. 

I really want to leave.

The class finally started about five minutes after schedule. The blonde instructor introduced herself and her brunette colleague then suggested we go around the room and give some information about ourselves and why we're attending the class. Well, I guess that was a good thing. At least it would put an end to the curiously confused whispers and stares. "Who wants to start?" she asked with a smile. Suddenly, we were all back in the fourth grade as everyone averted their eyes, lowered their heads and attempted to become invisible as soon as the teacher asked for the correct answer to the impossible math equation on the board. "Anyone?" asked the instructor, desperately. Silence filled the air. Finally, I decided to just get it over with and speak up, "I'll go first since it's obvious I'm not pregnant and you might be wondering what I'm doing here." The instructors faces showed both relief and genuine interest as I began my explanation, "I'm Suzanne, this is my husband, Jimmi, and these are my boys, Dylan and Justin. We're having a baby in May through a gestational carrier in Minnesota." Eyes widened across the room and I could almost see the questions forming in their minds. I brought my monologue to a quick close and hoped no one would pry into the details. The other women told us their names and their run-of-the-mill pregnancy specs: first time pregnant, due in April, having a girl, blah, blah, blah. 

"Ok, let's begin!" chirped the blonde instructor, bringing out a baby doll and sitting in on her knee. I was slightly confused, as I'd expected there'd be a doll for each of us to use as practice. I quickly realized we were preparing for more of a lecture than a hands-on experience. I wondered how long the boys would last. That's when a discussion of immediate skin-to-skin contact after birth arose. I slouched down into my seat, hoping the floor would swallow me up. Our leader looked in my direction and asked, "Do you know if you'll be in the room when your baby is born?" Oh, how I hate that question. "As long as we make it in time," I answered truthfully. "Well," she continued. "Maybe you can let the doctors and nurses know you'd like some skin-to-skin contact right after the birth. You can just take off your shirt." I smirked as the sarcastic remark traveled from my brain to my mouth without being filtered, "Sure," I said. "If Jimmi gets to see another woman naked I guess it's only fair they all see me as well." Since my audience had only met me a few minutes earlier, they weren't sure how to take my sense of humor, but the blonde instructor replied with a smile, "That's right! Make it a free for all!" I could've added to the fun but I chose to cork my mouth and allow the class to continue on to feeding. Here comes the guilt, I thought to myself as the breastfeeding chat began. But, to my pleasant surprise, the leader turned to me and mentioned the best bottles for the least amount of gas while offering her formula picks as well. I lifted my head a bit higher and felt like slightly less of a Mommy Failure.  But the next topic shot me right back down again, "Did you know your baby can recognize your voice at this point?" 

Not mine, I thought. 

"When she's born your voice will be soothing because it'll be familiar." 

Not mine, I thought. 

"Try this out. When your baby is born, let your husband hold her and then say something from across the room. Your baby's head will turn toward your voice." 

Not mine, I thought. 

When the class came to a close I thanked the instructors and Jimmi, Dylan, Justin and I left Babies "R" Us with just enough information to refresh my memory of newborns and give my men the minimum gist of what to expect. 

I woke up on Thursday morning, excited for our 28 week pre-natal appointment which Jimmi and I would be attending via Skype. I logged on and waited impatiently for the numbers on the clock to change. One by one, slowly, slowly, until finally it was noon. No call. Lyndsay shot me a text to let me know the doctor was running behind. We both waited, states apart, for Dr. C to arrive. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty, then sixty. Still nothing. "I'm starving!" Lyndsay texted. "I hope he gets here soon." As time ticked on, I was mentally canceling plans for the day in my head. I guess I could always go food shopping tomorrow. I don't really need gas that badly. Do I have time to shop for a dress for my baby shower? 

Ring!

Finally! "Jimmi!," I called to my husband, "It's time!" He rushed to my side. An hour and twenty minutes after our scheduled appointment time, we were about to begin. I clicked the video button on the Skype screen and Dr. C's smiling face appeared. "Hi, Suzanne! Hi Jimmi! So sorry to keep you waiting," he said then moved his laptop so we could catch a glimpse of a very pregnant Lyndsay. "So, Lyndsay's labs look great. She had her glucose test this morning for gestational diabetes and everything is fine. I'm gonna wheel in the portable ultrasound machine so you can see the baby," Dr. C explained. "I'm sure you know there hasn't been any more bleeding, so that's a good thing." I nodded, "Yeah, that was fun," I snickered sarcastically. The doctor aimed his computer at the ultrasound screen as Lyndsay positioned herself on the exam table. We could see a blur of white but not much else. "There's the face," he said. "Can you back away from the screen a bit?" I asked. "We can't make out the picture." Dr. C readjusted the machines, "Is that better?" Unfortunately, it wasn't. "Not really," I said as I moved my fingers off the keys I'd need to capture a screenshot. I could tell we weren't going to get a clear picture anyway. "Let me try something else," said the doctor. He left the room and came back with a young woman he introduced as a resident. He then handed her his laptop and instructed her to hold it, "over there" to remove some of the glare. She did as she was told and he started the ultrasound again. "Ok, the baby is moving its hand up and down and opening and closing its eyes. See that?" he asked excitedly. Lyndsay answered, "yes" at the same moment I answered, "no." Dr. C had the resident move again. "I can see that he's practicing breathing, which is really great at this stage." I ignored his incorrect pronoun and asked, "You can see that?" Dr. C grinned, "Yes, very well. Looks great!" I hoped they couldn't detect the pain in my voice as I asked, "Can you please print out some pictures and give them to Lyndsay for us? We really can't see anything at all." He agreed and then tried to give us something that would make us feel like we were involved in our baby's life, just a little bit.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

We heard our little Aria's heartbeat on and off as he chased her around with the doppler to catch the sound. "He's an active little boy!" Dr. C laughed and I had to correct him this time. "Unless something's changed, she's a girl!" A shot of fear flew through me, wondering if Dr. C had seen a newly formed penis on the screen.  I heard the painters upstairs working on the hints of glitter and bling in our baby's room and I imagined having to go over it all with a giant roller dipped in blue. The ultrasound machine was turned off after the doctor was finally able to get a reading of 136 beats per minute then he moved on to measuring Lyndsay's growing abdomen. "Twenty-nine centimeters," he announced, "Perfect! I'll see her back in another four weeks."

We ended our call and I turned to Jimmi, "I wanted to see her blinking her eyes and practicing breathing," I whimpered. He hugged me, "I know. I'm sorry." I tried to be thankful that we're even fortunate enough to have a biological child, but each experience we miss tugs at my heart a little bit more. 

I'm having a baby but I've never felt her kick. My husband has never rested his head on my pregnant belly. My baby has never heard my voice. I've never read her a story. She's never heard me sing her a lullaby. When my baby is born she won't know me at all. What if I can't soothe her with my voice? What if she feels abandoned when Lyndsay, the only "mother" she's ever known, is no longer there for her? 

I'm going to be a total stranger to my own child. 

The Phone Call at 4:00 AM

Last night, while Lyndsay and I were texting back and forth about books and guessing when Baby A will finally make her appearance into the world, I realized I hadn't written a blog entry in awhile. I've always been pretty clear about the fact that I wouldn't blog about nothing, so if nothing was happening, nothing would be written. But it's been about two weeks and I really felt like I needed to keep you all in the loop somehow. So, before I went to sleep, I planned on using today's New Jersey snow day to write a blog entry called, "Uneventful" to gush over how happy I am that I don't have anything to write about.

That was before the phone call.

Buzz! Buzz!

I opened my eyes to see the darkness of my bedroom. I know I have a tendency to sleep pretty late when I have no reason to wake up. The blizzard had started at about midnight and the boys were spending the night at their dad's house. I hadn't set an alarm so I had no idea what time it was. But the blackness told me the sun hadn't started it's glowing ascent yet. Why am I awake?

Buzz! Buzz!

Why is my phone ringing? What time is it?

Buzz! Buzz!

I propped myself up on my hands and stretch over to my nightstand, where the light on my vibrating phone alerted me that Lyndsay was calling…at 4:00 AM. It took my mind about three seconds to register the obvious fact that, unless she wanted to chat about swollen ankles in the wee hours of the morning, obviously, something was very wrong.

I cleared my throat and tried to shake the sleep from my cloudy head.

"Hello?" I croaked.
"Suzanne? It's Lyndsay," she said, sounded firm, yet calm.
"What wrong?" I asked, not really sure if I wanted to know the answer.
"I'm in the hospital."

My heart sank down deep into my chest.

She continued, "I started bleeding last night and they have me on a monitor now. I'm having some slight contractions and…"

I couldn't focus. All I knew, at that moment, was that my daughter seemed to be in trouble and I needed to get to her as quickly as possible.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I had briefly forgotten about the Nor'easter that was currently dumping 16 inches of snow all over New Jersey, making all methods of traveling to Minnesota impossible.

"Is the baby ok?" I tried to keep my voice from quivering.
"She seems ok now. They had some trouble finding a heartbeat at first, but I have the monitor on now and her heart is good. They're measuring contractions, too, and they checked my cervix. It seems to be closed."

I guess that was mostly good news.

"They told me if her heart rate starts to dip I'll have to deliver so they gave me a steroid shot to help her lungs mature, just in case."

Ok, THAT wasn't good. I looked over at Jimmi, who was in and out of sleep, and figured I'd explain after I hung up. He'd only be able to hear my side of the conversation anyway.

I didn't know what to say, "I'm stuck here in a blizzard," was all I could get out. And then, "Was there a lot of blood?"
Lyndsay was still calm, which was so helpful because if she freaked out, I would've freaked out, too, "It was at first. I woke up with my underwear completely wet with blood. Now it's just a smear or two when I wipe."

I know people can "spot" when they're pregnant, but completely bloody underwear didn't give me the warm fuzzies.

"And you're having contractions?" I asked.
"Yeah, small ones," Lyndsay confirmed.

I quickly calculated Baby A's gestational age in my head. Sunday will be 27 weeks, which makes today 26 weeks and 4 days. She's viable outside the womb, but she'd have a long and difficult road ahead if she were to be born now. Unfortunately, I know all too well what we'd be in for at a 26+ week delivery because my friend in California had her baby 48 days ago, at about 26 weeks. I've been following her progress through a Caring Bridge journal and, while she's mostly doing well, it's a scary and very hard situation for everyone involved. Tubes and monitors and nurses and doctors and being told when we can and can't hold our own baby are not part of my ideal birth plan.

"So what now?" I asked Lyndsay.
"They said I'll be here for at least the next six hours for monitoring. I'm so sorry I called so early but, if it were me, I'd want to know what was going on."

She's apologizing to me? Is she kidding?

"Don't apologize! I'm glad you called. Keep me posted."

I hung up the phone and it was too quiet. I turned to Jimmi, who was still only half awake, and attempted to keep the tears at bay, "Lyndsay's bleeding. She's in the hospital. I want to go there and we can't!" My husband put his arms around me, "Don't worry. Everything will be ok," he managed before slipping back into dreamland.

But sleep never found me again, as much as I tried. I tossed and turned and tried to ignore the agonizing pounding in my chest. My palms were sweating and my heart was breaking. What will I do if my baby is born and I can't get to her for days? What if she doesn't make it? What if I never have the chance to feel her warm, little body in my arms? What if…

Oh, shit!

A new thought entered my already cluttered brain. In December, the last time we were in Minnesota, we spoke to the social worker who had made it clear that she wanted our legal paperwork in order and in her office by the time Lyndsay reached 24 weeks, just in case of an early delivery. The paperwork, to which she was referring, is our Declaration of Parentage. It's basically the magical document telling the world that, legally and biologically, Jimmi and I are Baby A's parents. All decisions regarding the baby, medical and otherwise, will be made by us. It also allows me to be known as "Mommy," even though Lyndsay will be the one giving birth. I had started hounding my attorney to get on top of things upon our return from Minnesota, which would've been almost the 20 week mark. I had e-mailed her every week following to check on her progress, which she insisted was on track. At week 24, I reminded her that the paperwork was requested promptly and she insisted everything was fine. Now, here we are at 26 weeks and 4 days, and it's not fine. If Baby A is born now, we will legally be considered strangers.

I attempted to push the anger aside and closed my eyes again. But it was no use. I kept my phone in my hand as I watched my bedroom shades go from black to brown to outlined in a ring of light. At about 8:50 AM, I texted Lyndsay for an update:

"How's everything?"
"Just heard from a doc, finally. I'm going for an ultrasound at 9 (10:00 in NJ). After that I will know more."
"Still bleeding?"
"I don't have it like I did. Just some when I wipe."
"And her heartbeat is still strong?"
"Yep. Baby is all good! They said whatever is going on isn't affecting the baby."
"Ok. Are you ok?"
"Yeah. I'm ready to go home."
"I'm sure. Let's hope everything is OK and they'll let you do that. Still having contractions?"
"No. That has gone away."
"Ok. Maybe it's just a fluke thing and she felt like giving us a little scare to keep us on our toes. She's grounded!"
"Poor girl. Not even born and grounded already!"
"Thank you so much for taking such good care of my baby."
"It's my job," she wrote back, followed by a smiley face.

I decided it was time to let my mom know what was going on. I considered calling her at 4:00 AM, but what would that have accomplished? Then she'd also be awake, scared and feeling helpless. Letting her get some sleep seemed like a more appropriate decision.

My dad answered the phone and I could no longer hold back the tears, "Lyndsay's in the hospital! She's bleeding!" I cried. I could hear the concern in my father's voice as he answered, "Oh, no. Let me get your mother."

"What happened?" my mom's voice was steady but scared.
"She's bleeding and they don't know why," I whimpered. "She called me at four o'clock and I've been up since then. I can't get there!"
"Why didn't you call me?" my mom asked.
"Because you wouldn't have been able to do anything and then you just would've been awake and worried, too." I answered reasonably.
"At least I could've tried to comfort you," she said with the same concern for her baby as I had for mine. "And I can't even get to you now," she added with a pained sigh.

Who would've thought the snow in New Jersey, and not Minnesota, would be such a problem?

"So, what's happening now?" she questioned.
"Just waiting for an ultrasound in a little while and we'll hopefully know more."

My mom instructed me to keep her posted and we ended the conversation. My hand was still on my cell phone, ready to pounce on any call or text from Lyndsay.

I figured I should send my attorney and Tina at The Surrogacy Experience emails to let them know about the situation. Tina had already heard from Lyndsay and assured me that other carriers have had the same issues and, with a little rest, were back on their way to complete their healthy pregnancies. My lawyer skipped the return email and jumped straight to a phone call, which I appreciated, since Lyndsay had just texted me to let me know the social worker had paid her a visit to confirm my fears that, without a court ordered Declaration of Parentage, she would have full control over the life-saving decisions if Baby A were to be born now.

"Hi Suzanne," she said in her New York City, power-tone. "I got your e-mail and I'm going to prepare a document that will give you and Jimmi power of attorney if the baby is born before we can petition the court to have you recognized as the parents. That will allow you to make medical decisions for your daughter. Does she have a name? I'd like to put it in the paperwork." I wasn't sure why that was necessary, but I answered her question, "Aria. A-R-I-A." She paused a moment, then repeated my baby's name back to me, "Aria. That's beautiful." I smiled at the thought of my little fighter and then she asked, "Is there a middle name?" I nodded, though she couldn't see me, "Eileen. E-I-L-E-E-N." I heard her entering the information I had given her then she continued, "Ok, so, Lyndsay will need to sign the document, which will give you and Jimmi the power to make decisions for Aria's healthcare, but it won't actually recognize you as the parents yet." Yeah, that was the part I was waiting to hear. She explained what I already knew, "Luckily, we can have Lyndsay attest to the fact that Jimmi is the father and her husband can sign off that he is not the father, so at least you'll have that much. But, because you're not the one giving birth, they won't consider you the mother without a court order."

Awesome!

She finished her explanation, "If the baby is born now, we'll have to petition the court in Minnesota to name you as the legal mother. I have a signed affidavit from the doctor and all the documentation to prove that, so it shouldn't be a problem. But if, for some reason, the judge won't allow it, you'll just complete an adoption in New Jersey."

No! That's what I was trying to avoid when I insisted on this paperwork getting done early. I do NOT want to have to adopt my own daughter!

I wanted to be clear about what she was saying, "So, I'll have to adopt her but Jimmi won't?" She was very matter-of-fact, "Yes, that's right. But, don't worry! It's an easy process. They'll wave the home study, in this case. You'll just have to be fingerprinted." Was that supposed to make me feel better or worse? This is MY baby! I've been after her for MONTHS to get this document in to the hospital in Minnesota just, in case something like this were to happen. Now I might have to take a backseat to Jimmi and Lyndsay, who would be considered Aria's parents, until the New Jersey courts checked my background to make sure I'm qualified to parent my own daughter? Ridiculous! But, "Ok," was all that passed through my stressed and saddened lips.

Time was ticking by and I still hadn't heard from Lyndsay about the results of the ultrasound. It had been over an hour since our last text, which informed me that she'll need to stay overnight, no matter what, because the doctor wanted to get a second dose of steroids into her, just in case, and a half an hour since the scan was supposed to begin. I was still gripping my phone, the only line I had to my baby, tightly in my hand. I saw 10:30 pass, then 11:00. At 11:19 I texted my mom, "It's taking too long." To which she replied, "Hang in there." From past experiences with tests and scans, I know all too well that, when they take longer than expected it could be because something is very wrong. Finally, at 11:22, Lyndsay texted me asking to call her in her hospital room. My heart was beating so loudly I wasn't sure I'd even be able to hear what she had to say.

"Hello?" she answered.
"Hi, it's Suzanne," but she already knew that.
She got right down to it, "The ultrasound looked fine. The baby is ok, the placenta is fine and they said my cervix it closed up tighter than Fort Knox."
I giggled and she went on, "They really don't know what's causing the bleeding but it's turning brown so they think that means it's stopping. It's possible that I was a little dehydrated from being sick this week so they gave me IV fluids. It's also possible that one percent of my placenta might have gotten bruised and broken off, causing the bleeding. But they really can't tell because everything looks fine now."
This was all good news but I couldn't put my mind completely at ease without a real reason to attach to the bleeding.
"Oh," Lyndsay remembered something else, "the tech said her femur bone is really long. I asked if that was a problem and she told me it means she's gonna be a tall baby."
Great. I can see her now as a leggy blonde! Jimmi's definitely being punished for his past indiscretions.
"So, anyway," Lyndsay finished, "I just have to hang out here so I can get the steroids for her lungs at five in the morning and then, hopefully, I'll get to go home. They're gonna move me from Labor and Delivery into a Postpartum room in a little while. They said it'll be quieter. I'll let you know where I am as soon as they do." And that was where the conversation ended.

I'm not gonna lie. As much as it sucks that Lyndsay has to spend her day or two off from work in the hospital, I'm happy that she's being closely monitored and the doctors aren't taking any unnecessary chances with my daughter's life.

Then I thought about Lyndsay's husband, Josh. He had rushed her to the hospital in the middle of the night, stayed with her until the early hours of the morning until he had to drive 30 minutes back home to relieve his mother-in-law, who was watching the kids. Then he got the kids ready and off to school  and he was planning to pick them up and bring them to the hospital to see Lyndsay afterward. I understand that this is what a good husband is expected to do, but this man deserves some extra recognition for the fact that he is doing all of this for his wife, who isn't even carrying his baby. I texted Josh, "Thank you so much for everything." His reply, much like Lyndsay's, was completely oblivious to the incredible and unbelievable thing he and his wife are doing for us, "No problem. That's my job!"

It's almost 7:30 PM, now, in the snow-pocalypse that was once New Jersey. I just heard from Lyndsay, and everything seems to be status quo. Hopefully we'll have an uneventful night and go back to our uneventful pregnancy, followed by an uneventful birth, sometime around May 18th.

I Couldn't Make This Stuff Up If I Tried

On the last day of our trip to Minnesota last week, the pain I was having from the UTI, which never actually tested positive for a UTI, was finally starting to disappear. I still had some soreness when I'd pee, but nothing I couldn't handle. We flew home on Saturday and I was ready to relax and have a Merry Christmas after my clear scan and awesome Baby A check-up.

But the peace of mind only lasted one day.

On Sunday I was experiencing numbness all over my left butt cheek, left thigh, lower back and both hips. On top of that, I was also having a lot of pain in my left thigh, which was odd since I hadn't been to the gym in over a week. I shrugged it off as long-term side effects from radiation, which are known to appear years after completing treatment. Before I went to sleep on Sunday night I told Jimmi, based on the way I was feeling, I'd be surprised if I could even walk when I woke up on Monday morning.

But I was wrong.

Walking wasn't a problem, it was going down the stairs that was difficult. The numbness was still radiating all around but now, what was once a horrible pain in my thigh, only bothered me when I'd descend each step. And it was still only the left thigh.

Oh well. I didn't have time to stop and feel sorry for myself that day. I had to get the boys ready to head to the Make-a-Wish Foundation of New Jersey's Wishing Place so Dylan could donate his birthday money to help a little boy with cancer take a trip to Disney World. Watching my 13 year-old hand over that check made sitting in two hours of traffic worth every minute. But driving back was another story. The pain in my thigh was becoming increasingly awful and I finally called my mom and asked her to call the GP and try to get me an appointment with his wife, a radiologist, to check my leg for a blood clot. Blood clots are common in people who've had a hysterectomy and lymph node removal, though they usually happen fairly soon after the surgery, not two and a half years later. But I was in so much pain that my paranoia kicked in and the hypochondria was on overdrive. Instead of driving home I made a b-line for my mom's house in case I needed to drop the boys and head to the hospital. But when I was just about there, she texted me that she could only get me an MRI for the next morning.

I could be dead by then!

I pulled up to my parents' house, still sporting a happy face for the boys, and pulled my mom aside while they barged into the family room with their iPads. "It hurts, Mommy!" I whined. "I can't wait until tomorrow and I don't want an MRI. If any doctor other than the ones at the cancer center give me an MRI, they'll see the radiation damage and assume it's more cancer and scare the shit out of me again! They can just do a quick ultrasound of my legs to check for clots. I know because they did it after my hysterectomy!" I knew there was nothing more that my mom could do for me, other than what she'd already done, so I decided to just call my favorite nurse at the cancer center. Of course, being the day before Christmas Eve, she wasn't in the office. The nurse on call returned my frantic message, "Hi Suzanne, what's going on?" I explained in the best way I could, "I've been having pain in my left leg. My thigh, really. It's also numb all around my left thigh and butt and both hips. Is it possible I have a blood clot?" I know I sounded like a crazy person and I'm sure the nurses were so sick of my calls, but what else could I do? I was legitimately in pain. I knew something was definitely wrong. I needed someone to help me! She replied, "It doesn't sound like a blood clot. That would be more like a pinpoint pain, not all over your thigh. And it would probably be more in your calf, though anything is possible. Is your leg swollen?" I knew where she was going with that question. "No, not really," I replied, wondering if my pants had been feeling tighter because of all the Christmas cookies or actually from something more serious. "I'm wondering if you're starting to show signs of lymphedema," she suggested. The dreaded word cut through me like a sword as I imagined my left leg swelling up to twice the size of my right one; a common side effect of surgical lymph node removal, which I'd managed to dodge for the last two and a half years. The conversation ended with the nurse promising to send me a prescription for a lymphedema evaluation and me agreeing to call back if I noticed any swelling.

But I still didn't have a real answer as to what was causing my pain or how to stop it.

I gave my mom a rundown of my conversation with the nurse and started to chill out a little bit because she didn't suspect a blood clot at all. When I finally calmed down enough I realized I had to pee pretty badly. I hurried to the bathroom, dropped my pants, sat down and immediately noticed a small bump on my left outer snoochie lip. I realize "snoochie lip" is not the medical term for the area I'm describing; just go with it! Anyway, my first thought was an ingrown hair. My second thought was that it must be a tumor under the skin and the cancer is back and I'm gonna die. I attempted to squeeze it, ever so gently, hoping to remove the hair that was stuck, but nothing came out at all. It just felt like a hard bump.

Yup. I'm gonna die.

I didn't mention the bump to my mom because I didn't want to scare her, but I did borrow some Neosporin and a Band-Aid to stop whatever it was from getting infected.

The next day was Christmas Eve. I woke up and immediately noticed that my leg was definitely not as sore as it had been and the numbness had subsided considerably. I went into the bathroom to check on my newest concern, which was still present, but hadn't gotten any worse. I undressed to get into the shower and caught a glimpse of my butt in the mirror. "What the HELL is THAT!?" I screeched out loud, referring to the small, round cluster of red bumps. I turned my head around as much as I could to look down at my backside but it wasn't working. I grabbed my makeup mirror from my vanity and shoved it right in front of my backside. Ok, clearly I'm now dealing with some kind of rash and not cancer. I wonder if I caught something from the dirty hotel in Minnesota? Maybe something bit me! Maybe I'm having an allergic reaction to the antibiotic I was taking for the UTI? I couldn't guess anymore. I just finished getting dressed and went downstairs to bake an apple pie with Justin.

A few hours went by and it was finally time to get ready for my parents' Christmas Eve party. Back upstairs I went to change my clothes and freshen my makeup. The bathroom was calling again so I made my way to the porcelain seat. And that's when I saw the bumps next to the original left snoochie lip intruder and another new cluster of bumps that had moved in right next door.

"You've gotta be kidding me!"

I ran my finger over the bumps and noticed that my skin felt thick and strange all around them. I got up and went to the mirror to check out the ass rash again. It hadn't changed. I touched that one as well and the feeling was very similar to the others. Ok, at least I think I'm only dealing with one issue that's spreading and not two different things.

But what is it?

I slathered the areas with cortisone cream and finished getting ready. When we arrived at my parents' house I was glad to catch my mom alone in the kitchen. "I have a weird rash on my ass and snoochie area," I said bluntly. My mom stared at me with her hands full of the potato pancakes she was frying up for the 45 people who would be bursting through her door at any minute. "Maybe you have a spider bite? They're nasty and they just keep biting. That could also be the reason for your leg pain." It made perfect sense! A stupid spider must've bitten me while I was sleeping! Ok, good. I'll keep putting cortisone on those puppies and they'll be gone in a few days.

The familiar sound of excited kids wasn't the first thing to wake me up on Christmas Morning. Instead, it was a nagging itch coming from my left cheek. No, not the one on my face. I got up to look in the mirror and check on the butt rash and was really annoyed to see another cluster moving into the neighborhood, about three inches north of the first one. That made four clusters in all, with two in the front and two in the back. Well, at least it's a nice, equal opportunity rash. Though, it was all on the left side of my body. I heard the kids waking up so Jimmi and I went downstairs to do the present thing with them then I headed back up to get showered and dressed and move on to visit my parents and then Jimmi's.

The shower didn't bother the rash but I was careful not to scrub it. I dried off and put on my jeans, which were a bit uncomfortable on top of the raw skin. Oh well, I had to deal with it unless I wanted to wear sweats to Christmas Dinner. I stuck out the early part of the day without too much of an issue, but as it got later and later the pain was becoming worse and worse. Every time I'd move or bend my jeans would rub against my skin and I'd see stars. I was having trouble sitting because of the pain and walking wasn't too much fun either, which I attributed to the brand new bumps that appeared in the crease of my butt cheek and my leg at some point during the day. I didn't want to be rude, but I finally couldn't stand it any longer and I quietly said to Jimmi, "I need to go home. Now." All I wanted to do was take off my pants and feel some relief. The two-hour drive back was like a slow torture and I had to hold back the tears each time we hit a bump. I e-mailed my mom for the phone number of her new dermatologist so I would be ready to call first thing in the morning.

When we pulled into the garage I couldn't get out of the car quickly enough. I apologized to Jimmi for not helping him take the bags of gifts into the house but I just couldn't. I needed to get my clothes off immediately. I flew up the stairs, stripping along the way. My first stop was the bathroom mirror and what greeted my eyes horrified me. The rash was spreading all over the left side of my butt and down my left thigh. I wasn't sure if I should just head to the hospital, but the thought of seeing the Christmas Day skeleton crew in a germ-infested hospital was much worse than a few billion red bumps all over my ass.

My alarm clock woke me at 8:00 AM, which is the time the dermatologist's website listed as opening time on Thursdays. I immediately dialed the number without even attempting to clear the morning voice away. A recording answered my call, "Hello, we are closed for the Christmas Holiday and will return on Monday, December thirtieth."

SHIIIIIIIIITTTTTTT!!!!

I hung up the phone, panicked for a minute and called back. Maybe there's an emergency number. I'm pretty sure my booty now qualified. The recording continued, "…If you are having a true dermatology emergency and you are already a patient of this office, please call the doctor at…" Hmmm…Should I call? I'm not a patient yet. Should I have my mom call? There's gotta be another doctor. As if on cue, my friend, Jacquie, texted me. Her cousin is a dermatologist! I quickly asked for the number and dialed it on the other line. "Sorry, she's not in today and she's all booked up tomorrow."

No!

I called my mom again, "I need to go to a doctor TODAY and I don't know where to go!" I would've called my GP but he's off on Thursdays. Then there's the dermatologist who gave me Botox a few months ago, but I really didn't like her. I tried the doctor who treated my teenage breakouts 100 years ago, but the number was disconnected. Finally, I just turned to Google. On my first try I was able to get an appointment with a physician's assistant in a dermatology office. That was the best I could do and it was better than nothing.

12:45 PM couldn't come quickly enough!

I gently pulled up my soft, cotton underwear and loose-fitting sweats before feeding the boys and getting myself ready to go. I called my mom to update her on the situation and she voiced a thought that had crossed my mind the day before but didn't stick because I'm not over 60 years old. "I think you might have shingles," she said. "I was thinking the same thing," I agreed and then it hit me, "I just remembered one of the side effects of chemo is shingles. A few of the women on my support page have had it." My mom replied, "It fits all your symptoms. The leg pain, the numbness, the headaches…" I nodded, "I've been having chills too." The voila moment continued, "I'm thinking you really didn't have a UTI last week and it was all a part of the same thing." Then she threw a curveball, "Unless it's herpes." I can't say that diagnosis wasn't on my mind as well. "If it's herpes I'm gonna have to kill Jimmi."

As I was leaving the house I mentioned the latest possibility to my husband, "If I have herpes you're in SO much trouble!" He looked right back at me and said, "Oh yeah? Well, if you have herpes YOU'RE in so much trouble!" The fact that each of us knew the other hadn't touched another person in years made us both giggle at our fake threats and I gave him a quick kiss goodbye and headed out to learn my fate.

I sat uncomfortably in the chair as I filled out the paperwork for the doctor's office. I actually got angry when I was reading the narrow-minded surgical history options:

Circle One
Ovaries removed: Endometriosis
Ovaries removed: Ovarian cancer
I circled "Ovaries removed" then crossed out "Ovarian cancer" and wrote in, "Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix."

Circle One
Hysterectomy: Uterine cancer
Hysterectomy: Fibroids
I circled "Hysterectomy" then crossed out "Uterine cancer" and wrote in, "Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix."

"Suzanne?" called the nurse and I painfully stood up and handed her my paperwork. "So you have a rash on your backside?" she asked. "Yes, and a little on the front." She took a few notes and left the room. A young, attractive Indian woman appeared a few minutes later and introduced herself as the physician's assistant. I explained my symptoms to her and then dropped my drawers so she could have a look. She examined both sides of me and pushed on the bumps a bit, which felt oh, so good. "Looks like shingles," she announced to confirm what my mom and I already knew. "But it's very rare to see this on someone so young," she added. "I think it's from the chemo," I suggested. She looked at my chart and asked how long ago I finished treatments. "Two and a half years," I told her. "Hmmm," she was a little bit confused, "Usually people get shingles while they're on chemo because it kills their immune system and they're much more susceptible to illness." I just shrugged because I know from my blood tests that my white cell count has never fully returned to what it once was. "Can you just wait here?" The PA asked. "I want to show the other PA how you look right now in case you come back and I'm not here. I need her to be able to gage if it's gotten better or worse." I nodded and thought maybe she should just bring the janitor in to check out my goods, too.

The second PA arrived and she poked and prodded the bumps as well. "Ooohh, that's a REALLY sensitive area to have shingles," she told me as if I didn't already know how much it sucked. "Ok, got it," she said and left the original PA with me again. "I just want to take a culture, if I can. That's a really dirty area so I need to make sure you don't also have a bacterial infection growing in there."

Hey, lady! Who are you calling dirty? My girly parts are as fresh as daisies!

"Ok," I submitted. She took a stick out of a sterile bag and popped a couple of my lovely blisters, which felt like someone was stabbing me with needles right in the vag, then bagged it back up to ship to the lab. "I don't expect the test to show anything, but I just want to make sure. As I said, it's a really dirty area." Ok, I get it. Snatches are dirty. Enough. Then she gave me my instructions, "You'll take an antiviral pill three times a day for seven days. I'm also gonna give you an oral steroid to help with inflammation. Part of what happens with shingles is once the rash goes away in about a week, you might have lasting, severe pain. The steroid should help that. It might not take it away completely, but it should help. The last thing I'm giving you is a topical antibiotic to try to keep the area from getting infected. I know I've mentioned that area is very dirty." I started to wonder about the condition of her lady bits, at that point, because I've really never had any complaints about mine.

"I want to see you again on Monday, but if this gets any worse, come back tomorrow." I nodded. "Oh, and no sex." I had to laugh out loud, "Yeah, my husband wouldn't come near me looking like this. I'm just glad it's not herpes!" She didn't say anything. My tone changed, "You're sure it's not herpes, right?" She smiled, "It's one-hundred percent shingles and one-hundred percent not herpes." My smile came back, "Ok, then I won't have to get divorced."

And there you have it! I keep trying to write a simple blog about having a baby through the miracle of gestational surrogacy, but my damn body wants to keep things interesting with micro fractures and random pains and diseases of the elderly! Enough already! For a week I've been planning that my after Christmas post would be the one to spill the beans on Baby A's name.

I guess you'll have to wait for the next one!

Breast is Best

I rolled my eyes and groaned loudly when my eighth grade English teacher assigned Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet as part of our required reading for the term. I was only 14, at the time, and assumed the play, which was overflowing with antiquated words and phrases that I'd never heard before, would be way too hard to understand. But I was so wrong. From the first few lines I was immediately sucked into the tale of the young, star-crossed lovers. Never had I enjoyed homework as much as when I was reading Romeo and Juliet. And, as an unexpected bonus, I changed schools for my Freshman year and was thrilled to see my favorite Shakespearian masterpiece on my English syllabus for the second year in a row!

So, why am I telling you this little anecdote? What does it have to do with my baby, who is currently 14 weeks along in Lyndsay's borrowed uterus? Let me explain.

If you've ever read or seen a cinematic version of Romeo and Juliet, you know that Juliet's mother is only a mother in the biologic sense. Yes, Juliet still lives with her parents, but the person she really considers her "Mom" is the one she calls "Nurse". No, not a nurse in a doctor's office. This woman was Juliet's wet nurse from birth. I'm aware that wet nurses are scarce these days so I'll fill you in on the job of these special women. In the days of Shakespeare, and maybe even in some places now, wealthy women would give birth to a child then immediately pass her off to a woman who was hired to dote on the child until she left her parents' house and moved in with her new husband. Generally, the women who were chosen for these jobs were new mothers who had lost a baby in the days following its birth. Why is that, you ask? 

Milk.

These women were lactating but didn't have a baby to feed. And, since the wealthy, new mothers didn't want to be bothered whipping their boobs out to satisfy their infant's needs, a wet nurse was the perfect answer for them. It allowed them the glory and attention of having a new baby without any of the fuss. So, now it makes sense why Juliet was so attached to her Nurse, doesn't it? The bond between a baby and the woman who nurses her is unbreakable. 

I know that bond.

Thirteen years ago yesterday, my son, Dylan, was born. He was three weeks early and such a tiny, little thing! From the moment the stick turned blue I became adamant about breast-feeding. "Breast is Best," I'd heard over and over again from doctors and nurses and books and magazines and TV shows and random women at the grocery store who noticed my giant belly. And then, finally, he was here! Let the boobies flow! But no one could've prepared me for what this supposedly beautiful and natural process of feeding my child would actually become. 

That shit HURTS!

The two weeks following Dylan's birth consisted of sore, raw and bleeding nipples, a baby who couldn't figure out how to correctly latch on, which caused a clogged milk duct and an infection in my boob called mastitis. Symptoms of mastitis include a giant, red, swollen boob, chills, aches and a fever. Antibiotics were required. But I pressed on! 

I basically walked around all day in nothing but a nursing bra because Dylan was a "snacker." All the books and the classes and the nurses insisted on 20 minutes per breast for each feeding. Yeah, right! Within three minutes of latching on the kid would fall fast asleep mid suck. I tried to wake him up to finish but it was useless. I followed all the advice I was given. I undressed him so he'd get cold, I changed his diaper, I even flicked the bottoms of his feet! Nothing I did would wake him long enough to get back to the boob for more than another three or four minutes. I was a slave to the baby. But I pressed on! 

Finally Dylan and I started getting the hang of my milk jugs and things started to get easier. Then, one day Dylan spit up and I clearly saw blood. After rushing him to the pediatrician for a check-up that included the doctor sticking her finger up my baby's little tush to check for blood in his stool, she said, "I think the blood is coming from you." After thinking about it I realized I had been having a burning sensation in my left nipple for awhile. I scheduled an appointment for myself which revealed a second infection; this time it was in my nipple. I was instructed to feed from the right and pump from the left until the infection cleared up. But, oh, how I hated that breast-pumping machine! I hated the sound it made and how it stretched my nipples into unGodly looking utters. My unadulterated loathing of pumping forced me to ignore the doctor's words and just leave the left side out of it altogether for awhile. Ah, if I'd only known that seemingly harmless decision would lead to a left breast that was a full size smaller than the right breast for the next six years, until I couldn't stand it any longer and commissioned a plastic surgeon to even them out and put them back the way they came. But I pressed on!

Nine months later, when we were on vacation at the beach, Dylan decided he was done being a boob-man (at least for the next 13 years or so) and refused to nurse anymore. I had hoped to go a full year with him but I was ok with his decision to cut it a few months short. After all, I'd been supplementing here and there with formula since he was four months old, so it wasn't like he'd only had breast milk since birth. And, at that point, I think he was down to only a morning and a night feeding anyway.

And then, two and a half years later, out came Justin!

Justin was born the size of a three month-old and had a voracious appetite to match his size. The kid was barely 10 minutes old when he latched himself onto me with a vacuum hold and didn't let go for the next thirty minutes. And then he did the same with the other side! Even though Justin nursed like a champ right from the beginning, I still ended up with another painful bout of mastitis. But I pressed on! He was such a good eater but, for some reason, I never wanted to supplement formula with him like I'd done with Dylan. And it was a damn good thing, too! When Justin was 6 months old the pediatrician gave us the green light to try some baby yogurt. My little boy was barely two spoonfuls into the creamy snack when he started breaking out in welts all over his body. He was drooling and coughing and Benadryl did nothing to stop the reaction. As we were grabbing the keys to rush out to the hospital, Justin threw up - all over me, of course - and instantly turned back to his normal color. The welts went away and the drooling and coughing stopped. That experience led us to a full panel of testing which revealed severe allergies to milk and peanuts. And when I say an allergy to milk, I do NOT mean he was lactose intolerant. A few more bites of that yogurt and Justin may not have been peacefully sleeping upstairs as I type these words now. After hearing the results of the tests a weird feeling came over me. How did I know not to supplement Justin with formula? Every time I'd leave the house to run to the store or go to lunch with a friend, I'd leave a bottle of formula. But, every time, right before Justin's scheduled feeding, I'd call home and tell my ex or my mom or the babysitter to hold off and I'd be home to nurse him. It must've been some sort of maternal instinct. After all, regular formulas are milk-based. A bottle of formula would have killed my baby.

And now I'm expecting my third child. The thought of breastfeeding Baby A was never a real consideration since I'm not carrying her myself and wouldn't be able to produce milk without synthetic hormones that may or may not be dangerous with my history of cancer. During our initial meetings with the fertility clinic, we were asked if we wanted Lyndsay to pump and send milk. I said no, not only because pumping sucks, but also because it felt strange to me to use someone else's breast milk. Besides, I was bottle-fed with formula and so were 90% of the babies when I was born. We all turned out ok…right? 

But then, a lunch date with my friend from high school started the wheels turning in my head.

Because I haven't asked permission to use her name, I'll call my friend R. R and I had lunch the other day because she thought I could use the ear of someone who knows what it's like to have someone else carry her baby. No, R didn't use a gestational carrier, but she adopted both of her children and was involved in the pregnancies from very early on. During our conversation, R mentioned that she had fed both of her babies with donated breast milk. One for about nine months, I believe, and the other for a full year. At first I was pretty grossed out by the thought of my child ingesting milk produced by another woman's breasts. But then I remembered my baby is living and growing in another woman's uterus. Is there really a difference? "Tell me more," I prodded R, and she gave me all the information she could. 

Since that lunch last Thursday, I've been online researching donated breast milk like crazy. So many questions are rolling around my head. Is it worth the effort to find a donor? Will my baby really be healthier with breast milk? How will I feel using someone else's milk when I can't bond with my baby that way myself? 

I decided to e-mail Dr. C to ask if the hospital in Minnesota where my baby will be born has a milk bank. They do not. I've found a few online but the information is overwhelming. R used a milk sharing program rather than a bank, which definitely sounds more personal since I'd actually know who is providing my baby's nourishment. But can I trust these people? How do I know they'll eat the right foods and they won't do drugs or drink alcohol? Ah, yes. More issues the control freak can't control. 

I think I need to go back to the days of Shakespeare and find a wet nurse. Maybe Juliet can lend me hers.

Nuchal Translucency Screening

Optional testing during pregnancy is something that wasn't offered when I was pregnant with Dylan in 2000 and Justin in 2002/3. Or, maybe it was, but since I was far from "Advanced Maternal Age" at that point, it probably wouldn't have been a consideration. But things are different now. Since my eggs were harvested when I was 36, an old lady by obstetric standards, our resulting embryos had a much higher chance of chromosomal abnormalities, such as Down Syndrome. At that point, PGD testing was offered to us to check the embryos for a variety of issues, including Down Syndrome, so we agreed without hesitation. It turned out that, out of the 16 embryos that resulted after fertilization with Jimmi's sperm, only two of them appeared to have too many chromosomes and weren't considered to be "normal." The remaining 14 were left to grow for five days before being stored in the lab for our future use, but only 12 presumably healthy babies made it to the freezing stage. And the PGD also told us one more secret: we were blessed with an even split of six boys and six girls. 

It's now two and a half years later and Lyndsay is 13 weeks pregnant with our baby. During our discussions with her doctors, optional first trimester screening involving an ultrasound and a blood test to check for Down Syndrome and other problems had been mentioned, but I didn't think we needed to worry about any of that since we had already ruled those abnormalities out immediately after fertilization. But my Skype call with Dr. C last week sent up a small red flag and I felt we needed further investigation. He mentioned a type of Down Syndrome called Mosaicism that happens in the 8-cell stage, which is after the PGD would've been performed. There's only a 1 in 50,000 chance of that actually happening, but we all know how well I do with small odds. Jimmi and I decided we needed to a deeper look into the health of our growing baby, and we needed to do it before the end of the fist trimester. Two issues immediately arose after the decision to test was made. First, I needed to ask Lyndsay to rearrange her schedule and rush in for an ultrasound before the end of next week. The second issue was the blood test. Because Lyndsay had initially been pregnant with triplets that had spontaneously reduced themselves to a singleton, the blood test was out of the question. Any residual matter from the perished twins could throw all the numbers off and cause unnecessary worry. So we were left with the specialized ultrasound, called a Nuchal Translucency Screening, as our only option. The Nuchal Translucency Screening is a test that measures the amount of fluid behind the baby's neck. Too much fluid can indicate a problem. During the scan they also check the presence of the baby's nasal bone. If the bone isn't there, the baby will most likely have Down Syndrome. Generally, if either or both of these checks are off, the blood test will give the doctors additional information to confirm abnormalities. We had to hope extra hard for a normal scan because the only other test we'd be able to do in our situation would be an amniocentesis, and I would not feel comfortable having a giant needle stuck into Lyndsay's abdomen to pull out fluid from the amniotic sac. 

So the schedule juggling began and Dr. C was able to squeeze Lyndsay in on Thursday morning. He made it clear that he may not be available to Skype Jimmi and me from the appointment because of a double-booking, and that was totally understandable, but we'd be online just in case. We only had two days to wait, but I was becoming very nervous. Then Lyndsay texted me a question that, surprisingly, I hadn't even thought about until I read her words: 

"So what's the plan if the results aren't what you hope they'll be?" 

Ummm...I have no idea. What is the plan? What if our baby has Down Syndrome? What will we do?

At that exact moment the cosmic forces of the Universe stepped in and a suggested video popped up on my computer screen. "This Guy Writes a Confession Letter to His Daughter with Down Syndrome That Will Break Your Heart in 100 Ways." I had to click it. Over the next 14 minutes or so, I watched as this self-proclaimed "perfect" man with a "perfect" life told his story. After marrying the love of his life and having a "perfect" daughter, they were expecting their second child. The man was horrified to find out that his unborn daughter would have Down Syndrome. How could his child not be perfect? He described his thoughts about having a "broken baby." He urged his wife to abort but she refused. He immediately thought that people would judge him and assume he was at fault for his daughter's problems and then they'd know he wasn't perfect either. When the baby was born he took care of her, just as he'd done with his first, but he just couldn't find a way to bond with an imperfect child. And then, when she was about 6 months old, something changed. The man was kissing his baby's belly and she started giggling and pushing his face away, just like a "normal" baby would. That was the moment he fell in love with his baby girl. From that day on he made it his mission to bring awareness to Down Syndrome and his amazing little girl. He started running marathons with her in a stroller, and continued that practice for five years until he'd reached his mileage goal, then decided he didn't to "push" her anymore because she was able to stand on her own. Ah, the symbolism! After realizing the mistakes he'd made in his initial thoughts about not even wanting his baby to be born, he wrote her a confession letter explaining how sorry he was. Obviously, she hasn't read it, but maybe one day she will.

I finished watching the video, wiped away a few tears and texted Lyndsay back. "The plan isn't to abort if something is wrong. It's to know as far in advance as possible so we can do whatever we might need to do to be prepared."

Finally, Thursday was here. Jimmi and I waited by the computer, hoping Dr. C would be able to sneak into the ultrasound room with his laptop to Skype us, but I wasn't hopeful. Then the ringing from my computer announced that I was wrong and I quickly accepted the call. "Hello!" I sang out as the picture on the screen showed a technician in front of an ultrasound monitor. "Can you see?" the doctor asked as he shifted his laptop around a bit. "Yes," I answered. We could see, but because we were watching a video of a video, it wasn't totally clear. "Here's your baby," said the technician. "He's moving around a lot!" I smiled and ignored her incorrect gender pronoun. After all, it was too early to see the baby's sex in an ultrasound and she had no idea we had only transferred female embryos. We saw our little girl waving her hands and kicking her legs. "Looks like you might have a thumb-sucker here," said the tech as our baby's hand went to her mouth. "She's measuring twelve weeks and six days," she said, which meant the baby was still two days larger than her actual age, which is totally fine. "Ok, so we're gonna look at the fluid behind the baby's neck now," the tech explained and she scanned back and forth over Lyndsay's growing abdomen. After a few tries she said, "This child of yours is not behaving! In order to do this he really needs to hold still for a minute so I can get a good profile shot." Yup. She's her father's daughter! "There it is," said the tech as the baby chilled out long enough for a photo op. A few clicks of the machine and we heard, "The measurement I'm getting looks perfect." My smile masked the tears in my eyes as I waited for the next result I was waiting for. "Now we're going to look at the baby's nose," she continued. "And there's a very obvious nasal bone right there." Did I hear that correctly? "So, she's ok?" I asked hoping I wasn't mistaken. "Everything looks great right now," she confirmed and I allowed myself to breathe again.

We're 1/3 of the way to the finish line now. Keep growing, Baby A!

12 Weeks

Buzz! Buzz!

The vibrations startled me out of deep thought and I reached around my desk to find my phone. It was a text from Lyndsay.

Click!

A side profile of a surprisingly protruding, pregnant belly greeted my eyes, accompanied by, "12 wks." I stared at the photo for a second then responded happily, "Wow! There's a baby in there!" But it isn't just a baby.

It's MY baby!

I knew today would mark a huge milestone in Lyndsay's pregnancy with our baby. Hell, I'd circled the date in my calendar months ago after scouring the Internet for a week-by-week schedule of our pregnancy, based on our due date. Today, November 3rd, was a big one. 

"Congratulations!" read the words on the online tracker, "You have completed your first trimester!"

And that's what everyone thinks about 12 weeks of pregnancy, right? The first trimester is done. The riskiest part is over and it's basically safe to announce the impending birth to the world now. Well, I guess that last part is true for those who haven't been broadcasting every detail about it in a blog since before conception. But here's the thing. While endlessly over-searching pregnancy online, I stumbled upon an interesting inconsistency in trimester calculations. According to more recent data, the first trimester of pregnancy comes to an end at 13 weeks, not 12, and the second trimester officially starts at week 14. 

What?!

Yes, that's correct. Everyone assumes that, since the human gestation period is estimated at 9 months, each trimester would naturally last three months. Wrong! A full-term pregnancy is technically 40 weeks. I've never been great at math but even I can figure out that 40 divided by 3 is roughly 13 1/2, not 12. 

Shit!

So, it looks like we're still in the first trimester. Honestly, this IVF stuff makes being pregnant feel like an eternity! Knowing everything as it develops, from conception to transfer to implantation, makes the time drag on and on. At least at the beginning Lyndsay was going for blood tests and ultrasounds every few days then every week or two, so I always had something to look forward in the immediate future. But now that the pregnancy is moving along "normally" it feels like everything is at a standstill. For me, at least. Lyndsay's last appointment was on October 24th and her next one won't be until November 25th! In the meantime there's nothing that actually makes me feel like I'm having a baby other than just talking about it or looking at the ultrasound photo. And even that doesn't make it feel real yet. 

It's strange being pregnant when you're not pregnant.

With so much downtime between appointments and the fact that my own belly isn't growing (from anything other than french fries and ice cream) it's almost as if it's not really happening. Yes, my mom and I went to look at cribs and crib bedding last week. That was exciting but, after the owner of the store checked out my perfectly flat mid-section and suspiciously asked how I was feeling, I felt obligated to explain to him that I'm not the one who is carrying my baby. Don't get me wrong. The man was still very happy for me and didn't act like my situation was any different than the bulbous-bellied woman's in the glider across the store. But I still couldn't help feeling inferior as I watched her rub her distended abdomen lovingly while testing the rockers.

But I guess all I can do now is wait and live vicariously through Lyndsay. I won't be in Minnesota for her next visit with the doctor, but they'll Skype me from the appointment, which is pretty cool. The next time I'll actually see her and her baby bump in person will be for the big anatomy ultrasound in December, just a few days before Christmas.

And now this impatient, control freak has nothing left to do but to be patient and relinquish control. 

A Baby, or Not a Baby: That is the Question.

My hands were shaking as I finished packing my overnight bag yesterday. I closed the zipper, kissed Jimmi goodbye and gave the dogs a quick pat on the head then I took the car along the same path I'd taveled to Newark Airport, just two weeks earlier. I'm not gonna lie. I contemplated changing my flights, which were scheduled for the exact same times as the last trip, in the hopes the switch would change the bad luck we'd had when we found out two of our triplets had passed away.

But I didn't.

I arrived at the airport with only an hour to spare before flight-time and checked my email in the parking lot, just as I'd done previously. Nothing from United Airlines about a flight delay. Ok, that's a good sign. I breezed through the security line and chilled out in the United Club for a half an hour until 1:33, just one minute before I was supposed to board the plane. Not like they ever start on time anyway. I lazily walked over to the gate and found a small line and a United representative checking boarding passes and sending passengers down the gangway. No way! They're actually boarding? "Excuse me?" I said to one of the line-standers. "Do you know what boarding group they're on now?" He nodded, "Group two," he replied. That was my group! Wow. Perfect timing! I strolled right past the line, handed my pass to the gate agent and shot down the long, narrow path leading to the tiny Express Jet headed for Minneapolis.

This was going way too easily.

I checked my seat assignment and the "4B" brought back memories of the beginning of my last trip. The trip from Hell. It was the same row. The row I'd purposely booked because it was close to the front of the plane, but for who knows what reason, was bumped to 9B as soon as I got on. Fingers crossed for this time. I slowly stepped onto the miniature aircraft, careful not to hit my head on the ceiling, and I immediately noticed the stench wafting through the aisle. Oh my GOD! Someone stinks! Not cool. If you know you're gonna be trapped in a cramped tube with a bunch of strangers, wouldn't you think deodorant might be appropriate? Ugh! I continued the few steps to Row 4, where I saw the empty aisle seat that was assigned to me. Yes! I tossed my bag above and happily plopped down into my seat and "fastened my seatbelt low and tight across my waist." But the green cloud of doom was looming around my nose so I around, trying to locate the culprit. I sniffed the seat in front of me. No, not him. Then I turned and sniffed behind me. Nope. I leaned into the aisle and casually sniffed 4A. Axe fresh! Oh no. No, it can't be. I slowly turned to my right and got a clear whiff of 4C which sent my gag reflex into turmoil. That smell was coming from right next to me! And, in case there was any doubt, 4C lifted his arm to adjust his vent just as my face angled at nose level. 

Oh, shit!

Let me try to explain the size of the seats on this airplane for a minute. Small would be an understatement. My right leg and 4C's right leg were basically dating at this point and my elbow was playing a game of "Whose Arm Rest is it Anyway?" with his elbow. I leaned into the aisle and noticed the flight attendant sniffing around and making a face of disgust. I leaned over a little more and nonchalantly covered my nose with my hand. I couldn't even look in 4C's stinky direction! 4A noticed my obvious dilemma and let out a giggle, "I'm so sorry for you." He said with sarcastic sympathy. I shrugged and leaned over even further. "Don't be," I quipped. "because I'm gonna be in your lap in a minute!" Just then the flight attendant came down the aisle and I stopped her and quietly asked with pleading eyes, "Are there any empty seats in the back?" Yes, I would rather sit in the back than next to Sir-Stinks-A-Lot! She understood exactly why I needed to move, "We're still boarding, but if anything is left when we're done, you're welcome to it." She continued down the aisle and 4A said, "I'm sorry, you can't move." I was confused. "I need you here as a buffer!" he laughed. As the seats filled, my situation was looking hopeless. And then I saw the flight attendant nod in my direction and I jumped up so quickly I banged my head on the ceiling above. Without looking at my offensive neighbor, I grabbed my coat, wished 4A good luck and dashed back to the empty seat in Row 10. I breathed in the fresh air and happily opened up my Sudoku book. 

And that's when the coughing started.

9A, directly in front of me, decided it would be a super idea to get on a plane where everyone is breathing recycled air when he was clearly dying of tuberculosis. The painful hacking began as the flight took off and didn't let up for the entire two and a half hours. I wanted to spray him with Lysol and  bathe myself in Purell or something. But I was trapped! Each time he coughed I cringed, but there was nothing I could do but sit there and breathe in the germs he was so generously sharing with me. Oh well. At least he smelled nice.

When we were finally on the ground I made my way thought the airport to get my rental car. I was experiencing a major déjà vu, liked I'd just been there. Oh, right. Because I had. The same socially awkward rental agent greeted me and I one-worded him in the hopes of avoiding uncomfortable small-talk. But it didn't work. After asking me three times if Kane was spelled with a K, he inquired, "Are you here with the circus?" Ummmm...What? My face told him I had no idea what he was talking about so he made things a little more weird for both of us, "Have you ever had a desire to be in the circus?" he queried. I shook my head while asking myself if this conversation was really happening. Then he closed with, "Neither have I. I'm scared of heights." 

Ok then.

I was finally released from Crazy Town and sent off to my Mazda 3 with my, hopefully working, GPS. The doors opened and the bitter cold Minnesota air stung my face. Damn! I quickly found the car, entered Lyndsay's address into the navigation system and off I went. Surprisingly, I made it to her house without an issue and was able to spend some time with her, Josh and the kids before everyone went to bed.

But sleeping was another story.

I was too nervous to sleep. The intense fear I was feeling can only be compared to the night

before I get my CT scan results. I always wonder if it'll be my last healthy night. If the next day will change my whole life again. If I'll die soon. But this time I wasn't worried about me. I was worried about my baby. The only baby left of my triplets. Baby A. It was such a shock to know I was having three babies then to see two of them on the screen, lifeless and on top of each other. The only thing that saved me from a real breakdown was the hope of Baby A's beating heart. She was still holding on for us. She was still alive. But that was two weeks ago. The doctor scheduled us for the upcoming ultrasound to check on her one more time before the first trimester is over. Yes, she seemed ok last time, but we've all seen how quickly these things can change. And, to top it off, another issue was rattling around in my paranoid mind. You see, right before the start of the freezing week, Lyndsay and Josh's furnace stopped working. That's always the way those things happen, isn't it? The new furnace was expected the day I arrived but, of course, someone messed up and it never got there. Luckily, the gas fireplace in the basement was working hard to keep the entire house warm, so the situation wasn't as bad as it could've been. Lyndsay also mentioned something at dinnertime about the carbon monoxide detector needing new batteries and I didn't think anything of it until I was nice and cozy on the inflatable mattress, in the finished basement, by the fireplace. That's when the anxiety kicked in. As Lyndsay has told me many times, I Google too much, which makes me worry too much. I'd read stories about people falling asleep with gas fireplaces going and being asphyxiated in their slumber. But that's only when the ventilation system isn't working, right? I could hear the hum of the fan and it was clear that the fireplace was fairly new and in perfect working condition. Nothing to worry about.

But I still couldn't sleep.

Finally, after fighting sleep for fear of not waking up, I gave into my ridiculous thoughts and turned off the fireplace. It was pretty toasty down there anyway, so I figured it would be ok. I quickly passed out a few minutes later. But that was short-lived. I woke up shivering at 2:30 AM, and realized if I was cold Lyndsay, Josh and the kids must be freezing! That was not ok. I hopped up, turned the fireplace back on and fell back to sleep.

My alarm woke me at 7:00 AM. Yes! I'm alive! I got dressed and headed upstairs. We needed to leave at 7:30 to drop Hunter off at school then Lyndsay, Hallie and I were off to the the clinic for an ultrasound and a follow-up appointment with the non high-risk OB. I tried so hard not to worry about what we may or may not see during the ultrasound but visions of the twins I will never meet kept overriding the positive thoughts. I just needed it to be 9:30 already. Finally, Lyndsay's appointment pager buzzed and we jumped up to follow the tech into the ultrasound room. My heart was pounding so loudly I figured they could probably hear it. Lyndsay got up onto the table and I situated myself in the chair. It was a different technician than last time so I introduced myself, "Hi. I'm Suzanne. I'm the baby's mom." She gave me a twisted stare and Lyndsay clarified, "I'm just the carrier." The tech's face showed understanding as Lyndsay threw in, "We're not a lesbian couple!" The tech laughed and assured us she didn't think we were "together" as she squirted blue gel onto Lyndsay's growing belly. My knee was bouncing up and down uncontrollably and I felt like I was about to vomit. Please, let there be a heartbeat. Please. As she moved the machine back and forth and up and down, I could see the two gestational sacs come into focus. Yes, both sacs were still there. I caught a quick glimpse of Baby A as the tech zoomed over her and moved on to measure the sac holding what was left of Babies B and C.

But I didn't see a flutter.

She seemed bigger than last time but I didn't see a beating heart. The tech started to measure Sac 2 and I interrupted her, "Can you please show me a heartbeat on Baby A? I need to see a heartbeat and then you can do whatever you need to do with everything else." She understood why I was asking and she apologized and quickly moved over to Sac 1. I saw my little Baby A, who actually looked like a baby now, but still nothing was beating. "I don't see anything," I squeaked. The tech was calm as she said, "It's moving all around, so I'm sure I'll find it!" I couldn't see the baby moving at all. Maybe she was just trying to postpone the bad news. And then she hit the zoom button and the most beautiful and amazing movement of a beating heart greeted our eyes. "There it is!" said the technician and I burst into uncontrollable sobbing. "One-hundred and sixty-three beats per minute. Perfect!" she told us after clocking the rhythm. I started to text Jimmi but decided a phone call would be more appropriate. "Hello?" he answered anxiously. "She has a heartbeat," I bawled into the phone. "Really?" I could hear my husband's combination of relief and excitement when he heard that his baby was alive and growing. "I just wanted to tell you that," I said. "I'll call you back." I watched as the technician continued looking at the tiny little princess on the screen. It was too soon to tell the sex but since Lyndsay and I kept referring to the baby as "she" the tech was curious, "You know it's a girl?" I explained, "We only put girls in!" She nodded and said, "Well, she's measuring at ten weeks and six days." I responded, "That's two days more than she actually is. That's good, right?" She smiled, "Yup. And here are her two legs," then she moved some more, "and one arm...and another arm." Wow. "You can see both arms and legs already?" She nodded again and turned the wand a bit to find the best angle for a photo op. "Oh my God! Is that her nose?" I asked when I clearly saw my daughter's profile for the very first time. "It sure is!" the tech confirmed as she printed a picture. "I wish I could see her moving like last time," I sighed. As if on cue, Baby A uncurled her body and gave us a little show, "Is she stretching?" I asked in disbelief. "She sure is!" said the tech, who obviously loved to see the excitement of her patients. When the ultrasound was over I was handed a two-foot long sheet of about ten photos of my baby and Lyndsay and I went off to her appointment with the doctor.

I know it was real before but, for some reason, today the pregnancy became official for me. As the doctor told us during our appointment, "There are no guarantees in this field, but so far, everything looks great."

3...2...1...

I should've known.

I should've know what was going to happen by the way the entire trip started. I arrived at Newark Airport with plenty of time to spare before my 2:00 PM flight to Minnesota. I found a parking spot pretty quickly and turned off the engine. I sent a text to Jimmi, who had to stay home due to a drumming gig this weekend, to let him know I'd made it safely and then I checked my e-mail. Shit! My flight's been delayed an hour! Guess there's no need to rush now. I mosied into the airport, stopped to buy a Hello Kitty doll for Lyndsay's daighter and a pack of NYFD vehicles for Lyndsay's son then made my way to the United Club, where I stayed for the next two and a half hours.

Finally it was time to board the tiny Express Jet, which has a row of two seats on one side of the plane and a row of single seats on the other. If I've never mentioned it before, I'm not a fan of flying. But, since having cancer, I've taken a whole new approach to the situation. I'd much rather die in a quick plane crash than a long, drawn-out battle with cancer. That being said, I'm still not thrilled with the smaller planes. To make these flights slightly more bearable, I try to book myself as close to the front of the aircraft as possible. This cuts down on some of the bumpiness and allows me to haul ass out the door more quickly once we're on the ground. Anyway, when it was time to leave I walked over to the gate where I instantly started feeling queasy and lightheaded. I actually needed to squat down during the line-up process to avoid falling over. Awesome! When my boarding group was called, I stood up cautiously and headed down the gangway to the awaiting airplane. The flight attendant greeted me with a frazzled smile as I passed by her and set my sights on row 4. 

Row 4 was occupied.

I looked up at the number and letter above the seats and double checked my boarding pass. "Excuse me," I said to the elderly man. "I think you're in my seat." He stared at me blankly and I looked to the flight attendant for help. "There's someone in my seat," I explained as I handed her my boarding pass. Without looking, she replied, "Are you in row four?" I nodded. "We moved you to the same seat in row nine." I didn't ask questions as I assumed the older gentleman needed assistance entering and exiting the plane, therefore required a seat closer to the door. I continued down to row 9.

Row 9 was occupied.

Seriously? I looked at the man in my seat, "Excuse me, I think you're in my seat." He spoke with authority, "You can sit in row eleven." Yeah, not happening. "I'm sorry, I was just told to come to row nine so I'm following instructions." The woman standing behind me in the aisle asked, "Were you in row four? They sent me here as well." The man in my seat still hadn't moved and the line was building behind me. An announcement came over the speaker from the front, "If you were originally seated in row four, please proceed to row nine and sit down so we can keep the line moving." That pissed me off. "I'm trying," I called to deaf ears, "but there's someone in my seat." The man across the way in row ten decided to chime in, "You can just sit in row eleven." Did I ask you, Dude? I was trying to keep my composure, "I purposely booked a seat in the front of the plane but was bumped to row nine. I refuse to go back any farther." He shrugged, "It's only one more row." Who WAS this ass? "Actually, it's two more rows. Nine plus two equals eleven." Another announcement from the front, "Once again, if you were originally seated in row four, please sit in row nine. We can't leave until everyone is seated and this is holding up traffic." I wasn't budging so Seat Stealer and his partner stood up and moved to row eleven. 

I quickly put my bag down on the single seat on the opposite side so I could take off my jacket before throwing my stuff in the overhead bin when the woman behind me, who had also been moved, said, "I need to get to my seat." I looked at her with confusion since the seat next to mine was empty, but she rudely pointed, "I'm in that one. The one your bag is sitting on." Jeez, lady, you witnessed the drama that just played out. Give me a second. I tossed my bag above so Pushy could sit down then I plopped into my aisle seat across from her. My butt had barely hit the chair when the next man in line pointed to the window seat, "I'm in there." I was about to remove my seatbelt and stand up to let him through the tightly spaced seats when he decided it would be best to just climb over me instead. "Wait! I'm getting up!" I attempted to say, but it was too late. This random man's junk was about an inch from my face when I turned my head and said, "Or just walk over me. That works, too."

Luckily, the rest of the flight was uneventful and I made it to Minneapolis at about 5:15 PM, a little over an hour later than expected. I grabbed my bag and shot up to get my rental car. An annoyingly long line greeted me and I waited impatiently for my turn. As I approached the counter I was all business, but the Midwestern politeness forced the rental agent to make small talk with me and he decided to ask what brought me to town. "I'm going to see my babies. They're growing inside someone else. Triplets, actually. She has an ultrasound tomorrow." I was well aware of the fact that I wasn't making much sense at all and the agent's jaw dropped enough for me to know he managed to figure it out anyway. "Well, that's one I haven't heard before!" He exclaimed. Just then a frantic woman ran through the doors and barged in front of me. She held up a portable GPS system in her hand and shrieked, "This isn't working! I need to go right now and this isn't working!" The flustered agent took the machine, excused himself and went to the back. I twiddled my thumbs for about 5 minutes until he returned with a presumably different device and the woman grabbed it and ran out. "Sorry about that," he said. Another ten minutes went by before I had secured my Ford Focus and had my own GPS in my hand, but I was finally on my way to the lot to get on the road.

I approached the small, silver car and immediately noticed the many dings, dents and scratches all over the driver's side and trunk. Really? I threw my stuff inside, locked the door and went to the booth in the parking lot to complain. "Excuse me?" I said with my patience wearing very thin. "This car is in pretty bad shape. I really don't care what it looks like but I want you to make a note of it so I don't get charged for the damage." He followed me over to the beat up vehicle and wrote down everything I pointed out to him. "Thank you!" I said and jumped into the car. I plugged in the GPS so I could enter Lyndsay's address into it. The screen lit up, blinked twice and turned black. You're kidding. I checked the power switch and the connection to the car. All on. I tapped the screen. I unplugged it and plugged it in again. "He fucking gave me the broken one!" I screamed at no one. I grabbed the machine, got out of the car and slammed the door. I stormed into the rental area, ignoring the entire line, and shoved the device into the agent's face. I was done being nice. "Did you give me the other lady's broken one?" I accused as the man stared at me in fear. "I...ah...no! Of course not!" I wasn't convinced but I allowed him to live, "Then this one's broken, too." He seemed legitimately sorry as he hurried to the back and instantly reappeared with a new GPS, which was switched on to prove it was in working condition. I grabbed it and ran out. Back in the car, I texted Lyndsay with a status update, "I don't want to interrupt the bedtime routine for the kids. Don't worry about saving me food. I'll grab a sandwich on my way." I punched her address into the new GPS and finally left the airport.

According to the electronic map, I'd arrive at my destination at 7:26 PM, about an hour and a half from the current time. But five minutes into the trip I saw a Subway sandwich shop and pulled off to grab a quick dinner. Ten minutes later I was back in the car and on my way. That's odd, I thought as I looked at the GPS. It still says I'll arrive at Lyndsay's at 7:26. Weird. I pulled out of the parking lot and knew I needed to make a U-turn to get back onto the highway. I was heading in the wrong direction but the electronic car on the screen still showed that I was on track. Maybe it has to readjust itself, I thought. I got back on the correct road and continued on. It's a pretty straight run to Lyndsay's, so I wasn't too concerned that the little car on the screen hadn't told me to turn at all, but an hour into the trip, the pleasant voice instructed me to make a right onto 5th Street. That's strange. I'm on a highway and the only exit coming up on the right said "60", which I assumed was a small country road. The voice kept insisting I should turn so I figured "60" was probably one of those roads with more than one name. I got off the highway and immediately found myself in the beginning of a slasher film. It was pitch black and there were no streetlights. Not a car in sight and no houses around. I continued driving, passing old farms on either side without any cows or horses or life to be seen. I don't think this is right. GPS Woman instructed me to turn left onto a road that wasn't there, and when I didn't listen - because it was impossible to make a turn anywhere - the little car on the screen made the imaginary turn for me and let me know I was heading in the correct direction on 10th Street. Ok, something is very wrong. There weren't any signs, there weren't any stores. There was no one to ask.

There was just a bunch of nothing.

I collected myself and called Lyndsay, "Hey! My nav had me get off on some random road and I have no idea where I am! The stupid thing still thinks I'm going the right way but I'm totally not." The electronic voice directed me to make another turn that wasn't there and, once again, the little car on the screen showed that I was turning when I wasn't. "Where are you?" she asked. "I honestly have no idea. I think route sixty. Does that sound right?" There was a short pause, "Let me get Josh." After I'd repeated the dilemma to Lyndsay's husband without any clue where I could possibly be, I eventually passed a sign that said, "Mazeppa! I'm in Mazeppa! I'm crossing the Zumbro River!" Josh instantly knew where I was, "Ok, you're on sixty. I grew up there so I can give you directions. Can you write this down?" I pulled into the first gas station I'd seen in like 45 minutes, which just happened to show up at exactly the right time. I took down the directions and started out again. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I tried to read directions written on paper in a dark car at night. Not the simplest task! But I was able to make it the 30 minutes to the center of their town without needing help again. Not bad.

I pulled up to the house at about 7:45 PM and was greeted by a very handsome 5 year-old who was freshly bathed and wearing pajamas. His 3 year-old sister, who I plan on stealing at some point, came out behind him, followed by his now obviously pregnant mother. "Hi!" I exclaimed, relieved to finally be there. I spent the next 45 minutes hanging out with the kids until their bedtime and then Lyndsay, Josh and I stayed up watching TV and talking a bit longer before we all crashed. The trip was finally starting to get better.

So I thought.

My alarm woke me at 6:00 AM, way too early for this morning grump. But today I jumped out of bed, ready to start my day. After all, I was going to see my babies! The ultrasound was scheduled for 7:15 AM and Lyndsay and I needed about a half an hour to get there. We made great time and checked in exactly on time for the appointment. Barely 10 minutes later the tech came to get us and led us into a different ultrasound room than last time. This one didn't have the extra monitor high up on the wall, just the one the tech would be looking at. "Ok, Lyndsay, why don't you hop up onto the table," she said. "You're scheduled for a transvaginal ultrasound..." Lyndsay let out a disappointed moan and the tech continued, "but we might be able to try it from the outside and see what we can see." A satisfied smile spread across Lyndsay's face and, having had a very intimate relationship with the ultrasound dildo myself, I understood completely. The tech squirted blue goo all over Lyndsay's belly and moved the handheld device all around until the two gestational sacs appeared on the screen. They were a bit less clear than last time, but definitely there. She took a quick picture and handed it to me, "I hear you have three of them in here, huh?" she grinned. "I'm gonna take a look at Baby A first," She pushed and turned and pushed and turned on Lyndsay's abdomen as I watched the monitor. The blob inside the sac got bigger and smaller and changed shape each time the tech moved her hand and I just wanted her stop long enough to see if my little girl's heart was beating. And then she did. And there it was. A beautiful little flutter was counted at a whopping 175 beats per minute. As we stared at Baby A she gave us a little show, waving and bouncing around like a jumping bean. She measured perfectly at 8 weeks and 5 days gestation, exactly where she should be. "Ok, let's take a look at the other ones," said the tech and she moved the machine over a bit. The blob in the second sac came in and out of focus just as the first one had, but this time it took her a little longer to hone in on what she was looking for. Back and forth, up and down, side to side. I started to sense that something wasn't right, "Is everything ok?" I asked. The tech didn't seem alarmed, "Well, they're just really close together so it's hard for me to see them." She tried a few more angles, "They're right on top of each other." I could see how hard it was to distinguish Baby B from Baby C, but that wasn't my concern. What was worrying me was the fact that I didn't see any fluttering in the double-baby blob at all. "I'm sorry Lyndsay," said the tech. "I'm gonna have to do this transvaginally so I can see better."

Lyndsay left the room to put on a gown and I didn't speak to the tech at all. Once we see a couple more heartbeats I'll stop holding my breath and I'll speak. When Lyndsay was back on the table the wand was inserted and we all stared anxiously at the screen. "Let me just go back and look at A again," said the tech as we watched Baby A bopping around all over the place. Then she moved over to B and C. "It's not much better this way, is it?" she stated as she thrusted the ultrasound phallus up so far it was almost in Lyndsay's throat. She started taking measurements but wasn't saying anything. Then finally, "They're each measuring at seven weeks and five days." Ok, so twins are usually smaller. That's ok, right? "Are they ok?" I asked without actually wanting to hear the answer I already knew. "I'm not seeing a flutter in the chest." Is she talking about B or C? "In which one?" I questioned. She was somber, "In either of them. I'm sorry." We were all silent. I don't think any of us knew what to say at that point, but, without explaining what she was going to do next, Lyndsay and I both watched her push the button to count the heartbeats per minute, and we both watched the flatline move across the screen. Then she typed in the abbreviation "no fhb." No fetal heartbeat.

Twice.

"Can I please have a picture of Baby A without the other two in it?" I asked. She nodded and printed the updated photo. When Lyndsay got up to change I allowed a few tears to escape then quickly soaked them up with a tissue. "Does this happen a lot?" I asked the tech, who nodded, "Yes it does. Especially with multiples." For the millionth time in this whole journey I didn't know how to feel. Was I sad that we just lost TWO of our babies? Was I relieved that we'd only have one? Was I scared that something would happen to the third one now? Was I mad at God for allowing this to happen? Yes. Yes, that last one. Why does God keep screwing with me? For the last three years I've had nothing but curveballs thrown at me. I finally get Jimmi to settle down and propose and I'm diagnosed with cancer four months before the wedding. I do some research and find out cervical cancer is 100% treatable, then I discover I have a super-rare, highly-aggressive, 85% fatal kind of cervical cancer. I'm told I'll probably only need to remove my cervix and can still carry a baby, then I end up with a full radical hysterectomy, including ovary removal, 4 cycles of chemotherapy and 28 cycles of pelvic radiation. We finally find someone to carry our baby for us, put two embryos in, and she miraculously gets pregnant with triplets. We freak out at the overwhelming thought of having three babies and agonize over what we should do about it, then, we finally come to terms with the thought and start getting excited over it and now they're taken away. I feel like a pawn in a cruel game.

When Lyndsay was ready we walked down the hall, back to the waiting room to check in for her appointment with the doctor. "Are you ok?" she asked me. I shrugged, "I dunno," I said. "I guess it's a little bit of a relief because it's not high risk anymore, but I'm still sad." She agreed, "Did you tell Jimmi yet?" I shook my head, "I'll wait until we talk to the doctor, then I'll call him." The nurse called us in pretty quickly and she was all smiles. Did she know? She took Lyndsay's weight then brought us to an exam room, "Who did you bring with you?" she asked Lyndsay, referring to me. "This is the mom. I'm just the carrier," she said. The nurse was surprised then so impressed by our situation. She congratulated us both then sat at the computer to get started, "How did the ultrasound go?" she asked innocently. "Not great," I said. "There was only one heartbeat." The look on her face told us she had no idea what we'd just seen and she was legitimately concerned for us. The knock at the door interrupted us and Dr. R came right in. He sat up on the side of the exam table as Lyndsay and I sat on the bench and he asked, "So do you know what we saw in the ultrasound?" We both nodded. "I know it's hard when something like this happens and we really have no explanation for it, but sometimes it means there was a problem with one or both of the babies." We nodded again, "Will this affect the other one?" I asked. "It shouldn't," Dr. R explained, "Sometimes if there are identical twins and one doesn't make it, the other one will end up with neurological problems. But that little one is completely independent of the others. They were sharing a womb, but in completely different sacs. And just to let you know, it does look as if the twins were sharing both a placenta and a sac, so that means if they had continued to grow, Lyndsay probably would've ended up in the hospital between twenty and twenty-four weeks until she delivered." Of course they were sharing a placenta and a sac! I should've known since the chances of that were like 1 in 100,000. I really should play the lottery more often.

Dr. R explained that Lyndsay's plan would now change since she's only carrying a singleton and is no longer high risk. She can stay with him or go back to her regular OB, but he wanted to order one more ultrasound in two weeks to make sure Baby A gets through the highest spontaneous miscarriage period.  When he announced that he wanted to examine Lyndsay, I took that as my cue to step out and call Jimmi. It was still very early and I knew I'd be waking him up but I didn't really care. "Hello," his groggy voice answered. What do I say? How should I put it? "There's only one baby," I announced. He was obviously confused and probably still half asleep, "What?" he asked. "There's only one. The twins stopped growing sometime last week. They were still there but their hearts aren't beating." Truth be told, Jimmi had taken a long time to accept the fact that we were having three babies, but now that he had, the shock of two of them passing was clearly upsetting to him, "What happened? Did the doctor say why? Is the other one ok?" All questions I had asked myself, and all questions without good answers. "They just stopped. It happens. The other one seems ok for now, but she's not out of the general first trimester danger zone yet." He didn't know what to say, "Wow. I didn't expect that."

None of us did.

I suppose I could go on to write about my flight home being canceled, because that was just the perfect ending to the mishaps of my 24-hour trip, but I'm choosing to stop now and let the news sink in. We're having ONE baby. Please send out positive vibes that she continues to grow and thrive and is born happy and healthy.

RIP Angel Baby B and Angel Baby C. Mommy and Daddy love you.