The Final Word On Induction

It's very difficult to plan a trip when you could potentially be called to leave at a moment's notice and you have no idea how long you'll have to stay. We're supposed to fly out to Minnesota early Monday morning, but Jimmi and I have been trying to pack in advance in case Aria decides to make a surprise escape a few days early, which wouldn't give us much time to think about what we'll need to take with us. Of course, if she is still nestled comfortably inside Lyndsay until our planned departure, we'll have to be prepared for at least a week's stay in the midwest, if not longer. 

This sucks.

I'm a planner, in case you haven't noticed. I don't do well with playing things by ear or waiting on details. I need to know exactly how, what, why and where my life is headed at all times. Don't get me wrong. I love surprises if they happen spontaneously and I don't have time to think too much about them. But, given room to ponder, I turn into a complete basket case.

That's pretty much where I am now.

I won't rehash all the specifics for the millionth time because I know most of you have been keeping up with my blog but, for those who may have missed a few entries, here's the Cliff's Notes version:

Lyndsay is due May 18th. Jimmi has to leave for a three week tour no later than May 21st. We're flying to Minnesota on May 12th. Lyndsay's original doctor was deployed a few weeks ago and another one took over. We've asked the new doctor if Lyndsay would be approved for induction sometime between May 13th and 15th to make sure Jimmi will be present at the baby's birth. While I was waiting for an answer, Lyndsay was bounced around a bit while scheduling her next appointment, and finally settled on a midwife to care for the remainder of her pregnancy. Knowing midwives are usually adamantly against induction for any reason other than medical necessity, I decided to send an e-mail, pleading our case, hoping for a miracle.

The response I received from the midwife on Monday gave me a small glimmer of hope, as we weren't immediately turned down:

Hi Suzanne,

I just wanted to let you know that I have received your email and, yes, I have been updated on your situation from both Dr. H and the other midwife Lyndsay saw. As with any patient, we always want to make the best clinical decisions. Let me look more carefully at Lyndsay's chart, etc. before I go any further. Just please know that I am here and aware! :-)

I will be in touch soon.

J

J's reply had a calming effect that quickly loosened the tension that had been plaguing my shoulders for two weeks. She gets it, I thought to myself. I know she'll help us. She has to help us. I found myself feeling much more relaxed over the last two days, as I almost patiently awaited J's final answer, hoping it would come before Lyndsay's 39 week appointment on Friday. And, tonight, at 8:00 PM, the suspense ended as I read these words:

Hi Suzanne!

I can share some updates with you. Please know that even if I am the midwife caring for Lyndsay for the remainder of her pregnancy, she is still considered a "physician" patient. (Side Note: I'm SO glad she cleared that up for me. It was another major cause of stress as I really wanted a doctor in charge, in case of any emergencies.) Given this, I have spoken with several key players in our department regarding your situation. Two of which are physicians who will be working in the timespan of your requested induction dates. We all have reservations about inducing Lyndsay. We do appreciate your situation and empathize. However, per our policy, (our hospital) does not offer induction of labor without medical indication. We wait until 41-41.3 weeks to optimize our chances for spontaneous labor. 

I know this process has been frustrating for you, and I apologize for the change in clinic providers here at the end of the pregnancy. Please know that we have Lyndsay's and your baby's BEST interests at heart.

I look forward to our visit on Friday.

J

And, just like that, my balloon was burst into a million tiny pieces.

It's over. There's no one left to ask. I've hit every possible angle and they've all turned into dead ends. Yes, we can hope Lyndsay goes into labor on her own, before her due date but, based on her last pregnancies, which were just over 40 and 41 weeks, that's not a likely outcome. Chances are, I'll be sitting in Minnesota for a few weeks, missing my boys and waiting for Aria, all by myself.

Pink

Blue, blue and more blue. Add a touch of red, possibly some green and, lately, a lot of grey and black. 

Welcome to the world of boys!

Since Dylan's birth in 2000, my entire life has revolved around these colors. Adding Justin in 2003 just doubled the amounts of clothing, toys, bicycles, electronics and bedroom decor, all boasting one or a combination of hues traditionally targeted at boys. My own favorite color, which had been teal since my teenaged years, rapidly changed to pink, for fear it would someday become extinct in my world.

Over the years, I'd begrudgingly given up the hope of ever seeing walls the color of thick Pepto Bismol in my house. Ruffles and frills and dresses and dolls and princesses had slowly faded from my dreams and I forced myself to accept the fact that, after growing up with four brothers and giving birth to two sons, I just wasn't meant to have girls in my life.

Then came cancer, egg retrieval, embryo storage, hysterectomy, chemo, radiation, 18 months of waiting, and Lyndsay.

As I've mentioned before, I was over 35 years old when my eggs were harvested. In the reproductive world, that made me old. The chances of my elderly eggs becoming "defective" embryos was much higher than if I'd been a ripe and healthy 21. It was suggested that we have testing done on on the babies-to-be to make sure they all had the right number of chromosomes, among other things. We agreed. When the phone call came, informing us that 12 of our 14 little pumpkins seemed perfectly healthy, the question arose, "Do you want to know the genders?" I barely gave myself time to take a breath before answering, "Absolutely!" Her reply was, "You have six males and six females." But I only allowed the second half of her sentence to register. 

I had six females. 

Waiting until the post-cancer timing felt almost safe enough to bring another life into the world was unbelievably difficult. I wanted to defrost one or two of my little girls and get them baking in a surrogate oven as quickly as possibly. At 38 years old, I definitely wasn't getting any younger. Once we were matched with Lyndsay, Jimmi and I met with the doctor at the fertility clinic for the first time since my emergency egg harvesting in 2011. "I'm so happy to see you back here and help you to complete the process you started two years ago," he said. "If it's agreeable to you, we usually like to transfer two embryos to give you a better chance of having one healthy baby," he continued. "I know we tested the embryos and have determined the genders. Would you like to transfer one of each or would you rather we just pick the two best ones and you can be surprised?" He didn't suggest the option we were about to request, "We'd like to put in two girls, please." He bent his head down and looked at me over his glasses as a smile spread across his face. "That's right," he said as the memories flooded back to him. "You already have two boys. Well, then! We're gonna have to get you the daughter you've always wanted to complete your family." And he made a note in our chart.

The day of the transfer was a blur, even as it was happening. I was up very early to get Lyndsay to the clinic by 6:00 AM to make sure her uterus was ready to accept our babies. After that we were sent home to wait and wait until they called us with a return time. Then we went back and Lyndsay was escorted away while Jimmi and I waited for clearance to enter her room. Almost an hour went by before we were allowed to see her again and, in that time, I realized I'd never confirmed that two female embryos were being prepared for the journey that was about to begin. I quickly found a nurse, "I just want to make sure you thawed two females," I said, trying not to sound too desperate. Her reply didn't hold the definitive answer I needed, "Ummm…Is that what you asked for?" she questioned. I nodded, helplessly. "Well, if that's what you wanted I'm sure that's what they did." 

Not good enough.

Unfortunately, by that time, it was too late. Whatever or whomever had come out of the freezer that morning was going to be shot through the syringe in a few minutes. 

Jimmi, Lyndsay, Lyndsay's mom and I waited until a nurse wheeled our embryos, carried in a too-large incubator, into the tiny room. I watched as the nurse squirted liquid in and out of a syringe into the petri dish that held our pre-offspring. "Do you know if they're both girls?" I asked hopefully. "I really don't know," she replied with a half-hearted smile. Finally the doctor appeared, but he wasn't OUR doctor. This one was the man on transfer-duty for the day and I wasn't holding out hope that he knew the gender of our microscopic infants. I let him do his job without bothering him with questions and then, once the procedure was finished, it was too late to worry about it anyway. I allowed myself to accept the fact that I would love another son just as much as I would love a daughter because, no matter what, that child would be mine and Jimmi's. While Lyndsay was relaxing, allowing the em-babies to stick to her uterus, our nurse, the one we had met with a number of times and who had scheduled our appointments, came in to check on us. She would know the answer! "They were both girls, right?" I asked for the umpteenth time that day. Her face scrunched in a way that made my stomach flip with anxiety. "Hmmm. I know it was in your file so they should have been. Let me go check." And she disappeared down the hall. Five minutes felt like forever until she returned with news. "Yup! Both girls and both BEAUTIFUL embryos!" she finally confirmed. "Expect twins," she finished with a wink.

So, "expect twins" turned to a surprise split resulting in triplets, and the triplets resulted in one, healthy fetus after the identical babies failed to progress past 8 weeks. 

Then, finally, it was December. Time for our 20 week anatomy ultrasound. My main goal was to make sure our baby was growing correctly and developing on schedule. My next objective was to confirm that she was, in fact, a little girl. The tech took her time measuring the baby's head and arms and legs, checking to see if the spine was in tact, looking at the four chambers of the heart. All seemed normal. Finally, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I blurted out, "You're gonna make us wait until the very end to tell us if she's actually a girl, huh?" Her reply was nonchalant, "Oh, she's a girl. I was just looking at that." And those were the words that made my heart finally feel complete.

Fast-forward to yesterday. One week after Lyndsay was released from the hospital after baby Aria felt the need to cause some drama. Things seem to be back on track with the pregnancy and we're all breathing a little bit easier now. Time to continue the process I'd started a few weeks ago. 

Project Nursery!

The painters arrived in the morning, earlier than I would've liked, but ready for a full day. We figured we'd refresh the paint throughout the house and not just in Aria's room. But, because we have an artist coming in next week to make the room extra special, the baby's new digs were first on the list. The artist and I had chosen the colors - three different ones - to make a statement. The crib wall needed a white base in order for him to work his mural magic next week. The wall with the dresser would be painted light grey to allow for shaded stripes and the rest of the walls were, of course, going to be pink. I'd only seen a small swatch of the colors he'd suggested and, in my opinion, the pink seemed a bit too light. But I trusted him as a professional. 

The painters began and I stayed out of their way. I busied myself cleaning and running short errands until I couldn't stand it any longer. I went upstairs to bring the workers a box of Dunkin' Donuts munchkins and what I saw knocked the wind out of me.

Pink.

The walls were pink. I mean, I knew they would be, but seeing the color brought about more emotion than I had anticipated. 

PINK!

I was so wrong about the shade of pink we'd chosen. It wasn't too light. It was absolutely, beautifully perfect. "Wow," I said out loud, more to myself than to the painters. And then the familiar stinging started behind my eyes.

Why am I crying?

I turned quickly before the men could see me. They wouldn't understand. Even I didn't understand. I hurried downstairs, grabbed the phone from its holster on my desk and dialed my mom's number. She answered cheerily and I could barely get the words to come out, "It's pink." I sniffed, my voice cracking. "What?" she asked. "It's PINK!" I announced with a bit more strength. "Yes, I know. You told me before. Why are you crying?" I couldn't stop the emotions. "I never thought I'd see a pink bedroom in my house. It's so pink!" She laughed at how ridiculous I must've sounded but she knew exactly what that simple color meant to me.

I'm finally going to have my little girl.

Pictures

Friends, family and fans, I know you won't laugh or make fun of me when I break the news to you that, after two blogs and over two years, I have just now discovered how to add photos to my posts. I promise, in the future, I will make a habit of adding colorful images for your enjoyment. But, for now, I thought it would be nice to catch you up on the visual highlights of our journey so far. 

August 30, 2013 - Transfer Day! (left to right: Me, Lyndsay & Jimmi)

The embryos to be transferred. #13 was already "hatching."

You can almost see the needle squirting the embryos into Lyndsay's uterus.

The first positive home pregnancy test! It's a VERY faint plus sign.

 The second line is a bit darker two days later.

And really dark two days after that!

A gift from us to Lyndsay.

First ultrasound revealed two gestational sacs with one baby in sac A and a surprise split gave us two babies in sac B. TRIPLETS! A clearer shot of the second sac, below, shows the two distinct circles in sac B.

At 6 weeks 2 days we could see them more clearly.

And we heard all three heartbeats.

But, two weeks later, Baby B and Baby C stopped growing. only Baby A remained.

Baby A was waving at us at 10 weeks.

At almost 12 weeks we could really see a baby growing in there!

And at 14 weeks it was becoming obvious to everyone.

 15 weeks

16 weeks

17 weeks

It's hard to tell but the one on the right means "Baby A."

 Shopping in Minnesota during our downtime.

The three white lines supposedly mean she's a girl!

3D face!

 Lyndsay's daughter beat Jimmi in Memory. Twice.

 Jimmi and Chloe both pass the baby test with my friend's son.

Our 2013 Holiday card.

Last Christmas as a family of 4.

 Baby A's closet! It's nice to have hand-me-downs!

20 weeks!

Happy New Year!

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!

Checking Up on Baby A

"I guess your daughter likes Oreos," Lyndsay joked in her text to me on Tuesday, after finally feeling Baby A's first flutters inside her. A smile of relief crept over my face, followed by a pang of jealousy stemming from the realization that I can't feel the first signs of my child's life myself. I quickly brushed the negative feelings aside and focused on the fact that, while I can't actually grow my own baby, in a few short months, I'll be the one to raise her forever.

But let me back up for a minute. 

After the news of my clear scan and normal pelvic exam last Friday, I expected to feel a bit more calm and relaxed for our upcoming trip to Minnesota for our mid-pregnancy ultrasound. I guess half of me chilled out a bit, but the other half was too distracted by the aching and throbbing pain I was still feeling in my girly parts. Miraculously, the coughing had stopped completely by Sunday morning, but the lower area discomfort was getting worse. 

"Call Dr. M and have your lungs checked," my mom insisted late Sunday night. "But I'm not coughing anymore," I said. "I don't care," my mom was firm. "You don't want to get sick when you're in Minnesota. I would have everything checked out anyway." While I thought it was ridiculous to make an appointment for my GP to listen to my lungs, which I knew were fine, I figured I would do it anyway to appease my mom and maybe ask him to check me for a urinary tract infection. After all, there had to be something causing the pain that kept moving from my ass to my vag to the empty location where my left ovary used to be. 

First thing Monday morning I was sitting in Dr. M's exam room waiting for a once-over. The doctor appeared and I explained my disappearing respiratory symptoms. A cold stethoscope and a few deep breaths later confirmed what I'd told my mom earlier. My lungs were perfectly fine. I was a bit embarrassed as I explained my next set of complaints, "I'm also having some pain in the vaginal area," I said sheepishly. "It's not actually in the vagina anymore, though. It was in my rectum at one point, too, but now it feels like it's in the urethra, but more to the left." That was an awesome description. I continued, "I'd say it might be a UTI but it doesn't burn and I'm not peeing a hundred times a day," Dr. M wasn't phased by my list of woes but, instead, said, "Let's see if we can figure this out. I'll just need a urine sample." I headed to the bathroom to produce the necessary materials, which I was told to leave in the sterile cup by the sink. When I came out I chatted with the receptionist long enough for the nurse to dip the strip of mult-colored squares into my liquid waste and come back with a preliminary answer. "So where does the mom live?" the receptionist asked, referring to Lyndsay. I tried to suppress my distaste for her choice of words. "I'm the mom," I answered with a forced smile. She was a bit taken off guard, but tried to make it better, "I know. I mean where is the BIOLOGICAL mom?"

Hold it together, Suzanne!

"I AM the biological mom," I said firmly, through gritted teeth. The nurse interrupted our awkward exchange, "There are trace amounts of blood and leukosites in your urine." I stared at her blankly and waited for further information but none was offered. "So what does that mean?" I pressed. "It's just a quick screen so it could mean there's an infection or it might mean nothing." Helpful. Thanks. "So, now what?" I asked as Dr. M emerged from his office with an answer, "I'll prescribe a broad-spectrum antibiotic, but wait until we get the urinalysis back so we know exactly what bacteria we're treating." A pain shot through my love canal which ignited a sense of urgency in my treatment. "How long will that take?" I questioned impatiently. "We'll have the results of the urinalysis tomorrow. If that doesn't show anything we'll have to wait three days for the culture to grow." What?! I didn't allow my voice to reflect the stress in my head, "I'll be in Minnesota in three days. I'd really like to take care of this before I leave." Dr. M nodded and said, "We'll know more tomorrow."

Now back to Tuesday.

"Hi Suzanne, it's Dr. M." I greeted him politely than waited for the results and the next step in treating the annoying aggravation that was growing in my lower half. "Your urinalysis came back normal. No infection."

What?!

I composed myself so I wouldn't yell into his ear, "But I'm in pain! My scan was clear but something really hurts. I need it to stop!" He was understanding, "We're still waiting for the three-day culture. In the meantime, start on the medicine I prescribed to see if it'll help." I agreed, thanked him and hung up the phone with more questions than answers. But I didn't have time to consult any other physicians at that point. I had more important things to do. I had to get packed and ready for our trip the next day. We were going to see our sweet, Baby A!

Our flight on Wednesday brought us into Minneapolis at about 2:00 PM. We didn't have any appointments or plans to see Lyndsay and her family until Thursday, so Jimmi and I decided to waste a few hours at Mall of America. Born and raised a Jersey Girl, I have an inborn appreciation for malls of all kinds, especially one that is considered a tourist attraction and not just a shopping center.

My brain sent waves of shopaholic excitement through my body as soon as it processed the huge "Nordstom" sign looming ahead of us as we turned into the parking lot. I just knew it would be a dangerously expensive day. Jimmi parked the car and we entered the Mother Ship through the shoe department door, immediately stopping to browse the sea of Jimmy Choo, Ferragamo and Burberry. "The thing about shoes and bags," I explained to Jimmi, "is that they'll always fit." I'm not sure if I was trying to convince my husband or myself of that point, but I offered more support for my claims, "You couldn't pay me to try on jeans right now because I know I've put on a few pounds, but these boots will fit no matter what!" I exclaimed as I grabbed the studded, Frye cowboy boots with an embossed leather skull. "Try them on," Jimmi suggested as the typical enabler he is. The sales vultures swooped in for the kill and it was only after one of them flew off to find my size that I noticed the price tag on the bottom of my awesome find. Jimmi watched as I turned the boots over, gasped and went pale. "How much?" He asked with a devilish smirk. I shook my head, not even wanting to say the number out loud. "Do you want the good news or the bad news," squawked our vulture as he returned from his size search. He didn't wait for more than a shrug before offering, "We don't have your size in the store," Oh, thank GOD! "but," he continued with a relentless need to bankrupt me during the first five minutes of our shopping experience, "I can totally order them for you!" Be strong, Suzanne! You do NOT need those boots! "Yeah, but I really need to try them on." His answer proved that this man was well-trained in dealing with the weak. "No problem! We have this pair in your size and the fit is exactly the same!" I stared at the plain black boot in his hand and quickly concocted another excuse, "We literally just got here from New Jersey. Will you be here in a few hours? We have to pass through again when we leave and I can try them on at that point." He knew he was defeated and I forced myself to be strong and avoid looking back at the beautiful studded works of art I so desperately wanted on my feet. "Ok," he submitted. "Here's my card. I'm here until eight tonight." I grabbed the information and turned quickly before my will power weakened and my credit card popped out of my wallet. Whew! That was close.

Ring! Ring!

It was Dr. M's office. "Hello?" I answered, expecting to finally find out what was causing the pain that was now pulsating in the lower left side of my back and radiating tingling and numbness down my leg. "Hi, Suzanne. The results of your urine culture were clear. There's no bacteria." That can't be. "But I'm in pain!" I whined, practically begging the nurse to give me a diagnosis that could actually be treated. "Can I finish up the medicine anyway, just in case?" I knew I was grasping at straws but I needed to try something, anything, to make this agony stop. She put me on hold to ask the doctor his opinion and came back with, "Dr. M said to try it. Can't hurt." That was good enough for me.

As our walk through the mall continued, I realized quickly that I was not impressed by the selection of stores in what I'd hoped would be the epitome of shopping Heaven. Jimmi and I breezed by most of the shops without entering and only stopped to marvel at the roller coasters and thrill rides in the amusement park that was built right into the center of it all. We completed our round of Level One with only a Mr. Hanky, The Christmas Poo t-shirt for each of the kids to show for it. Up the escalator we went, hoping for better luck. "Have you seen a bathroom at all?" Jimmi asked as we neared the top. Come to think of it, I hadn't, and I actually had to go too. "I'm sure we'll pass one at some point," I assured him as we started our loop of the second level. Store after store, hallway after hallway, candy shop after candy shop we searched. But no bathroom was found. And then I spotted the place I was sure we'd find relief. "American Girl will have a bathroom," I announced. Jimmi looked mortified, "I'm not going to the bathroom in there!" I giggled, "You don't have to carry a doll to use it. I'm sure they have a men's room. Let's go look!" I opened the door the the three-level store and visions of my future flooded my mind. But then I remembered our purpose for the visit and I quickly found the sign that would lead us in the right direction. We approached the American Girl Cafe, with the girliest set-up I've ever seen. Tables with flowers and hearts and frills were just begging for little girls and their matching dolls to grab a seat and order from the dainty little menu. And, in the back of the restaurant, were the bathrooms. "Want me to hold your stuff?" Jimmi asked. I was confused, "Don't you have to go too?" The look of "Hell, no!" came over his face and I had to laugh out loud at his horror. "Oh, stop! There's a men's room! Look! Believe it or not, you're not the first man to come into this store. There are lots of daddies here!" I had to smile at the fact that I'd just lumped Jimmi into the "Daddy" category. "Oh, fine!" he huffed as he stomped away and pushed open the pretty, pink door.

Our second floor perusing had come full-circle and we were still only carrying our small purchase from Level One. "I'm hungry," I said, which was perfectly timed with our ascent to Level Three, where we could choose from a variety of restaurants or a large food court. An hour later our bellies were full and we realized we'd completed the entire Mall of America in under two hours. That must've been some kind of speed-shopping record. Now we just needed to avoid the Nordstrom shoe vulture and find our rental car so we could drive an hour and a half to the hotel.

It was a fairly uneventful drive and we pulled into the hotel parking garage around 8:00 PM. There weren't any available spaces so Jimmi waited in the car while I went to check in and ask about other parking options. I gave our name to the man at the front desk who checked his computer and said, "Oh, ok. It looks like your reservation is for our sister hotel down the street. Pull out of the lot and go down about two blocks. You'll see it on the right." Confused, I nodded my head and walked out. I got into the car and said, "I guess I made a reservation at the wrong place. I thought I chose this one, since we stayed here last time, but I guess I didn't. This is the Inn & Suites and I reserved The Grand Hotel. Oh well. It sounds nicer, anyway."

We found the hotel without much trouble, parked and walked into the lobby, which was noticeably more upscale than the last one. I was immediately proud of myself for accidentally booking this place. On our way to the front desk a store caught my eye that nearly caused a full-blown panic attack. It was a wig shop. What's the big deal, right? It's just some fake hair on some fake heads in the window. No, that's not all. To me it was a reminder of the months of Hell I'd been through in 2011. It was trip back to the agony of losing my reproductive organs and my hair. A painful visual of all that cancer takes from so many of us. I averted my eyes and made it to the counter without looking back. A few signatures and a swipe of the credit card later and we were on our way to the 9th floor to rest for the night. I slid my key into the slot, turned the handle, opened the door and froze at the first site of our room. Old, dingy and dark were the first three words that came to mind. But I know I'm extremely spoiled, so I kept my mouth shut and walked inside to get settled. Jimmi dropped his stuff and headed to the bathroom (the man has a bladder the size of a pea). I sat down on the bed, which was way too small and bounced back as if the mattress was made of rubber. It's only for three nights, I told myself. You can handle it for three nights. Jimmi appeared a minute later with a look of disgust on his face, "The bathroom is gross. The sink is so dirty it looks like they've never cleaned it." Ok, if Jimmi's complaining, it must be bad. This is a man who's slept in more cheap motels while touring than most people could ever imagine. I got up to check it out. The first thing I noticed was the 1960's, brown and tan, patterend-tile floor staring up at me. The sink, toilet and shower looked as if they'd never been cleaned and the light was so dim I wasn't sure I'd be able to see if I needed to use the facilities in the middle of the night. I couldn't say anything. I just had to suck it up. As I walked back to the bed where Jimmi was sitting, we exchanged glances and each of us knew what the other was thinking. "I don't want to stay here," I said. "I don't either!" he agreed, to my surprise. "Maybe they can switch us to the hotel we went to first. We stayed there last time and it was fine. They're owned by the same place." Jimmi picked up the phone and called the front desk. "Hey, man," he said to the receptionist, "I really hate to be a pain, but is there any way we can switch to the Inn and Suites?" I assume the man asked the reason for our need to leave because Jimmi replied, "I don't want to be a dick," nice one, Jimmi. "but it's just…well…the room is kind of disgusting." I guess the guy appreciated Jimmi's candor because he thanked him for his opinion and put him on hold to see what he could do. A few minutes later we were booked into the Inn and Suites for the remainder of our stay. All we had to do was stick it out in the land of dirt and grime for the rest of the night.

Morning couldn't have come soon enough after a sleepless night of too hot, too cold, flat pillow, hard mattress, weird smell. I checked my phone and saw a text from Lyndsay, "Kid number one is puking." Oh, no! Her daughter had been sick a few days earlier and the bug had now made it to her son. We decided to cancel our plans together for later in the day and let Hunter rest and get better, which left the day free after our hospital tour. I got up and hobbled into the bathroom, not quite sure how to pinpoint the growing list of pain, numbness and tingling that was moving around the lower half of my body. I glanced at the shower and contemplated stepping inside for less than a minute before deciding against trying to clean myself in a dirty cell. "I'll take a shower once we check into the other hotel, after our Maternity Ward tour," I said out loud to no one in particular. We packed the few items we'd removed from our shared suitcase and headed to the garage to load the bag into our rental car. From there, we walked back into the hotel and took the elevator down to the Subway level. No, there weren't any underground trains. The hotel had underground walking tunnels connecting it to the hospital where our baby will be born in about five months.

"Ok, let me see," I said as I read the signs pointing straight ahead, left and right. "I think it's that way." Luckily, we managed to find the Maternity Ward where Nurse G met us for our private tour. "Hello!" she chirped cheerily as she welcomed us with a genuine smile. She didn't waste any time in her explanations, "So, this is where you'll report when Lyndsay goes into labor, then we'll bring you right down to her room to…" I cut her off, "We won't be in the room with her until she's ready to push." I explained. "Oh, ok. It's great that you already know this stuff so I can put it in your file," she wrote some notes and pointed to the rooms on either side of her. "You'll wait in here until she's ready." We peeked through the windows of the rooms which contained TVs, couches, snack machines and drinks, then continued on through the large double doors marked, "Special Care Nursery." Nurse G spoke, "If your baby is a few weeks early or needs just a little bit of extra help, she might have to be in here for a day or two. This isn't a NICU; that would be in the other building. This is just for mild issues." I immediately noticed the letters that were cut out and taped onto the windows of each door. "Mary," "Christina," "Jackson." It was so cute the way they personalized the rooms to give them less of a hospital feel. The loud cry of a newborn penetrated the silence and I looked up at Jimmi who seemed to smile in anticipation of hearing those cries. Ha! We'll see how he feels after a few hundred sleepless nights.

The tour continued into the main area of Labor and Delivery and Nurse G explained where "the mom" would go and where "the mom" would have the baby if everything was normal and where "the mom" would be if she needed a c-section. I bit my tongue, though each time she said those words it felt like a knife was cutting away a piece of my heart.

I'M THE MOM!

We ended the tour in an actual room where a woman would give birth, then stay for the rest of her hospital time. Nurse G showed us how the bed breaks down when it's time to push and we saw the little bassinet for the baby. "The babies used to stay in the nursery unless it was time to eat, but we've changed that now. The baby will stay with you the whole time." Then she remembered she needed to go into further detail about the sleeping arrangements, "We'll try to find two rooms next to each other, or at least in the same vicinity, one for the two of you and one for Lyndsay. The baby will stay with you in your room, but Lyndsay will be nearby. The mom and dad will get a bracelet that is connected to the baby but visitors, including the dad, will have to wear a name tag." I had to ask, "So, I'll get a bracelet?" The nurse was quick to answer, " No, Lyndsay gets the bracelet because…" but her words fell off and she looked very confused by my inquiry. "Hmmm," she started. "I'm not exactly sure how that will work. I'll find out for you." She went on to talk about the legalities of our situation, "You should have all of your documentation in place very soon so we can put it in your file that you two are the biological and intended parents of the child, that way there are no mistakes. When she's born, we'll have you sign the papers for the birth certificate so we can register everything right away." I broke in, "What if we don't make it here for the birth?" It's a possibility I've been worrying about for months. I realize it's only a 3-hour flight to Minnesota from New Jersey, but there's much more to it than that. If Lyndsay calls and says she's in labor, I'll first have to call and find a flight, get to the airport two hours in advance, fly, rent a car and drive an hour and a half. The whole process will take at least eight hours. Her labor might not last that long. And what if she goes into labor right after the last flight of the day leaves the airport? Then there's no chance at all. And, no, I can't really go out to Minnesota a few weeks before her expected due date because I have kids who need me here. Also, Lyndsay was a week late or more with her last two pregnancies, so who knows how long I'd be waiting? "I'm not sure what would happen if you aren't here. I'll ask about that, too," Nurse G said. My eyes started to tear up a bit, "If we don't make it, who will hold the baby? Will someone cuddle her so she doesn't feel like she's all alone?" Nurse G tilted her head to the side, "We have PLENTY of baby-cuddlers here. Don't you worry about that!" The thought of someone else being the first person to hold my daughter made me feel a bit sick to my stomach so I chose to push away the thought for the moment.

When the tour concluded, Jimmi and I headed back to the Subway of the clinic and started walking toward the parking garage. We passed a few shops along the way, but one seemed to call to me as I walked near it. "Can we go in?" I begged Jimmi with batting eyelashes. He looked behind me to see the small, frilly, pink clothing donning the windows and he knew I really wasn't giving him a choice in the matter. Less than 60 seconds later I'd already pulled a tiny pink, ruffled pair of leggings with a matching pink kitty-cat shirt and coordinating crib shoes, hat and blanket from the rack. "This will be her going home outfit!" I squealed as I tossed the bundle into Jimmi's arms and continued my search. One more pink and white ruffled outfit, a pink jacket with bows, a pink and black hat with matching shoes and another pair of shoes in a lighter shade of pink and I was on my way to the register, dreading the total cost of my 10 minute browse through only one section of Baby Baby. "Oh, and these!" I said at the last minute as I grabbed the little white, lacy socks from the rack next the the cashier. I don't want to tell you the number that rang up before I handed over my credit card, but I promise the stash of Pepto-Bismol colored clothing was so worth it! The "No Returns! Exchanges Only!" sign I noticed as we left the store forced me to turn to Jimmi and ask, "What if she's a boy?" His eyes grew wide and I laughed it off, "I'm kidding!" But I really wasn't.

Is it possible that Baby A is actually a boy?

We trudged through the parking lot to the car, ready to leave for the next hotel, when I saw the sign on the other side of the parking lot. "Maybe we don't have to leave," I suggested. "The Marriott shares this parking lot and is also connected to the subway to the hospital. It would be much more convenient to just go there. Plus, it's a Marriott. How bad could it be?" Jimmi agreed with my logic so we crossed the lot and entered the large-chain hotel's lobby. "How may I help you?" said to midwest-friendly receptionist. "Hi. We stayed next door last night and we were a bit disappointed in the condition of the room," I explained as nicely as I could. She was already nodding with understanding, "Yes, I've heard that before." Ok, this was a good sign, "We're supposed to go to the Inn and Suites, but we were wondering if maybe we can just stay here?" She picked up the phone and started to dial, "You're in luck! We're all sister hotels and our reservation specialist handles reservations for all of us." She quickly explained our dilemma to the man on the other end of the line then handed me the receiver, "Hello, this is Lenny. How may I help you?" I repeated our situation and Lenny said, "Yes, I always tell people to stay away from that hotel. Honestly, it was built in the twenties and I don't think they've EVER renovated the rooms! You'll be much happier at the Marriott." So it wasn't only us! Whew!

A few minutes later we were settling into our very comfortable room on the 5th floor of the Marriott. Now to figure out what to do with the rest of our day. Hunter was still sick so visiting with Lyndsay was out of the question. I Googled some options but came up empty. "Maybe I'll check Pollstar," I said as I typed in the web address for the concert listing site. "No way!" I screeched. "Bret Michaels is playing in Minneapolis!" I couldn't believe the singer of Poison, whom I'd had a crush on since the seventh grade, was playing 80 miles from where were were staying. What luck! But my excitement came to a halt when I realized, "Oh. That's tomorrow night. Oh well. It's no fun seeing my lover when I'm with my husband anyway," I joked with a wink.

I decided to call my mom while we had a few minutes to chat. As we spoke I noticed the lights in the room started flickering. The smell of smoke caught my attention even more and I turned around to see the white cloud billowing from the wall-lamp. "Oh my GOD!" I shouted, "Jimmi! The lamp is on fire!" Jimmi appeared from the bathroom in his underwear, ran to the wall and started blowing out the lamp like it was a candle on a birthday cake. The smoke was really coming out now and Jimmi was trying to reach in and grab the flaming bulb. My brain finally focused and I decided to turn off the lamp to avoid having my husband fried to a crisp in the middle of a hotel room in Minnesota. The fire died quickly and Jimmi and I looked at each other in shock. Then I remembered my mom was still on the phone, which I'd thrown on the floor. "Hi, sorry. We're ok but I'm gonna have to call you back." Jimmi picked up the hotel phone and dialed the front desk, "Hi, ummm, our lamp just caught on fire. Can you like bring up another bulb?" He hung up and I asked what the guy said. Jimmi laughed and shook his head, "He said he'd have someone bring up two bulbs, just in case. Oh, and a fan to get rid of the smell."

Finally, the next morning arrived. It was Baby A Appointment Day! We would start with our big anatomy ultrasound, followed by an appointment with the nurse, then Dr. C, then, finally, the social worker, who would be in charge of making sure everyone at the hospital understands that we are Baby A's parents.

We met Lyndsay and Josh by the elevators leading to the OB/GYN floor and it was great to finally see them. An adorable baby bump was protruding under Lyndsay's coat and it made me feel warm all over. Hugs were exchanged and then we were off to the waiting room. Not long after, the ultrasound tech came to get us. She looked at the four of us before allowing us to follow her and said, "You can't have all of these people in the room." Josh was about to gracefully bow out when the tech realized what was happening, "Oh! Is this a surrogacy situation?" We nodded. "Ok, it's fine. You can all follow me."

The room was small but there was ample space for all of us. Lyndsay positioned herself on the table and lifted her shirt. Jimmi averted his eyes and asked if he should step out of the room. I was confused until I realized that the last time he'd been there for an ultrasound it was an internal one since it was so early in the pregnancy. "No, it's ok!" I explained. "This one goes over her belly." He quickly turned back, "Oh, ok!" I forgot that Jimmi was the only one in the room who had really never experienced an ultrasound before. Well, not one where the baby actually looks like a baby. I couldn't wait to see his face.

The tech got to work rolling back and forth over Lyndsay's abdomen. I quickly picked out Baby A's beating heart and my pulse slowed to a normal rhythm. That was a great start. "I'm gonna begin at the head and work my way down," explained the tech about her method for measuring every part of the baby to make sure she's growing normally. "Do we know the gender?" she asked as she started scanning. "She's supposed to be a girl, but I'm hoping you'll confirm that today." She didn't say much as she started measurements on our little one's head then moved on to check her brain. "Yes! She has a brain!" I quipped. As if he was reading my mind, Jimmi added, "Then she's definitely not mine!" I giggled and the tech said, "Head and brain look normal. Let's move on to the heart." I watched as the tech revealed a beautiful, four-chamber heart that was pulsating at 141 beats per minute. "Heart looks normal," confirmed the tech. A scan of the baby's abdomen showed two kidneys, a liver and a stomach. "Organs look normal," we were told. Quickly but thoroughly, the technician measured two normal arms with two perfect hands and ten little fingers, followed by two amazing legs, two adorable feet and ten tiny toes. "Arms and legs look normal." Our squirmy little monkey was hard to chase but we got a glimpse of a beautiful spine with a nice, smooth bottom, ruling out spina bifida. "Spine and back look normal." I couldn't help noticing the noises of amazement coming from Jimmi's mouth as he watched his baby on the screen. But I was getting antsy now, "You're making us wait until the end to confirm she's a girl, aren't you?" I asked. Without hesitation, the tech responded, "She's a girl. I was just looking at that." And she pointed to three white lines on the monitor, "Those are the labia." Honestly, I had to take her word for it because it certainly didn't look like any female genitalia I'd ever seen! But she's the expert. If she says we're having a girl, I guess we're having a girl.

Oh my GOD!

We're having a GIRL?

We're having a GIRL!!

Do you have any idea how long I've wanted a little girl? Don't get me wrong. I love my boys with all my heart, but after growing up with four brothers then having two sons, I could really use a little estrogen in my life! Plus, my mom is my best friend. I've always wanted to have the same relationship with my own daughter but I'd never been blessed with one.

Until now!

"Well, she looks great!" the tech said as she finished up. "Congratulations to all of you."

Our next appointment with the nurse followed immediately and the four of us jammed ourselves into an exam room to wait. She entered with a handful of pamphlets and I could tell she wasn't sure if she should be handing them to Lyndsay or to me. After thinking about it, she made the logical decision to give Lyndsay the information about signs of pre-term labor and when to call the doctor and she gave Jimmi the "Tips for Dads" booklet. She started a conversation about postpartum depression with Lyndsay, then turned to Jimmi and said, "This condition affects one in ten dads as well." I had no idea.

Finally, Dr. C appeared and Jimmi was able to meet him for the first time. "I'm sure you've heard that everything looks normal," Dr. C said happily as he turned his computer screen in our direction so we could read the report along with him as he went through it. "Brain is normal, heart is normal, organs are normal. No remnants of the second gestational sac present." That part was new. "What?" I asked, even though I totally understood what he had said the first time. He confirmed, "The sac with the twins is completely gone now." I don't know why it hurt to hear him say it. Baby B and Baby C had passed almost 12 weeks earlier. I'm used to the idea that we are having one healthy baby and not three. I guess the memories came flooding back and I wasn't prepared. "Oh. Ok," was all I could say.

Dr. C went over the birth procedure again as the nurse before him and the tour nurse had the day before. I asked questions about vaccinations and the necessity of the hepatitis B vaccine when the baby wasn't going to be using IV drugs or having promiscuous sex any time in the near future. All he could tell me was that was the recommendation of the CDC, so I made a note to discuss it with our pediatrician. Then I asked the burning question, "When do you think I should come out here to wait for the birth?" It was an impossible question. Dr. C had no way of knowing the correct answer, but he tried, "Based on Lyndsay's history, we have no reason to think she'll go before forty weeks. Honestly, I think this might be a perfect situation for induction at forty or forty-one weeks so you can plan." That was the first time he's mentioned inducing labor for anything other than a medical reason. "That would be ideal," I answered, even though I know in my heart it's much better for the baby to come when she's ready and not when it's best for our schedules. "I guess we can figure it all out further down the road," I said and Dr. C agreed. "Ok, I'll see Lyndsay again in four to five weeks," instructed the doctor before wishing us all happy holidays and heading out of the room.

One more meeting and our appointments were done for the day.

The social worker appeared and her sticky sweet voice made my teeth hurt. She was nice enough, but I just couldn't take anyone who sounded like a cartoon character seriously. I sucked it up and listened as she talked about getting the legal documents in order so Jimmi's and my name would appear on Baby A's birth certificate. After printing out a paper with all the necessary information for our attorney, Nurse G, from our tour the day before, came by to answer any remaining questions. "Ok," she started, "I found out some answers for you from yesterday. If you don't make it on time for the birth the baby will still be registered to you on the birth certificate as long as you're here when she's discharged." Well, I sure hope we'll be there by then! "Yes, that shouldn't be a problem," I assured her. "Also, about the bracelets. I found out that Lyndsay and Suzanne will have the bracelets that are connected to the baby. Jimmi will have to wear a visitor's name tag, but he will not have a bracelet." That sounded a little odd to me since Jimmi is the baby's dad but, hey, I was just happy that I'd actually have something to show that I'm the mom. I remembered a question, "Will Jimmi be able to cut the chord?" Nurse G smiled, "Of course, he will!" Good news. "And when she's born they'll put her in my arms?" I needed confirmation. "Yes," she said, followed by the most incredible three words I've heard in a long time:

"You're her mother."

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."