May 12, 2008

• The Magic 28

  From the moment I saw two pink lines on the pregnancy test, my life became measured in weeks; 40 of them to be exact.   I’ve noticed that there are two measuring standards for pregnancy.  Pregnant women live and cry by the forty week gestation count while the rest of the world labels pregnant bellies by months.   Try telling the cashier at the grocery store that you are 17 weeks pregnant and their eyes will glaze over as they murmur a polite “mmmhmm”, but tell them you are four months pregnant and you will immediately get some sort of response like “Oh my sister’s, husband’s cousin is pregnant too, but she’s five months along.”   Everybody understands that at six month’s pregnant you have a cute little bowling ball belly, and at eight moths people stare slack jawed at your enormous girth and wonder if you’re going give birth right there in Mc Donalds, but nobody looks at a pregnant woman and says “oh let me guess…you’re about 24 weeks pregnant, right?”.    I am quite happy with this duplicity, and will continue to perpetuate the confusion, primarily because it gives me (and knocked up women everywhere) a lot of leeway.  It allows me to say I’m 3 months pregnant at 12 weeks, or 6 months pregnant at 24 weeks even though no month but February is actually ever exactly 4 weeks.
    
  So here I am at almost 29 weeks, or 7 months, or more accurately 6.6 months.  The magic 28 has come and gone, and the no-mans-land stage of pregnancy has passed.    For me, weeks 22 to 28 are the nail biting weeks, because survival is possible…but not terribly great.   Neither the heart wrenching finality of an early loss, nor the reasonable assurance of taking a live baby home; thus a veritable no-mans-land of hoping and praying.

  However, Charlie has attained and conquered the magic 28 weeks, and seems quite happy, chilling in his private resort.  I had another perinatologist appt last week and the sprite baby is reaching new heights of normalcy.  His height and weight is in the 48th percentile, amniotic fluid=textbook, kidney function=normal, umbilical doppler=smack dab at perfect.  Pretty much he’s so normal, he’s a freak of nature, a genetic miracle that previously lived a hypothetical life in medical reference books.  
  The only thing that’s not normal are the braxton hicks.  My uterus far surpasses the recommended daily amount.
  Dr. Dowling (the Perinatologist) said I had to go in if I had more than 10/hr, but I told him that I’d have to pack a toothbrush and sleeping bag if I went into triage every time that happened.   We compromised with a vaginal ultrasound (who doesn’t love being being accosted by a giant plastic ultrasound wand wearing a condom?) to check my cervix.  The consensus was my cervix is everything a cervix should be.   It is the Shaquille O’neil of the cervix world and it shows no sign of being the least bit rattled by the constant barrage of contractions.    It is very relieving to know that Charlie is safe and sound despite my uterus’s inhospitable complaining, but this is where going to a high risk clinic has its downside.  I could have really milked the braxton hicks thing for all it was worth, but now my cover is blown.    I’m still supposed to go in if the contractions “change” (whatever that means), but otherwise they’re just incredibly uncomfortable and annoying.

  I forgot to post last weeks pic, but here it is for your viewing pleasure.  I’ve managed to pack on ten inches in my waist so far.

     
  

  • 1:45 am
  • 7 Comments