So on Monday, August 21, 2006 we found out my wife was pregnant again. It was a very happy day, and a happy week. We told everybody, Yay, we're having our second child! Told 'em in the catbox. Jubilation! Another rugrat around April 22!
What a difference two weeks makes.
On Friday, September 1, we had our first ultrasound. I had thought it was awfully quick to get in for the first one. When we found out we were pregnant with Ryan we didn't get our first OBGYN appointment for about a month. Well, the ultrasound showed the gestational sac but that was it. That's a normal one for 4 weeks and five days, not six weeks and five days which is where they thought we should have been. All of a sudden the Doc is talking to us about miscarriage. Huh? What?
He said nothing was for sure but they wanted to do some tests, check her HCG and progesterone levels. Fine. He said to do one after the appointment and do one on Saturday to see if it would go up in between the two. He said we'd be able to get the results on Sunday or Monday. What a pipe dream. What? People actually work on Labor Day Weekend? It was an extremely frustrating weekend not knowing, our seventh anniversary was yesterday. We didn't enjoy it much. We went up to Hannibal, Missouri, place where Samuel Clemens aka Mark Twain grew up. It wasn't all that far away and we had to be back this afternoon for another appointment where we'd FINALLY get some damn answers.
After getting the runaround on the phone this morning while packing our stuff together again ("I'm sorry, we can't find the results," "We can't get them out of the computer") she got another runaround at the doctor's office when we finally got home, unpacked the van and headed over there. Doc was doing a birthing so instead of one of the useless nurses just taking two seconds and telling her the goddamn results they kept telling us to wait for the doctor, wait for the doctor... well about two hours later, while trying to control a 2-year-old who was getting more unruly by the minute and waiting for two friggin numbers on pins and needles... FINALLY she couldn't take it anymore and looked at her chart as I opened the door. Well there was an increase in the levels from one day to the next, which is good. But they were very low, which is bad.
After an empty promise that a nurse practitioner was on the way - after about a half hour of waiting for this phantom person - Doc FINALLY arrived. The numbers went from 5.2 to 6.2. He said that normal range started at at least 11. And the levels should've doubled from one day to the next. He also said that a failed pregnancy is a level of 4.9 or lower. We were just above that. But since it did increase, both the HCG hormone and the progesterone, there was still hope and reason to do another ultrasound in a few weeks. The fat lady hasn't sung yet.
We were left with a vexing philosophical dilemma, though. He said he could prescribe progesterone, bring the levels up. BUT. Why was her body not producing enough? Would bringing up the levels just prolong a pregnancy that's doomed anyway, or help give birth to a baby that's severely deformed (too many chromosomes) that would have a terrible life and make ours a living hell? He said a small percentage of women with this problem eventually give birth to healthy, normal babies. Would we be one of them?
So what would, should we do? Take the progesterone and give our baby every chance we can? Or would it be better to let nature do its job? She asked me what I thought. I DON'T KNOW. What do you do? I am not equipped for this, I didn't major in philosophy in college. Why do we now have to make decisions like this? Why us?! How do we decide something like this?
We went back and forth. We want our baby to be OK. But part of us just wants it to be over so we can focus on starting over again on kid #2. We feel like we're being jerked around. She decided to take it, though, finally. She took the first one before going to sleep tonight. We're going to do that and see what happens in that ultrasound on 9/21. Maybe it'll be fine. Maybe some test down the road will show that the fetus is horribly wrong and we stop taking the drug and see what nature does. Maybe that ultrasound will show a healthy, wonderful tiny baby.
Or maybe it will...
Or maybe....
Ladies and gentlemen, we are filled to the brim with maybes. I've had it with them.