We arrived to the official appointment

On Thursday morning, we arrived at the doctor's office still bleary-eyed and depressed about the night before. The nurse cheerfully brought us into her office to give us the rundown on prenatal care, the cost and jot down our family histories. She said congratulations and asked us if this was planned.

I looked at Brent, eyes wider than my face. As the nurse waited for an answer, I turned back to her overly happy face and her lipstick-stained teeth.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "What is going on? We were in the ER last night, and now we're having a conversation about a baby that might or might not still be alive inside of me. I need you to help me!"

Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I started shaking all over again. (Then, I just felt badly for the unsuspecting victim of my stress.) She fumbled for the mouse and clicked away trying to find my charts from the emergency room.

"Looks like everything is fine," she cautiously said, as she looked up from her keyboard. "You have a subchorionic hematoma, but the baby is OK."

Then, Brent teared up. WHAT?  (OK, breathe.)

She finished up the paperwork with us, threw a bunch of freebies into a canvas bag and ushered us into the officially appointment. At the end, all she good stammer was a "good luck."

Luck? After this crappy year, we're going to need more than luck.

Catching up since the last post

I just re-read the last blog post about our first appointment. Unfortunately, a lot happened 12 hours before we even got there.

It all started with a snow/ice storm that led to me sliding into our jerk neighbor's Volvo, which he parks in front of our driveway. (More of a rant on that later. Trust me, I have lots to say.)

A half-hour into a friend's birthday celebration at a local restaurant, I realized I was bleeding. I won't go into the horrid details, but I began hemorrhaging. I (in hindsight stupidly) drove myself to the hospital with Brent on the cell phone trying to calm me down. That's all we'd need is me getting into an accident on top of everything.

After tests and taking blood and more tests, I was wheeled into an ultrasound room for a sonagram. Expecting that I had lost our child, the technician suddenly told us we had a fetus with a heart beating at 174 beats per minute.

What?

You have a baby with a heartbeat.

After six hours in the emergency room, the ER doctor gave me discharge papers. Confused? Yeah, so were we. He told me to go home, relax and go the scheduled appointment the next morning. This was after that same man told us I passed the baby, I was dilated and hemorrhaging. You can imagine our disbelief.

In bed that night, all we could do was pray.

The first doctor appointment

Thursday morning we head to the doctor for the same appointment that we actually made it to with Morgan. It's the one where the nurse practitioner asks a million and one questions in her cushy office.

Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you have depression? Do any of these 3,000 diseases listed here run in your family?

Then comes the fun part, though. We get all sorts of baby magazines, freebies, products to try and a ton of paperwork. Thank goodness they give you a canvas tote bag to bring it all home. Now, we did receive all of this with Morgan, but I threw all of the freebies and information out in a fit of fury. (Whoops)

After the chat, the doctor takes a look and so begins the question-and-answer session. This poor doctor has no idea what's going hit her when I get in there. Couple being a naturally inquisitive journalist with a past of a miscarriage ...

It's arrived!

We are officially grown-ups.

No, graduating from college,
moving out on my own to another state,
heading to the altar and
now pregnancy has not achieved this status.

Our queen-sized headboard makes us grown-ups.

After waiting five weeks and logging plenty of phone calls to Sleep Mattress (don't go there), it came in! I'll put up another photo of it actually on the bed, but here is what it looks like.

It's Chester Heaboard in Creme Brulee Finish. Maybe we were just hungry when we bought it.

Something in common

After the doctor said to take it easy until we make it to 12 weeks, I've (unfortunately) been sucked into reality television. I know, I know. I should be reading ("The Man Who Was Thursday," for example), but sometimes it's more fun to lose yourself in trashy TV.

Enter the Real Housewives of New Jersey. As soon as I wrote that hour of my life as lost forever, one of the women talked about having five miscarriages.

Since that episode, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Read about it here.

(And please tell me I'm not the only Bravo fan here.)

Turning the focus to hubby

Lately, hubby has been more than sick. We're still not sure if it was a really mean bug or if it's stress-related. (Although, I have a feeling it's the latter.)

As he sat on the table, the doctor asked him to talk a little about what's going on. Where to start? Could it be all of the breaking news on the manufacturing beat? Or the miscarriage in September? Maybe the situation we're in right now with our second child?

Nah, it's probably the just the impending holidays.

Sending feel-better vibes Brent's way.

Losing my mind

I knew having  -- or better trying for -- a baby would be an anxiety-ridden experience. But, I didn't know I signed for all that has happened. I am ready now. I'm prepared for the worst, I'm praying for the best and I know I'll survive. What's that saying? What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.

Back to my point -- the doctor put me on restrictions. He didn't necessarily say I'm a high-risk patient, but that I'm "somebody to watch." What does this mean?

No shopping.
No carrying heavy bags.
No lifting.
No running.
No excessive movement.
No working out.

And now, folks, I am losing my mind. I literally think my arm fat has doubled. And, I am not known to exaggerate.(I don't think.)

Looks like Brent has Lucy-walking duties, and presents will be bought online this year.