That’s how I’d describe the last couple of days. I’m still reeling from the treatment at Friday’s appointment. I’m still upset that I was told that there may be something quite serious wrong with my baby, and then ushered out of the door with no further explanation or reassurance.
We’ve now spent the weekend in limbo. All we know is that we’re supposed to be going back to the hospital on Wednesday for another scan as well as a blood test. We don’t know anything about anything. We don’t have an appointment time as the one person who books the appointments was not there on Friday. I don’t know what blood tests they are meant to be carrying out, as no forms were given. And as well as the main worry of whether my baby is ok or not, is the overall treatment I was given at Friday’s appointment.
Oh, I forgot to tell you about the moment man sonographer asked me if I was coping ok with my children. Yes, he did. And I don’t know where that came from or why I was asked that. It wasn’t done in the way of “Oh! Seven children! How do you cope?!” kind of way that we’re used to from parents of fewer who couldn’t possibly imagine how you do the every day stuff with more kids, but in the way that surely it must be affecting my mental state and I must find it horrible. I told him that it was fine. My children are good children and I have a good husband too, so no problem. But it’s bugging me. Why did he ask that? What place is it of his?
Early on in the pregnancy, I was bleeding and had been told by the sonographer that she couldn’t see anything on the screen and it was likely I was going to have my ninth miscarriage within days. She still arranged a second scan for the following week and I was so scared.
The morning of the scan before I went to hospital prayed to St Gerard Majella, the Patron Saint of Motherhood. A couple of hours later I heard the news that a perfect little baby with strong heartbeat was growing. A couple of weeks later I found St Gerard Majella’s prayer card when we were on a family visit somewhere. I’d never found it before. It is now sitting above my desk, and I’ve said the prayer many times in the last couple of days.
Today I am sitting by the phone waiting for the call to let me know what time to go in on Wednesday. The blanket I’ve been knitting for the new baby is now left to one side. I’m scared to look forward. I’m scared to make plans. I’m trying to reassure myself with the positives; that Mike and I have no family history of problems, that no other soft markers have been found which may indicate an increased risk of a problem and that everything else seems to be fine according to the previous scans and blood tests. But there’s still the worry, and the stress of “What if…”
And of course, I still have to get on with life despite thinking that the phone won’t ring unless I’m holding it, or staring at it intensely. I still have meals to cook, laundry to do, floors to clean and dishes to wash. Time is going slowly, and I’m moving like I’m swimming through treacle.
And all the while I do it while thinking “What if…”