I really don’t have anything positive to say. Tomorrow is the ultrasound and I’m filled with anxiety and dread. All the zen I was feeling at the beginning of this has been replaced with fear of the worst. See, November is not a good month in my family. To Novembers ago my eyes were sort of about to fall out from a massive uveitis flair. We made two trips to the ER and over the course of the next 12 months spent $5,000 in copays, medications, and tests that were NOT related to infertility. It sucked.
Last November both the Professor and my brother ended up in separate emergency rooms on the same day. The Professor had been in a bike wreck and was thankfully ok aside from the biggest hematoma I have ever seen. It was seriously larger than the head of a newborn. Creepy. My brother was gravely ill and proceeded to spend the next 26 days in the hospital, a week of which was in the ICU. He nearly died.
This year is supposed to be our good November. I desperately want it to be a good November. On the eve of my ultrasound, though, I really don’t know if it will. Another dead baby or uncertain pregnancy will not a jolly November make.
All my friends and the Professor insist this is “the one.” They all say, with great joy, that they “have a feeling! This is it! My feelings are never wrong!” The problem is that they all said that the last time, too. So I put exactly zero stock in what other people feel.
The only thing I know for sure is that I felt total dread and uncertainty about the last pregnancy, and am feeling that way again. There are only three ways this can go: I’m wrong and make a great healthy baby with the proper number of chromosomes; I’m right and tomorrow we’ll find an empty sack or dead baby; or tomorrow’s ultrasound will be “uncertain” meaning I’ll have more weeks of anguish.
25 hours and 46 minutes until we find out. It’s going to be a long day.