If you were looking for a clever little narrative that saves the best information for last, you’ve come to the wrong blog, because I’m going to cut right to the chase.
Alive, measuring at 7 weeks exactly, with a heart rate of 152 bpm, so right on target! Such a relief. We’ve made it at least as far as last time.
Dr. Gruff turned out to be just fine. A tiny bit on the patronizing side, but approachable and kind. Not like he’s been on the phone in the past.
For some added excitement, Dr. Concerned, who I’d like to re-name Chicken Little, except I plan never to see her again, so why bother, called a few hours before the appointment and pronounced me very anemic and seemed stunned to hear that I wasn’t miscarrying right that very second.
Are you bleeding? she asked. No.
Are you sure? Yes.
You’re not bleeding? Not a fucking drop, you bitch.
She then proceeded to tell me my risk of miscarriage was increased. Knowing a little bit about her M.O., I decided not to panic. (Are you proud of me?) I consulted Dr. Google, which, first of all, showed no indication that anemia causes miscarriage, though it can cause pre-term labor if it goes on untreated through the second trimester. My hemoglobin was 10.7 and apparently anything under 11 is problematic. So anemic? Sure. Very anemic? A bit of an overstatement, doncha think? Dr. Gruff sure thought it was. He didn’t even blink at the number, recommended Slow FE and said to check again next week.
We’ve come up with a dumb name for the embryo and it’s not a legume: We’re calling it Tink, after a slope at the ski resort where it was conceived. (Not on the slope itself. We’re not that kind of people. At a condo nearby. Just to be clear.)
Next up: Ultrasound with Dr. Nice next Friday.
