THE TEST

“That’s it?”

I had built the ordeal up in my head over the past two weeks. I had expected a doctor to walk into the room with a foot-long needle to insert into my abdomen.

Instead I spent 20 minutes with the ultrasound technician giving Tom and I a detail tour of our 13.6cm child’s anatomy. When the doctor finally came into the room the procedure happened all too quickly for me to register that it was actually happening.

“How many of these do you do a year?”

‘Oh, about three to four hundred.”

“Ouch” A massive stinging pain that came and went quickly.

“Sorry, I can’t help that. It’s going to hurt.”

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Tom. He was staring intently at the picture the ultra-sound operator had given us. But on saying ouch he looked up quickly and then began pinching my elbow.

It’s a technique a dentist taught me – if you wiggle your fingers and toes while something unpleasant is happening then you have to concentrate so hard on that action you don’t notice the pain. Tom had wanted to help at this particular dental procedure so began squeezing a toe. The result was that I was concentrating so hard on what he was doing that I actually survived the removal of a wisdom tooth.

Today he couldn’t get to my toes and my hands were full so he squeezed my elbow. I laughed and then realised my rocking body probably wasn’t a good idea while the doctor was inserting a massive needle into my uterus.

But then it was all over. What I had thought was an injection of local anaesthetic was actually the procedure I’d been so afraid of.

The doctor took a needle full of amniotic fluid then told me I was good to go.

“Um, you mean that’s it?”

“Yep.”

“I had so built that up in my head.”

The nurse laughed. “You’re not alone.”

I spent the rest of the day on the lounge, as instructed, watching poor day-time TV and a couple of specially chosen DVD. All day Tom regularly checked on me, fetched coffee and kissed and hugged me.

All-in-all an amniocentesis isn’t something to be toyed with but when it’s necessary it’s also nothing to fear. At worst, it’s unpleasant. But all kudos for the experience comes from having access to the best doctors and the best facilities.

It's only at times like these that I truely appreciate what I have right at my fingertips.

HUSBAND

"Tom, I really think my belly's gone down."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Nugget's just moving the furniture around."

"It's easy for you to say don't worry, I'm the one who'll probably pass an ottoman in the morning."

Odd the things that make us smile.

FOUR DAYS

When I first found out about nugget’s test results I didn’t think I’d survive the stress of waiting for the amniocentesis. Now there’s only four more days to wait and the deed will be done.

I’ve fared well thanks to massively supportive friends and family but it’s been tough not telling my parents what’s going on. Our conversations about visiting the doctor have been stilted and vague. Not wanting to lie and not wanting to tell them the truth I walked a very fine line.

Still, it’s for the best. They’ve had enough worries in their life without having to worry about things they have no control over.

I guess I just feel I’m too old to be burdening my parents any more.

If I thought for a second they could help or that it was something they needed to know then I would tell them but for right now they simply don’t need to know. Nothing is set in stone yet and it’s only then that I would tell them something – when it’s fact rather than suspicion.

After these two weeks the test results are becoming more abstract.

I have a 1:23 chance something is wrong. A 4% chance nugget has a genetic disorder. Sure it’s more than anyone my age but it’s not really a massive chance and I honestly don’t feel as though anything is wrong.

I’m trusting my instinct which friends tell me is much more reliable than any test.

But of the past two weeks it’s been the support I’ve been offered that has changed my mind and I can’t help but play these quotes though my head when I’m worried.

“Seriously if I got a 96% in any of my tests I’d be pretty impressed with myself.”

“If statistics was a perfect science then every gambler would be a millionaire.”

“Think about the millions of women giving birth and who have already given birth and they got by without knowing half of what you know. You said you wanted to sit back and enjoy pregnancy. You told us all to resist telling you horror stories and we have. But you’ve got to stop making up your own and start enjoying yourself.”

It’s worked. Rarely pep-talks do anything for me but I’ve found that instead of being the bearers of doom and gloom everyone I know has been working double time to keep my beast at bay.

For now I am fine. I’m nervose but I’m no longer terrified. The test has been done a million times and the risk is minimal. The results are another two weeks off and I’m more than confident that they’ll come back in my favour.

And then that niggling voice pops up “what if you’re wrong?”. I can’t entertain it right now. I have to hold on to the few things I am certain of because if I were to doubt myself for a second I’d fall into a heap on the ground.

If I’m wrong, if I’m devastated, I’ll deal with it then.

There’s no point trimming the sales while you’re still on land. It doesn’t get you anywhere.

BUSY HANDS

Too all of you with busy hands.

I am now 15 weeks pregnant and even at these early stages the second I mention that I’m pregnant (because it isn’t immediately obvious yet) the hands are flying at me to rub my belly as if I were some good-luck Buddha.

Just for your information, the belly that you are rubbing is the result of my compressed innards making way for my uterus, which is still down in my pelvic region.

And no, you can’t rub there.

It’s not that I find the action uncomfortable or invasive. I’m not offended or feeling violated. It’s that I find the whole idea of people suddenly wanting to touch my stomach odd.

When it was just fat you weren’t so interested.

Now that I’m going through the “blooming” transition of bearing a child you’re all suddenly so interested in my gut. It’s not that interesting. What’s interesting is going on inside that ballooning skin.

Mind you, when exposed to light I’m sure the little 10cm creature would look more odd than adorable. Its translucent skin and its eyes fused shut make it look like a toy more than anything else. (Still, as odd as he looks, I’m kind of getting attached to my little nugget.)

If only you knew what was really going on then… wait, most of you are actually women with your own children and you should know better.

You should know that under your hand my stomach is churning as I battle through my fifth week of morning sickness. You should know that under your hand the pressure on my bowels is causing sever constipation. You should know that under you hand my tendons are stretching and aching mercilessly.

I also have haemorrhoids.

But I’m betting you don’t what to touch that.

So, you are now obsessed with my gut but then again, so am I. I rub my belly as though I was waiting for a genie to pop out but at least I have a reason for the rub. The pull of the tendons is killing me and the gentle rub eases the pain.

Whatever, I’ve got other things on my mind and I’ll have to go without understanding this mysterious human behaviour which I can only I treat with bemusement.

I’ll tolerate being Buddha for a while – there are worse things than people caring enough about me and my child to want a tactile connection.

But I am hormonal and if I suddenly turn on you like a beloved Pit-Bull who’s had enough of grotty people patting it without invitation then don’t act all offended and hurt.

You have been warned.

BAD TESTS

I don't know if this is where this belongs but here goes. It’s been a long week and I’m exhausted from the stress.

I got my Nuchal Translucency and blood test results and I've been in shock. My Nuchal Translucency test, in itself, said my chance of having a child with genetic abnormalities was 1 in 1300. Pretty good. But my blood test threw everything into chaos. I have a 1 in 23 chance that my child will have a genetic disorder.

Now a 4% chance doesn't sound that bad but compared to other women my age who have a 0.4% chance I was hysterical. Now it's a 2 week wait for an amniocentesis test and then a further 2 weeks to get the results.It's already been the longest five days of my life I just don't know how I'm going to stop worrying and stressing about this.

Everyone keeps saying "just put it out of your head" and "well, if it does have downs then it's still your child and you'll be fine" which only makes it worse.

My doctor tells me that she's had about 6 women go through the same thing in the past 18 months and that all were cleared by the amnio which puts my mind at ease but it's the lingering "what if..." that's got me preoccupied.

I don't know what I need right now except that I'm finding it gets better the more I just come out and tell people what I'm going through.

Airing my concerns seems to give them less of an ability to bounce around my head and compound into something worse than they are.
Tom’s been no help. He’s been lost somewhere in his own world – not fully understanding of the implications of the test.

“So nugget’s got something wrong?”

“No, there’s just a bigger chance that something’s wrong.”

“I don’t get it – if nothing’s wrong, there’s only a chance something’s wrong, then what’s the problem.”

That I’m high risk is the problem. But Tom just can’t see it. Tom’s a man of absolutes and as a result he simply can’t understand why I’m constantly worried.

I don’t know how I’d cope of nugget was anything other than your regular child. Small problems, small disorders and individual quirks I can work with but I worry that there’s something more serious that I won’t be able to handle.

But life only dishes out challenges we’re capable of handling.

In the past though I’ve proven that when faced with a challenge my greatest skill is running away.

Right now, I’m wishing that were an option and that I could slip into ignorance. At least for the next month or so.

HELPING HANDS

While the nanna’s painted the nursery I couldn’t help but realise just how lucky I am that these are going to be the matriarchal figures in my child’s life.

For a good, solid, 14 hours the matriarch’s talked. I don’t know the topic of all discussions as I’d been banned from the room but I do know that they seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves.

In one Hallmark moment I stood in the room as they sanded downs the walls in preparation for paining while the mums told me about their birthing experience.

Half talking to me, half reminiscing with each other.

“Oh, remember the salt baths? Did you have one of those?” My mum asked. My MIL shook her head. Mum then went on to tell me about the salt bath – a method by which women who had just given birth were put into salt water baths to encourage healing.

MIL also went on to tell me some harrowing tales about how things were done when she had Tom.

All-in-all it was enlightening and I wasn’t so much scared by what I was told but encourage to learn these two small women (and my mother who screams when she stubbs her toe) have made it safely through child-birth.

On the other side of the house Tom and dad were also doing their manly best to renovate the house – with a new backdoor and window blinds to keep out the cold. They too, managed to talk for near on 14 hours about manly things.

With me in my “delicate” condition anything involving fumes or heavy lifting I had been relegated to the position of “little woman”. I organised morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea and then pointed at the fridge at around dinner time if anyone was hungry.

By 10pm my parents drifted off and Tom and I literally ran into the bedroom to sleep. Despite our exhaustion it took at least an hour to settle down.

It was the perfect family day. One I’ll be thrilled to tell nugget about when he asks about what preparation we made for him/her.

FOOD

Everything stinks. Everything.

There’s someone on the other side of this room eating a lunch that smells somewhat like stewed vomit.

My boss, a lovely women, is wearing at least 12 litres of her favourite perfume.

A co-worker who I haven’t been able to identify needs to be reunited with deodorant.

“You look a little green,” Karen smiles.

“You would too if you could smell what I can.”

I just want to go home. I just want to curl up in bed and cover my nose.

I want to catch up on the sleep I lost last night tossing, turning and running to the toilet.

I’m living on mashed potatoes, white bread, and overcooked and tasteless chicken.

T-bone steak tastes like horse. The sight and smell of raw red meat, oozing blood make me want to vomit. The sight and smell of cooked red meat has the same effect.

All chicken tastes off.

Hamburgers are the one exception – not Mcdonalds hamburgers but rather the saucy Hungry Jacks or Burger Bun. Subway is also acceptable.

I’ve become a junkfood-a-holic. It’s the only food that stays down.

I’ve also lost 2 kilos.

If this seems a little food centric you have to understand. I’m either sick because I haven’t eaten, sick because I’ve eaten too much, sick because I’ve eaten the wrong thing, sick because I can smell food.

My stomach feels as though I’ve done 3 rounds with Jean Claude Van Dam and he’s chosen nothing but body blows.

The hormones are also causing their share of problems but I’m too busy vomiting and crying to pay them any mind.

Right now I feel like I need a long holiday. But something tells me there’s worse ahead and I should be saving my sick days for as long as I can.