- When your doctor first says the phrase "high risk", a siren will sound in your head.
- You're going to go to the doctor A LOT. I will have seen a doctor every week this month by the end of Friday.
- Those routine pregnancy tests you once worried about (ie the dreaded glucose test) will fall to the back burner of your mind.
- People will tell you to focus on taking care of yourself and the baby. This will feel weird. Really weird and slightly selfish at times.
- You'll quit your job in order to try to do this and you'll feel really conflicted about it.
- Some people will treat you like you're very fragile. Some people will act as if nothing about this pregnancy is different from a normal one. Whether or not either of these is intentional, I can't be sure.
- Having an MRI isn't as bad as you may have thought, but it's not something you'll want to do again.
- People will come out of the woodwork and continually amaze you with their support.
- There will be days when you're excited and feel everything will turn out beautifully. There will also be days when you're scared out of your mind.
- It will be a big challenge to decide who to tell what, if anything, about this journey. You'll want to talk, and yet at the same time, you'll want to be alone and distract yourself.
- You'll do everything in your power to make sure this little baby makes it into the world safely.
Monday, January 26, 2015
What I've learned from having a high risk pregnancy
Yes, it's true. This pregnancy is now considered high risk. Something I never expected to have to face, but I'm doing my best to navigate this completely new territory. In the process, I've learned a few things:
Thursday, January 15, 2015
A letter to my (former) OB
Dr. C,
Maybe it's weird for me to be doing this, maybe it happens more than I realize. But it doesn't matter. I want to say thank you.
Perhaps you don't remember me simply by hearing my name. I was the first time mom who got the news that her little daughter has something called a sacrococcygeal teratoma last week. I was the redhead who was vivacious and happy when you entered the room, and soon became very quiet and somber as you sat next to her and told her the news. I was the one who sat stunned faced while her husband asked loads of questions. You could probably tell I was in a state of shock. You could probably see the tears burning behind my eyes, wishing to fall. But I wouldn't let them, you didn't need that in your day. I know you've probably given many new moms diagnoses much worse than mine. I know it wasn't easy for you to burst our bubble, and I didn't want to make you feel worse by having to see my tears. Thank you for the way you did approach the situation, and your concern for me, my husband, and our baby. That concern was obvious from my first appointment.
You smiled at me in the hall that first day, probably unaware that I was going to be your patient. When my husband told you I have a phobia of needles and your response was "Bless your heart!" instead of the snarky "Well, you'd better get used to them!" that I expected, I was surprised. When you came back to give me the standard pregnancy do's and don'ts during my blood draw in an attempt to distract me, I was surprised yet again. But it became clear to me very quickly that you saw me as a whole person, not just a patient. I had gotten used to the way you like to do things, and I felt so comfortable in your care.
Now here I am with an appointment to see a specialist you referred me to tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure this person will be competent and tell us the things you couldn't. I've been reassured plenty of times that they will be understanding and helpful and the best option for bringing our little girl into the world safely. And all that is probably true. But it won't be the same. I had complete faith and trust in you being the one to help our daughter come into this world. I was willing to have you see things that most people I care about shouldn't see. And now it won't be you. I can only hope I'll like this new specialist and they'll make me feel as comfortable as you did. Thank you for everything. I don't want to replace you, but I guess I have to. This letter isn't conveying my feelings adequately, but I'll just end it here. I'm truly grateful for the influence you've had on my first pregnancy. Thank you for making things easier and calming my nerves. I hope I can find another OB when the time comes who treats me as well as you have.
Maybe it's weird for me to be doing this, maybe it happens more than I realize. But it doesn't matter. I want to say thank you.
Perhaps you don't remember me simply by hearing my name. I was the first time mom who got the news that her little daughter has something called a sacrococcygeal teratoma last week. I was the redhead who was vivacious and happy when you entered the room, and soon became very quiet and somber as you sat next to her and told her the news. I was the one who sat stunned faced while her husband asked loads of questions. You could probably tell I was in a state of shock. You could probably see the tears burning behind my eyes, wishing to fall. But I wouldn't let them, you didn't need that in your day. I know you've probably given many new moms diagnoses much worse than mine. I know it wasn't easy for you to burst our bubble, and I didn't want to make you feel worse by having to see my tears. Thank you for the way you did approach the situation, and your concern for me, my husband, and our baby. That concern was obvious from my first appointment.
You smiled at me in the hall that first day, probably unaware that I was going to be your patient. When my husband told you I have a phobia of needles and your response was "Bless your heart!" instead of the snarky "Well, you'd better get used to them!" that I expected, I was surprised. When you came back to give me the standard pregnancy do's and don'ts during my blood draw in an attempt to distract me, I was surprised yet again. But it became clear to me very quickly that you saw me as a whole person, not just a patient. I had gotten used to the way you like to do things, and I felt so comfortable in your care.
Now here I am with an appointment to see a specialist you referred me to tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure this person will be competent and tell us the things you couldn't. I've been reassured plenty of times that they will be understanding and helpful and the best option for bringing our little girl into the world safely. And all that is probably true. But it won't be the same. I had complete faith and trust in you being the one to help our daughter come into this world. I was willing to have you see things that most people I care about shouldn't see. And now it won't be you. I can only hope I'll like this new specialist and they'll make me feel as comfortable as you did. Thank you for everything. I don't want to replace you, but I guess I have to. This letter isn't conveying my feelings adequately, but I'll just end it here. I'm truly grateful for the influence you've had on my first pregnancy. Thank you for making things easier and calming my nerves. I hope I can find another OB when the time comes who treats me as well as you have.
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