Freaky Friday and the minor miracle

At my week 10 appointment I officially “graduated” from the fertility clinic to my OB/GYN group.  My PA performed the ultrasound and let me watch the baby the entire time she took measurements.  I was shocked at the amount of movement going on in there that I couldn’t feel at all.  Little kicks and little waves, already trying to push its way out of the narrow spaces.  Then the other shock – hearing the heartbeat for the very first time.  I would be lying if I said it wasn’t freaky, hearing the big “BUMP bump.  BUMP bump.”  (that’s you, the doctor said) then a little “whish-whish-whish-whish-whish-whish” after she moved the transmitter a little to the left.  FREAKY.

Oh, but that wasn’t even the freakiest news of the day.  In her final measurements, the PA located and measured the follicle from which the egg had erupted.  “I saw this last time but I wanted to make double sure.  You ovulated from your right side.”  Meaning, from the ovary that doesn’t have a fallopian tube or half-a-uterus to connect to.  Meaning, that little egg had to criss-cross my abdomen to even get sucked in by the other fallopian tube, then it had to get fertilized, and then it had to be healthy enough to even stick.  And the chances of that happening in a unicornuate infertilite is like slim to none (technically less than 5%).  Maybe running 12 miles a week helped move things along?  J

Oh, but wait – the story gets much better.  There is kind of a superstition in my family that when one person dies, someone gets pregnant.  It’s just how it goes, and how it’s always worked ever since I could remember.  In late January my husband’s grandmother passed away and I really didn’t think much of it, because after all she was an in-law and probably didn’t count in my family rule.  But then I got pregnant and miscarried right afterwards.  Oh, but then I got pregnant again.  “Do you realize,” my husband said to me last week, “That you’ve been pregnant every possible time that you could have been since she died?  How do you feel about the name Agatha?”

He likes telling that story to his aunts and uncles, especially now as we are finally cleaning out her house and dividing her belongings.  I think it helps him have some kind of ownership of an experience that is largely out of his control, even if it’s not entirely true.  And thanks, Grandma Agatha, for your divine intervention, but your name still isn’t on the list.



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