Wednesday, 30 January 2013

It's official.

There's really something growing in my belly.

I saw it on the telly at the gynae's: I'm just over 5 weeks pregnant, she said (though technically 3 - I really don't know why they have to complicate things) and if everything goes alright, it's due to come out on October 1, 2013.  Neither D nor I were expecting that much information and my mind is completely blown.

I can't believe how super efficient it all is here.  I arrived for my appointment and, whilst D sat awkwardly in the waiting room, I did a wee in a cup into which the nurse immediately stuck a test; then they weighed me (awful - especially since she shouted my weight three times at me), removed 4 vials of blood out from my arm and took my blood pressure whilst I stared at pictures of other people's babies on the wall and felt entirely disconnected from absolutely everything.  The next thing I knew I was with my lovely gynae (along with D, whom she was terribly pleased to hear wanted to join in) and she did my annual smear before sticking the lightsabre up me and inviting D to come and have a look at my womb on the screen, exactly like it is in the movies.  D and I were both like, wtf.

The doctor then felt my boobs (annual breast check: again, I love Germany), asked us a few questions, explained us a few things and then wrote me a prescription for a pair of those stockings pregnant women have to wear on airplanes because of deep vein thrombosis (we've got a holiday coming up in March).  Next time I go to see her, in three weeks time, all being well, I'll get my Mutterpass, or mother's passport, where they write down absolutely everything there is to know about me in relation to my pregnancy for me to carry around all the time, Just In Case.  Germans.  She said if I start bleeding or having pain I can just quietly pop by without making an appointment.  I find that incredibly reassuring because I hate talking to the nurses on the phone and given that my doctor said 1 in 6 women will suffer a miscarriage, it doesn't seem wholly unlikely that it might not happen to me.

When we left the doctor, me wide-eyed and sucking on a handful of sweets I grabbed from reception on the way out, I was presented with a magazine and D got a goodie bag full of more magazine, a collection of adverts and a packet of magnesium drinks.  We hid it all under a chair in the living room because neither of us can be bothered to read it (read: I can't face it all just yet).  D's amazing, though: I just went into the kitchen to start cooking dinner and he'd laid out all the vegetables on the chopping board so with a knife so that it'd be less work for me.  Boys are funny.  I think he does understand that I'm a bit confused about the whole thing - even though I wouldn't for a second contemplate not going ahead with having a... nope, I can't quite say it.  But there's not a chance I wouldn't go through with it.  Apart from anything else, he was born to be a dad.  We haven't had a proper conversation about it but I know he knows I need a bit of time to get my head around it.  Mainly because I keep talking about Alien.

Speaking of getting my head round it, yes, it's a massive fucking shock, but after this appointment it definitely feels more real.  Although not that real, as all I have to go on is a woman showing me a picture of a tiny blob.  It could be anything, right?  D might have put a Smartie up there for all I know.  Anyway, my lovely gynae gave us a print out of the blob and everything.  I keep staring at it and trying to work out what it means.  I mean, really means.  For my whole life.  Apart from the fact that in all likelihood, if we get through the next 7 weeks, everything's about to really fucking change.

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