Dog bites neurotic woman

At last, an eventful week!


Maybe it’s the journo in me, but I have felt quite bad for the two people who read this blog that I have not provided anything very exciting – or newsworthy – in this little nano-millimetre of information superhighway asphalt.


Well how does a sudden decrease in foetal movement scare and dog bite grab you? Huh?

I reckon the News of the World or any other quality News Ltd tabloid would just eat that stuff up for breakfast.


The baby has been moving like crazy every day for about three or four weeks now.

Most nights, during bouts of insomnia, I will feel her bump and bubble around under my skin.

Every day without fail after I have my mid-morning cup of tea, she will move; and if I have a particularly big lunch, or anything cold, she will continue her featherweight boxing training inside my abdomen.

They aren’t flutters or little wispy movements, they are normally pretty intense whacks that are often visible from the outside.

One day last week, it got to midday and none of this had happened.

It got to 2pm and I rang T to ask what I should do.

I had felt one, maybe two, tiny flutters down really low, but nowhere near as much movement as
she had displayed every day for the past month.

I was worried. And my mind wasn’t helping.

I rang our hospital. The midwife told me to see how I went for the next few hours and come in after work.

At 2.10pm I realised I couldn’t concentrate on work, thinking the worst about what was, or what was not, going on inside my uterus.

I left work and drove the 25 minutes up to the hospital, through torrential rain, I might add.

It was a terrible drive. I was sobbing, desperate at the anxiety of it all. Convinced there would be no heartbeat to find.

I had gathered myself by the time I arrived and thankfully found the last park in the parking lot.

I had also seen six garbage trucks on the highway on the drive up, which I was madly trying to tell myself was a good omen, as our four-year-old son is quite the garbage truck fanatic.

The same midwife I spoke to was at the desk. She efficiently put her paperwork down and immediately took me into a room before hooking me up to two transponder things, one to measure the heartbeat and the other to measure kicks.

She got another ultra-sound wand thing to locate the heartbeat.

“It might take me a while to find,” she said, fully aware of the tension in the room.

I held my breath.

There it was. A heartbeat.

And, seven seconds later, what was that?

A kick.

I was now lying down – for the first time that day – and she kicked.

Why didn’t I bloody lie down at work and save myself all this worry!

They hook you up for at least 20 minutes to chart movement and heart rates and I am pretty sure she had kicked no less than 25 times in the first three minutes.

Great.

I look like a neurotic who is plainly having a very naughty, troublesome child!

The midwife was really good and while I was certainly looking for it, was not patronising at all.

They must see that sort of stuff a lot, right?

And we both agreed, we would rather it was confirmed, one way or the other, instead of wondering, all the while consumed with rising panic.

“So what do I do next time, to save me coming up here every week freaking out (in case it happens again),” I asked, thinking that actually it would be kind of nice to have an informal weekly appointment with the heartbeat monitor. Are they available to purchase for home use??

The midwife just told me to watch for an entire day and if there was no movement into the night, definitely call again and come on up. Good lord, what a fright.

Of course, in context of losing a baby last year, this sort of thing is reasonable and to be expected. But bloody hell it frightens the life right out of you at the time.

As for the damn dog bite, and ensuing tetanus shot... we have had a certain breed of dog my entire life. Growing up, we had three Miniature Schnauzers, adorable things.



We plan on getting one - look at that face: wouldn't you? -when the baby is about one and not on the floor crawling. I happened to drive past an old man walking a beautiful one on my way home from work one evening.

I pulled into a side street and walked back to him to ask if he got the dog locally.

I should have seen the crazy glint in that dog’s eye from the beginning. She startled as soon as I came into view and looked on edge immediately. But she was on a lead and he held onto her while we chatted for about 10 minutes about the breed, where he got her and previous Schnauzers we had both had.

Clearly, I was no threat to her master. So I asked if I could pat her. Stupidly, I did not wait for the answer and just bent down to offer the back of my hand for her to sniff.



That movement coincided with him saying “Ah well now, I would be a bit careful about doing that” and BANG! She sniffed and then immediately nipped at my knuckles, prompting a small circular bruise and three puncture marks to show up on the skin at once.



Yep, puncture marks. No blood, but puncture marks. Great. This was going to mean tetanus.

I scurried off after the old man offered a belated and half-hearted apology and called a health advice info line when I got home. The RN on the line advised me to go to emergency within four hours and that tetanus was a Category A drug, and therefore completely safe in pregnancy.

So, with no real time to Google – and I am thankful now for that blessing – T and I took ourselves off to the local hospital. We went in at 7pm and came out at 7.25pm, which must be a new record for an emergency department. Me with a makeshift bandaid covering the day’s fourth puncture mark, this one from a tetanus needle and T with the car keys to drive the patient home.

I asked the doctor, who was American and looked to be about 11, four times if tetanus was safe. On each occasion he said yes. It was only a really minor bite, but we all thought it would be better to be safe than sorry.

Mum asked later if the baby was now immunised and I have no idea. Is she?

Remember me!

Such a long time between drinks and even Blogger has forgotten me! I had to re-enter my email address and rack my tether-end brain for my password to get back into my very own blog. Goodness! What is this world coming to?

How does that work, exactly, that "tick the box, remember me thing"? I've ticked the box, I've asked the damn thing to remember me - over and over again. I am beginning to look desperate.

Quite frankly, I think those remember me things need a check-up for Parkinson's, or severe memory loss at the very least. I mean, they remember you fine if you see them regularly. You pop in every couple of days, you have no worries, they let you through the front door without even a second look. "Come in dear and have a nice cup of tea."

But leave it a few days and you are black-listed. Forgotten. All of a sudden the flywire screen is snap-locked shut, the main door is deadbolted and one beady, paranoid eye is staring out at you through the peephole (and don't dare forget the second P on that word), pleading, "show yourself - friend or foe?"

Anyway, I am thinking at this point that I need to make with the bridge-building and get over that particular conundrum. I just need to face the fact that I can be forgettable. Gasp!

So, all is well* in my almost-six-weeks-pregnant land. *Well would have to be defined as any, or all, of the following adjectives, at literally any given point: nauseous, tired, grumpy, angry, frustrated, annoyed, overjoyed, teary, "why does meat smell so bad when it's cooked?", starving, "if I even think about food, I will vomit up both types of intestines", let me eat now let me eat everything in sight, exhausted, drained, vague, forgetful, exhilirated, depressed, anxious, headachey, irritable, addicted to icy poles/ginger/tea/dairy, repulsed by icy poles/ginger/tea/dairy.

Actually, I usually feel all of these things at once. How on god's green earth do women come back for more of this shit? Haha. Grain of salt, people, grain of salt.

Could you imagine living with it? Jeesh. T has been completely lovely and really going to an extra effort to make sure I am ok. She bought me a pack of 42 Zoopa Doopas - do you know those? They are these long thin icy poles that are full of sugar, but different and brightly-coloured sugar and they freaking rock! She is even cooking dinner some nights when I cannot face food or standing up any longer. What the hell am I going to be like at 8 months?? One step at a time. One day at a time. At times I have wished I was in her shoes, being the first one pregnant and minus a toddler running around. But then I realise he is the source of so much joy and levity in my life - joy and levity that takes my mind off the grossness - why would I wish that away?

One week tomorrow we will have our first scan. Oh! Can you imagine. It's a no-brainer, but I'm just going to come right out and say it: I cannot wait to see my baby for the first time and listen to its little heart beating. Wow. I can guess at how profound that will be, but I won't know exactly how huge that will be for me until it is happening.

So I am six weeks exactly next Tuesday, and next Friday was the next earliest time we could get down to Brisbane for our scan. It will be the last time we see our IVF doc before we transfer to an OBGYN up here (about an hour north).

Our rellies will look after Jay so T and I can go down together. It will be great. And ooh, it's been a while since I've had any pics on here - that will soon change I hope.

The spotting stopped after about 24 hours...and my anxiety slowly lessened as more and more anecdotes and statistics came out of the woodwork about how damn common it is. Um, could someone have told me that sooner please?? Hello! Worrier Platinum Class right here!!

I am telling a few more people, again with a massive "very early days, so fingers are crossed" disclaimer. I even had one guy tell me today that I should be careful about how many people I told. He's right, I should take it easy there.

One week at a time. One trimester at a time...

No joy

So, what a surprise - not.
I did the second test this morning and it was negative.
I kind of knew it would be...well, I was as certain as you can be about these things, which is frankly not very.
Anyway, the bonus (and you've got to look for the positives wherever you can I reckon) is that meant I didn't need a blood test, and therefore avoided another needle.
Hooray!
Sigh.
I told T once that one blue line appeared once more and she said "oh, I was hoping it would be a miracle".
Of course, so was I, but it's almost like I have put that experience behind me already.
Like some kind of self-preservation tactic with a mantra that goes something like: I can't change the past, focus on the next goal, focus on the future.
And all the while I am so, so thankful for the fact that I have been allowed goals and future chances in the form of those seven little embryos currently sitting in their icy home in the middle of a lab in Brisbane.

So, in the meantime, I am having less and less fun playing "Where's My Period?" - the lesser known gift with purchase that came with the Where's Wally? books sold in Kazakhstan, Berlin and Chechnya during the 1992 Christmas sales.
I note that the countries chosen for this interesting marketing trial are not known for their senses of humour, which is probably the reason Where's My Period? did not take off around the world.
Bullshit, of course, but you've got to laugh, don't you? We all know the alternative just won't boil anyone's kettle.
I was joking with a friend today that my period is like some rebellious teenage runaway, most likely hiding out in some seedy back alley.
No phone calls, no texts, no email to let me know where it is or that it still even exists - and no indication at all that it even wants to show up.
It's been missing for a full week tomorrow.
Should I call the police?
Haha. I didn't sleep very well last night, can you tell?
Goodnight.

Um, so

I'm just going to come right out and say it.
The pregnancy test was negative.
As much as I stood there willing that second line to appear...it didn't.
Actually it did, but that was after, like, 15 minutes and that's what is supposed to happen to everyone.

God, it was devastating. Or maybe that's too strong a word. Disappointing, definitely.
I don't know, I've had a full day on the scariest, twistiest part of the rollercoaster - maybe I'm just at the jaded "I've got no more emotion left" stage of the evening.
I did the test at 5.50am, as soon as I got up - it was that early cos I had a business breakfast to get to. I stood there for a few minutes - again willing that second line into as much existence as I hoped little embie had.

Nothing.

So I deliberately covered it with the pamphlet and had a shower. That killed about seven minutes or so.
Then I ripped the pamphlet out of the way as soon as I got out of the shower, desperately hoping that second line was staring back at me.
It wasn't.
There's a reason that saying "my heart sank" is so common. Cliche or not, it actually happens.
My heart sank.
Literally.
T kept popping her sleepy adorable head in and out of the bathroom to check on me, reassure me, re-read the instructions.
I didn't want to believe it...and I instantly thought of the blog post I had put up not 12 hours before about how I felt pregnant.
Obviously wishful thinking...
But then Jay stirred, I looked at the clock, realised make-up and clothes were an immediate necessity and life sort of went on.
I hurried into Jay first and have him an extra 15 strong hugs - he must have wondered what the hell was going on.
And that's when the tears started. Because I was right back to the time when T had done the test that showed up positive...and what a positive!
What a result! Here he is in my arms...and now I have to wait that bit longer until it happens to me.
But this disappointment is not something to dwell on, far from it.
The fact - and Lordy, as a journo, I am clinging to my facts at this point - is that we have seven more embryos in the freezer ready to go.
The fact is T did not have that luxury.
And the fact is it is impossible to stay cynical or depressed with a two-year-old in the house.

We were kicking the footy inside tonight, I know, not overly good parenting right there - but they are baby kicks, and he had that toddler chuckle thing happening every time I booted it to the door.
Each time he would race up and grab the ball, then bring it back to me, grinning.
Each time I would ask him if he wanted to kick it or throw it, and each time he would say "BB, BB".

On about the fourth or fifth time, he handed me the ball and I gestured back toward him.
"Jay?" I asked him.

And whether by some delightful Freudian slip or some deliberate act on his blessed little behalf, he said "no, mummy, mummy".

Now in our house so far there has been a clear distinction between mummy (T) and me (BB). We just figure it's easier that way - for now.
But tonight he called me mummy.
I don't know about you, but it was symbolic to me. My eyes welled up and I gave him yet another squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hugs, before kicking the footy to the door once more.
Moments that not only make you smile, they remind you that what you've already got is really quite spectacular.

We are so, so lucky.


The symbolic last tube of Crinone, left, and the pregnancy test (both unused for anti-yuk reasons)