Tuesday 22nd March
I turn up at the EPC and the waiting room is empty. Two nurses sit around gossiping barely and dunking biscuits in their tea.
A brisk middle aged consultant calls me in to the room and I slip onto the bed. Despite drinking twice the recommended amount of water my bladder appears empty and so we resort to the vaginal scan. Just minutes in and she happily announces both are in there wiggling about. Your Dad has tears in his eyes. She turns the screen towards me and one at a time she shows me you both. Both of you are wiggling and both your hearts are beating proudly.
She tells me the idea that you could have been conceived at different times isn't possible but that it may just be that you are structurally different. "Like Laurel and Hardy" she says. One of you is showing up at 10 weeks and 5 days and the other at 9 weeks and 2 days. That seems pretty consistent growth to me.
She starts going into all the "ifs" and "buts" and talks about chromosomal abnormalities being like having an incomplete encyclopaedia. I have tuned out.
I leave light as a feather clinging on to my first baby pictures of you and you are most definitely both shaped like babies now with heads and little feet and hands. Happy in my heart.
Friday, 25 March 2011
Sunday, 20 March 2011
The Spirit of Spring
Sunday 20th March
Spring has most definitely sprung. The sky is blue today and the air clear and warm and full of the smell of new life. The cherry trees are filling with their delicate temporal blossom. People are uncurling from their long hibernation.
And my body seems to be in keeping with the spirit of spring. Of course I knew I was but now I really feel like I am. I mean, my waist has been thickening for some time and my boobs have been, well blooming but now they have entered this new stage of sensitivity and I look like I have had enhancement surgery. Most significantly though I have this bump and it's like suddenly, before I am ready to tell, my body is announcing to the world that I am pregnant! All of a sudden I look like a pregnant lady and it's like a full on outward realisation that I am pregnant.
This must be a good thing though right? In my heart there's a glimmering beam of hope for both of you. Your Dad's eyes fill with pride and adoration at my changing shape.
Spring has most definitely sprung. The sky is blue today and the air clear and warm and full of the smell of new life. The cherry trees are filling with their delicate temporal blossom. People are uncurling from their long hibernation.
And my body seems to be in keeping with the spirit of spring. Of course I knew I was but now I really feel like I am. I mean, my waist has been thickening for some time and my boobs have been, well blooming but now they have entered this new stage of sensitivity and I look like I have had enhancement surgery. Most significantly though I have this bump and it's like suddenly, before I am ready to tell, my body is announcing to the world that I am pregnant! All of a sudden I look like a pregnant lady and it's like a full on outward realisation that I am pregnant.
This must be a good thing though right? In my heart there's a glimmering beam of hope for both of you. Your Dad's eyes fill with pride and adoration at my changing shape.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
The Third Scan
Monday 14th March
I can barely say my name to the receptionist at the Early Pregnancy Clinic before I crumple in tears. She steers me into a private waiting room. Nurses pop in and out asking me questions and then the Sonographer whisks me off into the now familiar room. I slide onto the pillow. I am shaking with fear which is making it hard for her to secure images.
After a few moments the Sonographer reassures me she can see two heart beats. She turns the screen to me Showman Bean you are bouncing and leaping off the sac wall, your little arms waving in the air. You look like a little child in a swimming pool. Then she moves the image over to Shy Bean, your heart is beating but you are so still, your sac looks kind of shabby in comparison.
Back in the private waiting room the nurse comes in to speak to me. They have taken my file "upstairs". Upstairs is this place I keep hearing about, it's a place where answers come from, you can earn your own place upstairs only by proving sufficiently complex. The consultant has said, the nurse tells me, that he is surprised you Shy Bean have survived this long, judging on the last scan he hadn't expected you to still be here. This is new information to be me and it's hard to hear retrospective bad news. They gave me all sorts of reassuring explanations last time, maybe you were conceived at different times, maybe it's a funny angle. Last time it was all very normal.
Now the nurse is in front of me saying she hasn't seen this before. It's the growth that concerns them and the shabby sac. They aren't talking about these explanations you are just a worry to them. I don't understand though. At the last scan you were 6 and a 1/2 weeks while your Showman sibling was 7 weeks. This time you are 8 1/2 while your Showman sibling is 9. Surely that consistent growth rate is a good thing.
She's reluctant to reassure me and I feel like she is trying to tell me something through anecdotal riddles. I leave knowing I should be happy you are both still alive but full of fear about whether you will survive. Your Dad has interpreted it all more positively. He is full of hope and certainty that you will be fine. I cling on to his hope like a barnacle to a rock face in a storm.
I can barely say my name to the receptionist at the Early Pregnancy Clinic before I crumple in tears. She steers me into a private waiting room. Nurses pop in and out asking me questions and then the Sonographer whisks me off into the now familiar room. I slide onto the pillow. I am shaking with fear which is making it hard for her to secure images.
After a few moments the Sonographer reassures me she can see two heart beats. She turns the screen to me Showman Bean you are bouncing and leaping off the sac wall, your little arms waving in the air. You look like a little child in a swimming pool. Then she moves the image over to Shy Bean, your heart is beating but you are so still, your sac looks kind of shabby in comparison.
Back in the private waiting room the nurse comes in to speak to me. They have taken my file "upstairs". Upstairs is this place I keep hearing about, it's a place where answers come from, you can earn your own place upstairs only by proving sufficiently complex. The consultant has said, the nurse tells me, that he is surprised you Shy Bean have survived this long, judging on the last scan he hadn't expected you to still be here. This is new information to be me and it's hard to hear retrospective bad news. They gave me all sorts of reassuring explanations last time, maybe you were conceived at different times, maybe it's a funny angle. Last time it was all very normal.
Now the nurse is in front of me saying she hasn't seen this before. It's the growth that concerns them and the shabby sac. They aren't talking about these explanations you are just a worry to them. I don't understand though. At the last scan you were 6 and a 1/2 weeks while your Showman sibling was 7 weeks. This time you are 8 1/2 while your Showman sibling is 9. Surely that consistent growth rate is a good thing.
She's reluctant to reassure me and I feel like she is trying to tell me something through anecdotal riddles. I leave knowing I should be happy you are both still alive but full of fear about whether you will survive. Your Dad has interpreted it all more positively. He is full of hope and certainty that you will be fine. I cling on to his hope like a barnacle to a rock face in a storm.
Sunday, 13 March 2011
More Bleeding
Saturday 12th March
I wake on the futon after a delicious sleep. I rub my tummy to say good morning to you. I text your Dad from us to tell him we are missing him. It's been three days since we saw him now. My little nieces are up and smiling. After the eldest is whisked off for her swimming training I slip into the bathroom to get ready.
I sit on the loo and feel something coming out. I wipe and there is a creamy red fluid all over the tissue. I look into the toilet bowl and watch as this same fluid drips out of me. My head swims with confusion and panic. I phone your Dad and sob down the phone to him.
I creep out into the hallway and ask to speak to my sister in law. She has tears in her eyes and knows my pain having suffered a miscarriage herself in her first pregnancy. We drive across London to Chelsea and West Minster hospital. A man is writhing with agony in the waiting room but is being forced to wait his turn.
Eventually they take me through and I have to change into an undignified open backed gown. They take bloods, test urine and then leave me waiting. Finally the Gynie doctor comes, except I can barely believe he is a doctor, he looks about the same age as my nephew. He examines me internally and tells me my womb isn't opening. He says he can't rule out miscarriage but that since the neck of the womb is closed it hasn't already started. I plead for a scan which would conclusively tell me one way or another if you are both still alive. The Sonographer doesn't work weekends and so I have to go to my home hospital on Monday. The doctor tells me to pack heavy absorbency pads for my journey back. In case. It's brutally pragmatic. I hear the doctors in the corridor panicking about lack of bed space and they are ordered to clear people out where possible.
I'm back outside again and in the car driving home trying to change the subject.
Monday seems like light years away.
My heart is telling me things I don't want to hear. Your Dad tells me if I believe you are OK then you will be. I feel like I am failing you by failing to believe that. My heart is whispering my fears.
I make my way home and curl up in bed and catch up on Eastenders.
Sunday 13th March
In the morning I wake and initially I feel fine, well rested, even hopeful. But within moments of moving around a cramping pain starts and on the loo I see spots of blood on the tissue. There's a dull ache in my lower back. I search around the internet as if I may by chance come across my answer.
Then I search for where you are at in your development if you are still there, holding on, 9 weeks now. You have moved from embryo to foetus your joints are in place and your little fingers can open and curl. I lose myself in the thought of your tiny perfect fingers opening and closing.
I don't want to lose you, either of you. It feels like there's a knife in my heart.
I wake on the futon after a delicious sleep. I rub my tummy to say good morning to you. I text your Dad from us to tell him we are missing him. It's been three days since we saw him now. My little nieces are up and smiling. After the eldest is whisked off for her swimming training I slip into the bathroom to get ready.
I sit on the loo and feel something coming out. I wipe and there is a creamy red fluid all over the tissue. I look into the toilet bowl and watch as this same fluid drips out of me. My head swims with confusion and panic. I phone your Dad and sob down the phone to him.
I creep out into the hallway and ask to speak to my sister in law. She has tears in her eyes and knows my pain having suffered a miscarriage herself in her first pregnancy. We drive across London to Chelsea and West Minster hospital. A man is writhing with agony in the waiting room but is being forced to wait his turn.
Eventually they take me through and I have to change into an undignified open backed gown. They take bloods, test urine and then leave me waiting. Finally the Gynie doctor comes, except I can barely believe he is a doctor, he looks about the same age as my nephew. He examines me internally and tells me my womb isn't opening. He says he can't rule out miscarriage but that since the neck of the womb is closed it hasn't already started. I plead for a scan which would conclusively tell me one way or another if you are both still alive. The Sonographer doesn't work weekends and so I have to go to my home hospital on Monday. The doctor tells me to pack heavy absorbency pads for my journey back. In case. It's brutally pragmatic. I hear the doctors in the corridor panicking about lack of bed space and they are ordered to clear people out where possible.
I'm back outside again and in the car driving home trying to change the subject.
Monday seems like light years away.
My heart is telling me things I don't want to hear. Your Dad tells me if I believe you are OK then you will be. I feel like I am failing you by failing to believe that. My heart is whispering my fears.
I make my way home and curl up in bed and catch up on Eastenders.
Sunday 13th March
In the morning I wake and initially I feel fine, well rested, even hopeful. But within moments of moving around a cramping pain starts and on the loo I see spots of blood on the tissue. There's a dull ache in my lower back. I search around the internet as if I may by chance come across my answer.
Then I search for where you are at in your development if you are still there, holding on, 9 weeks now. You have moved from embryo to foetus your joints are in place and your little fingers can open and curl. I lose myself in the thought of your tiny perfect fingers opening and closing.
I don't want to lose you, either of you. It feels like there's a knife in my heart.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
London Town
Friday 11th March
It's Friday and I haul myself out of bed, I shudder as every movement I make sends ripples of nausea resonating through me. Your Dad is on the home run of a 48 hours shift and I call to bemoan my morning sickness glory, as though it's a badge of honour. He sternly tells me to get back to bed. But I've a meeting in London with senior managers. It's one of those meetings you just can't cancel. Every day at work counts at the moment in terms of making sure I keep my job within the steady stream of redundancies flowing through my organisation.
I crawl into a taxi and onto the train. Once in London the hustle and bustle is overwhelming. A repugnant mix of rich spicey smells, cigarette smoke and traffic fumes waft around me. The dank morning breath of a man sitting next to me on the tube makes me gag. I make it through my meeting and then make my way south of the city to see my brother and his family. My nieces make me smile, full of sweetness and energy. We watch my niece in her annual review performing a rendition of hairspray, she busts out her single line like a pro.
Back at theirs we watch news of the Tsunami, a conservative estimate says over a thousand people have died. The news is crammed with images of the devastation. Whole houses are swept away like pooh sticks in a stream.
Sleep overcomes me and my sister in law makes up a bed for me just in time for me to slip into a deep sleep.
It's Friday and I haul myself out of bed, I shudder as every movement I make sends ripples of nausea resonating through me. Your Dad is on the home run of a 48 hours shift and I call to bemoan my morning sickness glory, as though it's a badge of honour. He sternly tells me to get back to bed. But I've a meeting in London with senior managers. It's one of those meetings you just can't cancel. Every day at work counts at the moment in terms of making sure I keep my job within the steady stream of redundancies flowing through my organisation.
I crawl into a taxi and onto the train. Once in London the hustle and bustle is overwhelming. A repugnant mix of rich spicey smells, cigarette smoke and traffic fumes waft around me. The dank morning breath of a man sitting next to me on the tube makes me gag. I make it through my meeting and then make my way south of the city to see my brother and his family. My nieces make me smile, full of sweetness and energy. We watch my niece in her annual review performing a rendition of hairspray, she busts out her single line like a pro.
Back at theirs we watch news of the Tsunami, a conservative estimate says over a thousand people have died. The news is crammed with images of the devastation. Whole houses are swept away like pooh sticks in a stream.
Sleep overcomes me and my sister in law makes up a bed for me just in time for me to slip into a deep sleep.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Placated and Sedated
Thursday 10th March
It's coming to the end of the financial year and so I am busy beyond belief. As always the busier I am the more curve balls I seem to be sent making what is already a challenging schedule into an unachievable and unmanageable one. It's like playing whack'a'mole. Usually this sends me into a spin. But of late I have been strangely placated in such scenarios. It's as if I can see the stress I ought to be feeling but it can't quite reach me. It stops a foot or so short of me. Like there's a force field around me stopping anything much more than mild irritation from reaching me.
I feel like I have taken several strong sedatives pretty much a hundred percent of the time. My mind, which usually races at speed doesn't manage much more than a slovenly stroll. And where I would normally rely on caffeine to medicate me out of such a state it would seem I am pretty much fixed here for the time being. There's nothing I can do to fight it. Even if there was I have no fight in me to fight it with.
It's coming to the end of the financial year and so I am busy beyond belief. As always the busier I am the more curve balls I seem to be sent making what is already a challenging schedule into an unachievable and unmanageable one. It's like playing whack'a'mole. Usually this sends me into a spin. But of late I have been strangely placated in such scenarios. It's as if I can see the stress I ought to be feeling but it can't quite reach me. It stops a foot or so short of me. Like there's a force field around me stopping anything much more than mild irritation from reaching me.
I feel like I have taken several strong sedatives pretty much a hundred percent of the time. My mind, which usually races at speed doesn't manage much more than a slovenly stroll. And where I would normally rely on caffeine to medicate me out of such a state it would seem I am pretty much fixed here for the time being. There's nothing I can do to fight it. Even if there was I have no fight in me to fight it with.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Nausea
Thursday 3rd March
Nausea has begun to creep in, especially after I have eaten. It's not overwhelming but it is unpleasant. It's like travel sickness not an urge to vomit more of an undercurrent feeling. In the beginning I was thinking very logically about what you needed and nourishing you with nutrition rather than considering what I wanted. What I wanted seemed like a fickle aside to what you needed. As the sickness has been sneaking in those best choices have been harder to make. My thoughts wander towards things I would never normally eat like thick sliced white bread and spotted dick and custard - who even eats spotted dick anymore? So far I have managed to resist the urge and have tried to satisfy my unfamiliar sweet tooth with Pink Lady apples and other sweet fruit. But it's getting harder.
I know in moderation these things would probably be perfectly fine but moderation is not my middle name. Far from it. And I am worried about opening those barn gates and the horse bolting.
This stems most greatly from the anxiety about the weight gain that has already begun. The internet tells me this is normal and weight gain in the first trimester is one of the signs of twin pregnancy. I know it is a necessary part of pregnancy and to an even greater extent with a twin pregnancy. 35-45 pounds they say is normal as opposed to the more manageable average of 22-28 in a singleton pregnancy.
I don't want to sound shallow but it frightens me, not just from a vain view point but also from a physical and practical view point. How can I possibly carry that extra weight?
Nausea has begun to creep in, especially after I have eaten. It's not overwhelming but it is unpleasant. It's like travel sickness not an urge to vomit more of an undercurrent feeling. In the beginning I was thinking very logically about what you needed and nourishing you with nutrition rather than considering what I wanted. What I wanted seemed like a fickle aside to what you needed. As the sickness has been sneaking in those best choices have been harder to make. My thoughts wander towards things I would never normally eat like thick sliced white bread and spotted dick and custard - who even eats spotted dick anymore? So far I have managed to resist the urge and have tried to satisfy my unfamiliar sweet tooth with Pink Lady apples and other sweet fruit. But it's getting harder.
I know in moderation these things would probably be perfectly fine but moderation is not my middle name. Far from it. And I am worried about opening those barn gates and the horse bolting.
This stems most greatly from the anxiety about the weight gain that has already begun. The internet tells me this is normal and weight gain in the first trimester is one of the signs of twin pregnancy. I know it is a necessary part of pregnancy and to an even greater extent with a twin pregnancy. 35-45 pounds they say is normal as opposed to the more manageable average of 22-28 in a singleton pregnancy.
I don't want to sound shallow but it frightens me, not just from a vain view point but also from a physical and practical view point. How can I possibly carry that extra weight?
Undercover Mother
Wednesday 2nd March
It's strange, having a secret. I am not very good with secrets. Good or bad I have to engage in a constant battle of will to keep them inside.
I have told a few, my closest friends and family, those who I would need by my side if the worst happened, these people know about you. Then when I found out there were two of you I felt more cautious letting even those people know. Only some of those close friends and family know there are two of you but for most I have kept you a secret.
My deepest fear is that if I lost one of you that people who knew would look at the one who remained as though there was always something missing, never complete. I fear that most because I fear that of myself. My greatest fear is losing one of you, not both of you. I fear watching you grow knowing that your brother or sister is missing. I know it sounds ridiculous and maybe it is because losing one of you is the most real risk I am facing. Maybe the other, losing both of you, feels more distant and difficult to imagine because it is so much less likely.
These thoughts slip into my consciousness and I try my best to deflect them back into my subconsciousness.
It's strange, having a secret. I am not very good with secrets. Good or bad I have to engage in a constant battle of will to keep them inside.
I have told a few, my closest friends and family, those who I would need by my side if the worst happened, these people know about you. Then when I found out there were two of you I felt more cautious letting even those people know. Only some of those close friends and family know there are two of you but for most I have kept you a secret.
My deepest fear is that if I lost one of you that people who knew would look at the one who remained as though there was always something missing, never complete. I fear that most because I fear that of myself. My greatest fear is losing one of you, not both of you. I fear watching you grow knowing that your brother or sister is missing. I know it sounds ridiculous and maybe it is because losing one of you is the most real risk I am facing. Maybe the other, losing both of you, feels more distant and difficult to imagine because it is so much less likely.
These thoughts slip into my consciousness and I try my best to deflect them back into my subconsciousness.
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