My scan is this week and I am petrified. The memory of my last “sorry, no heartbeat” scan, about 8 months ago is crystal clear in detail. Me, hyperventilating on a cold table while Geoff stepped out to call my psychiatrist and get me rescue meds ASAP. They had promised me that if it was bad news, my doctor would come tell me face to face but the tech blurted it out immediately anyway and sent me on my way, refusing to call the doctor at all — I felt utterly betrayed and humiliated as she rushed me out as fast as she could, her discomfort at my grief making her brusque and dismissive. “Better luck next time!” she chirped. Fuck that tech.
I also can’t forget the scan where they wouldn’t take the dong wand out of me while I passed the fucking gestational sac of baby #2. It was physically and spiritually very painful, and the tech was expressionless and robotic and determined to measure my fucking ovaries even after I asked for privacy. There was blood everywhere.
Oh, and reaching even further back into the past…the level 2 ultrasound that revealed Molly’s cystic hygroma. That was a doozy.
I can’t imagine there’ll be a heartbeat on Wednesday, and I feel like I’m awaiting execution. I know that’s probably not fair to anyone who is actually awaiting execution, but I’m unable to see a future beyond this scan. This stupid happy state I’ve spent the last week’s in could end in a blink of an eye, leaving me even more broken than I was before. It’s fucking bullshit to have to deal with trauma when I should be excited and full of hope.
Deep breath. These are first world problems. I’m at least at a different clinic this time.
So I struggle to take care of my body, and it is a struggle. I only want to eat this funky ramen I found at Safeway — it comes with this weird packet of cabbage you dump in, and it tastes so unfamiliar to me in a sort of disgusting way, and I feel like I want to taste it again and again and I’m sure it has no nutritional value. I want to guzzle coffee, my one remaining vice which now tastes awful and makes me sick. I crave cigarettes and liquor and pills, but abstain of course. The healthy foods I have here hold no interest. And I can’t bring myself to do my walking in the freezing rain, despite the huge ugly raincoat my dad gave me as an early Christmas present. I have no control over my body; I feel like punishing it for that.
My parents will be here Thursday, apparently (they keep giving me the wrong dates and times and I’m ready to wring their necks), and I don’t know if I’ll be broken or happy, or whaaaat. If my mom suspects anything, she will go through my stuff until she finds an answer. Her lack of respect for my boundaries and privacy dates back into my childhood. I consider buying a safe to lock up my HPTs, both the positive ones from this go around and the unused ones in the bathroom. Operation Sterilize The House. I’ve had to do this for years.
I can’t sleep. I try to wrap presents, become frustrated. Geoff can do this — strangely enough, he once had a gig working at a Fendi boutique, and did gift wrapping during the holidays. He wraps gifts ridiculously artfully for a scruffy tattooed guy that had no business working for Fendi, in my fashion-girl opinion.
I am frantic with stress, but not panic yet. I’m sure it will come for me later. It always does.