Is She or Isn't She? and Our New Home

With the Jewish New Year last weekend, Mr. Lyrehca and I spent a lot of time dining with (all) our immediate relatives and other friends and then more time going to services at our temple. Apparently, our vow of silence over my current medical condition isn't fooling many.

Friday night: dinner for 19 at my parents' house, including my parents, Mr. L's parents, and assorted other guests, including my college roommate and her family. I had an endo appointment that afternoon, so I left work early and was the first person to arrive. I was maybe an hour early, but while there I was hit with strong exhaustion. The kind I've been hearing about with pregnancy, but haven't really felt so far.

(Later that night, I'm in the bathroom with my college roommate, amusing her toddler son while she changes his diaper.

Me: Jeez, I'm so damn tired tonight. Don't know why.
College roommate: Do you have some news?
Me: Oy, no. Nothing to report. [I figure by saying "nothing to report, I'm not legitimately lying.] The conversation moves on.)

(In the kitchen with my mother, who has lost approximately 45 pounds over the past year and looks terrific. I now eye her clothes and hope they'll fit me when I'm showing. I'm currently wearing a blue twinset sweater and trying to hide my bloat with buttoning the top sweater loosely over the shell. It's not that successful and my mother eyes my midsection.

"Is there something in there," she asks.
"I have nothing to report right now," I hiss.
"Are you sure?"
"It's just fat.")

(The next day, Mr. L. and I go to temple, where we have a lot of friends (all with their kids, I might add.) For the occaision, I've put on a bit of blush, because I felt pasty and wan the day before when I didn't wear it. We say hello to everyone before taking our seats. Mr. L., still dealing with leg and foot pain, takes a break from services to go stretch his legs in the temple lobby. He returns with a smile of his face.

Him: guess what (names redacted) asked me?
Me: What?
Him: They asked if you were pregnant.
Me: Shit! I'm looking fat.
Him: That's not what they said at all.
Me: (Sulking)
Him: Actually, (male name redacted) asked if you were because he thought you were *glowing*.
Me: Jeez, I just wore blush today. Are you sure they didn't think I was fat?
Him: You were sitting down when they stopped by to say hello. They couldn't even see your stomach.)

(And the final pregnancy comment came from my own mouth. Mr. L. and I saw a couple we barely know, around our age, walk into services. The woman was very clearly pregnant, quite far along. He pointed her out. "I forget that couple's name, but did you see she's pregnant?" I waited a moment.

"You know what?"

"What?"

Pause.

"So am I."

Cue the klempy.

##

This is week ten, a time when people less disciplined than me have probably shouted from the rooftops that they are with child. Clearly, this weekend would have been a great time to make our annoucements.

But this is also the week where we go see the real ob-gyn for the first time pregnant. It's still too early. What if something goes wrong?

Last Friday, my endo welcomed me as if she hadn't been seeing my face every six weeks for the past year and a half. "Congratulations! How are you feeling?"

"Honestly, I feel fine. I worry that I'm not feeling all that different."

Endo shares an office with high-risk ob/gyn, and was able to snag me a few minutes with High Risk so I could get a quick ultrasound. After seeing Endo, which was for the most part uneventful, I got an official abdominal ultrasound. (We're past the point of the tampon-cam.) The heartbeat was strong at 176. "Everything looks great!" High Risk declared. "I'll see you for your official appointment next week."

(But then I noticed that the fetus measured a day behind what it should be. And then I went home and read on someone's blog that she'd measured a day behind the week before she miscarried. Around the same time as me. So while I'm not trying to be morbid and think bad thoughts, I'm still holding out on telling people. We'll see how this week's official High Risk Ob appointment goes.)

##

In other doctor news, Mr. L. met with the official Big City Neurologist to find out why his leg and foot have been killing him. (We think the hospital should rename itself the Lyrehca and Mr. Lyrehca Hospital, since we're there ALL THE TIME.)

Big City Neuro had a better beside manner than Local Surgeon, who wanted to cut Mr. L.'s back open ASAP. Big City poked and prodded Mr. L.'s leg and foot, and determined that the problem was bursitis in the leg and something called (I think) a neuroma in the foot. While there are disks bulging in Mr. L.'s back (car accidents will fuck you up good), they are not the source of the current agony.

Two huge shots of cortisone later, during which I held Mr. L's hands, watched his face contort with pain and tried to soothe him with a reminder that he'd never have to bear a child, Mr. L. stood up and said he felt a little better.

"Call me on Thursday and let me know how you're feeling," Big City said. "By Thursday, if you're not feeling better, I can give you one more cortisone shot."

Why not? We'll be sleeping in our new pup tent out in the hospital lobby. Give us a moment before you come in with a foot-long syringe, would you? We want to straighten out the sleeping bags before company comes over.