Week 11: The Doppler effect

I had my second prenatal appointment, it was a Doppler ultrasound—this means I got to hear the baby’s heartbeat. I also got to keep my pants on.

Last month, when I arrived for my first prenatal appointment, I knew to expect two things:

1. The ultrasound would be Transvaginal.

A Transvaginal ultrasound is a super fancy way of saying: “Here’s a wand that’s basically like those giant bubble tubes Walmart sells. We’re going to use it so we can get an up close and personal look at the pregnancy as well as your reproductive organs. Of course, if you’re interested, we can also check to see if you have any cavities.”

2. I could leave my socks on.

I spent a good five minutes contemplating if I should leave my socks on. If I take them off, I’m technically naked from the waist down, and my overall “attire” seems complete. Yet, somehow removing my socks seems so personal. So, I opted to leave them on hoping it’ll make things a little more comfortable and personable for all involved—because the doctor might be more concerned with how creepy long my middle toes are versus what’s going on in my cervix.

 We started with a basic Q and A:

How are you feeling?

Approximately every 14 minutes and 34 seconds I need to eat. Not because I’m hungry but because I’m starving. Like a whale lives inside me and needs to eat NOW.

You have a history of preterm labor, are we doing progesterone shots?

If by “we” you mean: “Am I getting a shot in the butt every week for the next 24 weeks?”  Then yes. “We” are.

You have a history of gestational diabetes. Let’s talk about that.

I took the one-hour screen already. Then I bought a cinnamon roll and a Caramel Macchiato. The test was fine, for now. So, I have a candy stash that I’m spending a lot of quality time with. In six months I know it’ll be like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden.

Anything weird going on?

Well, my cat has been doing this thing around the house where she jumps over things that apparently only she can see …

How do feel about being labeled AMA (advanced maternal age) at only 35?

I don’t care for the label: “Old Lady in Preggo Years.” It’s like aging me in dog years.

Once the interview was complete, the doctor took to the goop and Doppler, which looks like a mini portable karaoke machine, and ran it around my abdomen listening for either the baby’s heart beat or Bruce Springsteen’s, “Born to Run.”

After a minute or two, there was that familiar chug, chug, chug. A miniature heart fiercely pumping blood twice as fast as mine. The sound that brings this all to life and makes the idea of a baby the reality of a baby.

My new little one.

We’ll meet in about 28 weeks, give or take.

I’ll be the one wearing socks.

With no pants.