What 5.5 Cms Can Do

I had an ultrasound yesterday to determine my exact stage of pregnancy. 12 weeks and 3 days, apparently. Crock of – I mean, due date – is April 19. I wish I could stop sneezing enough to appreciate it. Man. It’s the end of my cold and I am sneezing out my last 14 useful brain cells.

It is comforting to have an ultrasound this early in a pregnancy, especially one I didn’t believe was real until a few days ago when I heard the heartbeat at the doc’s office.

Sometimes the not believing has come in handy; my mind can be so powerful that it can deny the existence of my physical symptoms (…these pants are awfully snug. I am so bloated!) and I function a lot better. Sometimes, though, the not believing plays with the hormones and my (powerful!) mind says things like “maybe you feel better because you never were pregnant. It’s an intestinal tumour!” or “maybe there was a baby here but now it’s gone.” Almost everyone I know has had a pregnancy loss and it’s the truth that when you’re pregnant the joy of creation is very precariously balanced with the fear of loss. (I hesitate to say destruction though that is sometimes what happens – destruction just seems so malicious.)

Even since Friday, knowing that I had an ultrasound scheduled for Tuesday, I have had fleeting worried thoughts about my newest hitchhiker. It’s crazy; you wouldn’t think my mind would make the time to worry about something that I can’t control or alter in any way. But then I guess I wouldn’t be my own special brand of human. Human Crazy 3000! She’s got opposable thumbs and a brain that won’t quit!

So I left work early yesterday for a 2:30 appointment at the Torture Chamber Ultrasound Lab on 41st ave., where the later in the day it is, the longer you have to wait and the best part of waiting for a pregnancy ultrasound is that you have to drink water to inflate your insides so they can see the babby’s bits clearly so you’re waiting, in my case for an hour, in a waiting room FULL of other people who have to pee (mostly – some of them were limping people waiting for x-rays) lots of whom have their older children with them and which children are of that dangerous 2 – 4 year old age where YOU TOUCHED MY HAND I HAVE TO SCREAM NOW. I WAS STEPPING ON THAT NEWSPAPER AND YOU TOOK IT AWAY I HAVE TO SCREAM NOW.

On the bright side I have had an ultrasound before and at the last one the technician told me, “Next time? Only drink half as much water as we tell you. Your bladder is HA-YUGE!” so I didn’t have to pee that bad, plus I had a book in my bag (Headhunter, by Timothy Findley; dudes, this is one of my favourite books ever) so didn’t have to read 27 magazines about Britney and how she looks pregnant again (now SHE is probably just bloated).

And once you get in past the waiting room and actually see the technician, odds are you get a lovely, sweet person in a room with low lights and a soothing, humming machine.

And there it was, our 12 week, 3 day old Babby2, size 5.5 cms. Waving its itty bitty arms around. Flashing its tail. “Here, I’ll try to get you a good profile shot,” said the technician. “Oh – okay,” I said. I didn’t think I’d get a souvenir photo this early, but I did wait an hour. The picture is hilarious, even more so than the 18 week ultrasound photo. Measure out 5.5 cms – it’s about —————————————————- and nowhere near a baby yet. But still, despite its tininess – it’s something nestled deep in my gut, kicking my ass, making me tired and chubby and prone to over-emotion.

You were all once that small. I was once that small. The asshole who undoubtedly will sit too close to me on the bus later this morning was once that small.

I believe it now. I am actually, truly, pregnant with a babby. I might go ahead and invest in a new pair of trousers.