Uh uh.

It’s not going to happen.

I was supper giddy tonight as I’d convinced Justin to take me to Olive Garden for dinner. I’d promised not to whine about feeling sick or icky or grumpy for the rest of the day if we went out, and he went for the bait. (Hmm–I wonder if my whining is really as bad as it would then appear to be.) I should have known better! One breadstick and half of my minestrone soup later and I was down and out for the count. I ate half a bite of the manicotti as a token gesture, but it was futile.

I miss my appetite so much.

I want to write it longing letters and send it adorabe little “I miss you!” Hallmark Fresh Ink cards. I love food so much and sure, that’s always made dieting hard when the time came (like right before our wedding), but is there anything really wrong with that?

Now I’ve lost 6 pounds in two weeks and I’m at my wits end. I don’t care if it’s making me skinny just in time for my stomach to explode over the waistband of my jeans! I don’t care if my love handles are disappearing! I just want to enjoy my damn manicotti!

Even now, my stomach is emitting epic, echoing rumbles. Another Saltine it is, then.

(8 weeks down, ~32 to go.)

“What’d you say?” I ask my stomach. “You actually don’t feel like throwing up? You feel–normal?”

As I’ve nearly rearranged my entire life around a schedule that doesn’t require me to do anything before noon (although this won’t last for long, since I’ll most likely be starting a new job next week) I usually crawl back in bed for half an hour and bask in the wonder of feeling normal. It doesn’t last for long. Sometimes slowly, sometimes instantly, that queasy “I just got off a boat on choppy waves” feeling begins to grow in my core, spreading outward through my veins until my entire body feels nauseated. Then, with my empty stomach rumbling, I get to play the Food Game.

I’ve become pretty good at the Food Game in the last three weeks. I pull up a mental rol-o-dex of all the different (but fairly specific) food dishes that I might possibly consider eating. One at a time I flip through them, taking a moment to imagine the look, the smell, the flavor, the texture. Most entries make my stomach tighten up and my esophagus lock down–some worse than others. Eventually, I discover an entry that doesn’t cause the gut reaction of doom. Sometimes it’s something easy that I have on hand, like: as many tangelos as I can eat, or grilled cheese. Occasionally it’s more detailed and not something I can just whip up at home, like “cheese and onion enchilada with a corn tortilla, covered in red sauce, with a side of Spanish rice.” If I go out and get an enchilada and the tortilla is flour, the results can be disastrous.

Not really “disastrous,” but you know, I can’t eat it and I just stare helplessly at my food as I feel myself fading away from hunger.

Overall, this would be a great diet plan if I still had the energy to exercise as well. Instead of having that drive to always eat, and always being conscious of how much I’d like to be eating right now if only I wasn’t on a stupid diet–I always have the drive to not eat, even when my stomach is begging for the tiniest bit of sustenance. I think I’ve even lost a few pounds (it’s a wicked joke, I tell ya). One of the baby books I was reading warned that your metabolism slows way down as your body takes its time digesting food, making sure to squeeze every last bit of nutrition out of every bite. I’m sure that even with my drastically reduced caloric intake, my body’s still maintaining its “healthy” fat quotient pretty well. Bastard body.

Not like I’m trying to be skinny for swimsuit season or anything.

After the first ultrasound to establish how many weeks pregnant I am on Wednesday, my nurse midwife sat us down and said that she was very concerned that they hadn’t been able to find the fetus. They’d found the pregnancy sac with “something undeveloped” in it, and after measuring the sac they’d established I was 7 weeks pregnant. Counting back weeks, I felt like there was no possible way I could be that far along–one week before (what would be 6 weeks) I’d had the positive test, and two weeks before that (4 weeks) I’d had a negative test. At 4 weeks, a home pregnancy test should have shown a positive for sure. I tried to bring up my doubts, but the nurse midwife just kept pointing to the sonogram picture and babbling on about how she just wanted us to know the truth, and the truth was that she wasn’t optimistic that this was a “viable pregnancy.” At home, I called my mom to tell her the news, all the news, for the first time. I’d sniffled a little on the car ride home, but it wasn’t until I was on the phone that I really started crying. She reflected my original skepticism and told me not to lose hope.

Friday, right before I went in for the second blood draw, the nurse midwife called to tell me that my hormone (hCG) levels were high. That should be good, right? She was using it as another set of proof that I should have been far enough along for them to find a fetus and/or a heartbeat during the ultrasound. Again, she expressed her complete lack of optimism that this was a viable pregnancy.

So yesterday they called me, completely shocked and awed that my hormone levels were continuing to increase. Nothing says “awesome” like a doctor’s office that’s intent on convincing you that you’re going to miscarry at any moment, and you should just skip to the chase and get a D&C. Not a single conversation with the office has gone by without the D&C topic coming up. I have to wonder if they get referral bonuses for every abortion procedure they turn over.

I went in for a second ultrasound and behold–we saw the baby and a heartbeat! The blobby thing they’d found the first time was still there, slightly bigger, next to the baby. The ultrasound tech and the nurse midwife scratched their heads (almost literally) as they leaned in closer and closer to the screen, trying to figure out what the hell it is. The tiny, grain-of-rice baby flickered with a heartbeat but was barely visible next to the dark object. The nurse midwife ran out into the hall to grab an OB MD to take a look. Casually leaning up against a wall as he viewed the screen, he mused that it might be a blood clot, or a failed twin pregnancy “gone wrong.” He suggested that they send me across the street in a week to see a high risk specialist, then cleared his throat. “Depending on what it is, they might recommend that you go ahead and schedule yourself for a D&C procedure…to be on the safe side. Just uh, make sure you stop smoking and cut back on caffeine.”

What, you mean I can’t smoke? But my 1954 pregnancy book says that as long as I keep it under a pack a day, it’s totally fine! I need it to calm my nerves!

I don’t smoke, you ass. I also haven’t had a drop of alcohol and less than 1/4 cup of iced tea every three days since I found out. I’m essentially caffeine free. It just seemed like a really stupid thing to randomly throw in there. Why not say “Make sure you’re cutting back on your meth usage and, uh, stop letting people punch you in the uterus.”

Everyone left the room so I could put my pants back on (why do they bother? they just saw all the goods anyway, why look away as I cover back up) and I gave Justin a glance. He shrugged. It’s how both doctors visits have ended, now.

Next Monday morning, bright and early at 8:15, I have the appointment with the high risk specialist. I hope that s/he isn’t a complete idiot.