Abnormal Pregnancy Blood Tests and Nagging Fears...

           

            “The blood test results were not in the normal range,” Dr. Landry said. I stared out our expansive kitchen windows and let my eyes wander across the valley and rolling hillside to the towering, snow-covered peaks in the background. Then I closed my eyes to bring my dazed mind back into focus.

           

            “They were just outside of normal, in the direction indicating an increased risk for Down Syndrome,” he continued. “Keep in mind that this test is not highly accurate. But there is a more accurate test I can order, performed through the University of California at San Diego. I will have to obtain approval through your insurance company first, but I think you should have it done. I do not believe there is any problem, but it is an option for you. The obstetricians in California have been pushing the state to utilize this test for some time, and it will be available to all pregnant women in January. Since you can’t wait until then, we have to get authorization.”

           

            “Okay,” I agreed as I began raking my fingers through my hair and pacing the kitchen and thinking out loud to him. “I know there’s no neural tube problem. The ultrasound pictures ruled that out. And even if the tests indicate a likelihood of Down’s Syndrome, you know I won’t agree to an amniocentesis. If I did have an amnio, and the genetic tests indicate my baby has Down Syndrome, you still wouldn’t be able to tell me the severity of the condition, would you?”

           

            “No,” Dr. Landry sighed. “This is true. I wouldn’t be able to give you that information. But I think it would be best if we knew what the possibilities were. However, the blood test is entirely voluntary."
           

           I didn't think twice. “I’ll have it done.” The phone call ended after Dr. Landry promised to call the insurance company.

           

            We quickly received authorization, and I drove thirty miles to the lab. Upon checking in, I learned I’d be part of a test accuracy experiment, which required me to sign forms giving my permission for the test information to be compiled into research data, and the outcome of my pregnancy forwarded to the testing and research facility. They drew the necessary amounts of blood then rushed the specimen to the University of California at San Diego.

            Dr. Landry assured me he’d call when the results arrived.

           

            His phone call came on a Friday night, around 7:00, while I was lying on my bed, relaxing and chatting with Chris, who was puttering around the bedroom. Chris answered the phone, uttered a “Hi!” and an “Uh huh,” and then handed me the receiver.

           

            “It’s Dr. Landry,” he mouthed.

            

            I sucked in my breath as a short oath abruptly escaped my lips. “He’s calling me himself?” I squeaked. Chris nodded, and I sighed in resignation. If Dr. Landry were making a personal call to me on a Friday evening, at this hour, it couldn’t be good news.

           

            “Hi!” he greeted me from the other end of the line. “It’s Mike Landry.”

           

            I dispensed with the usual “Hello. How are you?” then waited, eyes pinched shut, fingers raking my hair.

           

            “I am very happy to let you know that the results are back and everything is just fine! They indicated you have only a 1 in 600 chance of having a baby with a genetic abnormality. I thought everything would be fine.” I could envision his satisfied smile, as he sat hunched over my file at his office desk.           

           

            “Oh, thank you so much for calling me personally, Dr. Landry! When Chris told me it was you on the phone, and not your nurse, I thought for sure you’d be giving me bad news!”

           

            “No, with this kind of thing I do the calling myself.” (Shock.) Not too many doctors like that around.

           

            “Well, I appreciate it very much, “ I countered, eyes widening as I locked them with Chris's. “I am very impressed. Not many doctors I’ve had experience with do the calling themselves. Thank you!” A smile broadened across Chris’s face as he interpreted the conversation for himself.

           

            “You are welcome. Now you can relax. I will see you at your next appointment!”

            "Goodbye."

           

            My next appointment. I absent-mindedly nibbled my lip. If I could just get beyond that critical twenty-week period, I knew I’d be able to relax. Until then, concern would plague me about something going wrong, something we missed. I mentally admonished myself for reading too many books about pregnancy problems, too many books about prenatal and neonatal loss.

           

            I needed to enjoy the good news I’d just received: the chances of my baby having a genetic abnormality were slim, and I did not have a placenta previa. The baby was strong and active. What more could I worry about? Why not settle back and enjoy this last pregnancy?

           

            With all of this wonderful news, why do I harbor some elusive dread that something was just not right?

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            My twentieth week appointment arrived, and Dr. Landry triumphantly announced that everything looked normal. My weight gain was still rapid, but he’d allow me further extension of culinary indulgence for another couple of weeks before insisting I watch my diet more carefully. Everything was proceeding so well that I could discontinue my disability status.

           

            Before leaving his office, I nagged him again about the cervical pressure I’d felt, and the unusually high amount of discharge.

           

            His response remained the same: Both of those complaints were normal. Since I had delivered my first son at full term without any problems, he said there was no reason to expect I had an incompetent cervix. He reiterated, with emphasis, “I am not concerned about your symptoms.”

           

            “I’m reading too many books about pregnancy problems,” I muttered to myself while dressing.

           

            Happily, I left the office after making an appointment to return in another month, and my focus turned to the following week when my parents would join us for Thanksgiving. We planned to converge on my cousin’s house in Escondido for a family gathering and feast.

           

            As long as I can get some rest, everything should be okay. Didn’t Dr. Landry say I was doing fine? He would know, wouldn't he...?

           

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NEXT WEEK: A not-so-stress-free Thanksgiving sends me over the edge, and my women’s intuition bears fruit…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Placenta Previa Fear…Will I Have to Walk That Path Again?

            “Everything will be okay,” Chris assured me repeatedly the following morning as we prepared for our appointment with Dr. Landry.

           

            “Do you really believe that, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

           

            “I really believe that.” He sounded confident.

           

            I shook my head and stared vacantly as the floor as he left the room. Why can’t I be so positive?

           

            After dropping Parker off at his Pre-K class, we headed south on I-15 for the 35-minute drive, both sitting silent, staring at the asphalt disappearing and rising in front of us. My hand clutched a blank videotape cassette to record the ultrasound picture. This might be the last time I see my baby, and I want it all on tape, to be able to watch again…

           

            Dr. Landry’s nurse was waiting. After quickly preparing me for the ultrasound, she quietly exited the room. Chris sat in a corner chair, shuffling his feet. I stared at the ceiling. As much as I ached to know the results—even bad ones—I was in no hurry for Dr. Landry to make his entrance.

           

            Minutes later, the door cracked open, his smiling face appeared, and he offered a hesitant “hello.” He didn’t seem delighted about looking at the screen, either. Nervous tenseness dangled in the air as he finally switched the unit on, laid the ultrasound head on my swollen abdomen, and the three of us inhaled deeply in orchestra-like unison. Then, in synchrony, all eyes slowly angled toward the monitor.

           

            The monitor snapped to life, and my baby’s form engulfed the screen.

           

            A tiny gasp escaped my lips. There it was again: that beating heart. Only it had grown and was now surrounded by other, clearly visible organs. The fetus had developed into a perfect-looking baby—in miniature scale.

           

            The three of us stared at the monitor, waiting in edgy anticipation for the baby to flail its arms and legs—a positive sign negating the presence of any neural tube defects or paralysis. I held my breath. Suddenly, the baby kicked and rolled to one side, exposing another viewing angle. My eyes widened as the baby wiggled against its cramped quarters.

           

            Then, with all six eyes fixed on his pointing index finger, Dr. Landry identified the placenta—far removed from the cervix. Well developed. In good condition!

           

            The room’s atmosphere reversed from worry to elation and breathless excitement. Oh, God! We we’re safe; out of the high-risk woods! Now I didn’t have to worry about hemorrhaging to death, moving to Escondido to be close to the hospital in case of an emergency, or having to stay parked in bed to alleviate pressure on the placenta or cervix. That horrifying voice had been wrong. I’m not going to die and leave Parker motherless! I was not going to bleed to death! Tears surged as the realization sank deeper into my head.

           

            Our collective faces erupted into silly grins, and we all heaved gargantuan relief sighs. I wanted to leap from the table and waltz around the room with Chris. Even Dr. Landry appeared to be having difficulty maintaining his doctorly composure as his brow furrow vanished, and he kept the picture on and the video tape rolling. He claimed it was to obtain measurements and weight and ascertain development stats, but I think he was actually enjoying the view too and to capture the magnificent movements on film. Forever.

           

            The image was exquisite, and an indescribable, beyond-relief feeling, electrified my nerves. Thank you for your great mercy, God! reverberated through my brain.

           

            The three of us were ecstatic. No more sickness. No more threats. No more worries. I was out of the high-risk woods. I was normal! I was free to enjoy this pregnancy!

           

            Then a thought tweaked the perimeter of my joy: the results of the blood test to determine chromosomal abnormality risks. A pesky little cloud moved in and cast a tiny shadow over my enthusiasm. There was one more hurdle to clear—or confront.

           

            For that day, however, I felt wonderful, blessed, happy. Hopeful! We were going to have another baby, without a major problem.

           

            “See, I told you everything would be all right!” Chris announced jubilantly and self-confidently as we exited the office. I smiled and wished I didn’t have to go home to celebrate in silence while he went to work to get congratulatory back slaps from his work buddies.

           

            But home I went, to ponder God’s grace and healing, and to finally venture into that empty, upstairs bedroom I’d carefully avoided for more than a year. In just a few months, it would be filled with nursery décor and sounds of a healthy, gurgling infant.

           

            That pleasurable thought was almost intoxicating.

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NEXT WEEK: The blood tests. Not what I hoped for…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Andrea

            

Placenta Previa Fears and Scary Evil Spirits

          It was difficult waving goodbye to Chris and going home to bask solo in my euphoric, but Parker kept me entertained in the car, and I tinkered and fidgeted around the house until Chris arrived home that night to continue our celebration.

           

            As the days ticked off the calendar, though, my robust jubilation waned as the nausea ventured into the debilitating zone, accompanying migraines began their relentless onslaught, and the aroma of food and suspect odors drove me to the nearest bathroom.

           

            I religiously wore the Sea Bands Dr. Landry prescribed to ward off morning sickness, especially while driving, sucked viciously on stomach-soothing peppermints, and tried very available method to control the stomach seesaws. Most of my home remedies provided inconsequential relief, and I lay bunched in the fetal position on the couch most days. When Chris arrived home in the evenings, I left Parker in his hands and retreated to my darkened bedroom—one wet washcloth tossed over my aura-stricken eyes, another cold cloth wedged behind my head and neck.

           

            My history translated into knowing I could count on this extending full-throttle into the fourth month. This pregnancy would not be any different.

           

            My heart rate increased as my veins flattened from dehydration and my body weight plummeted significantly below pre-pregnancy level. Determined to avoid IV therapy, I struggled with twenty-four-hour-a-day lack of nourishment, and promised to call Dr. Landry if I decided to surrender to home treatment. Managing to keep just enough Ginger Ale, caffeine-free Coke, peppermint and anti-nausea medication in my stomach, I battled on, until the nausea retreated around the eighteen-week mark. Then all restraint was off. I was determined to enjoy the remainder of the pregnancy by indulging in my favorite fat-laden foods.

           

            I gorged like a king at a caricatured medieval feast, and then, at the next visit to his office, Dr. Landry pronounced that I was regaining my weight too quickly. But he smiled sympathetically, nodded his head and gave me permission to enjoy myself for a couple more weeks. Then he’d expect me to put the brakes on my palate. Until then, bagels, lox, cream cheese and capers were standard breakfast fare—much to Chris’s delight—and tasty, high-calorie snacks were in abundant supply—much to Parker’s delight. NO chocolate allowed, however, since I knew the potentially uterine-irritating caffeine it contained was off-limits for high-risk pregnant women, which I already considered myself to be. Not being a coffee-drinker, that caffeine source wasn’t a problem.

           

            Yet, as I emerged from the nausea torrent, other obstacles confronted us.

            

            Fist, we survived a scare at three months when, in the middle of the night, I suddenly began cramping and bleeding. I propped up my feet, called Dr. Landry’s paging service, and tried to talk myself into calmness. The bleeding stopped, although I continued to keep my legs elevated, “just in case.” Thereafter, bathroom trips became obsessions as I became plagued with an annoying, compulsive need to check and re-check myself for bleeding.

           

            There was the standard blood test between the sixteenth and eighteenth week, which would indicate the neural tube defect and genetic abnormalities risks. Dr. Landry assured me that he’d consider an amniocentesis a strictly volunteer test, since Chris and I remained adamant about not having an abortion, even if genetic defects were diagnosed. The fact that the risk of having a miscarriage (spontaneous abortion) increased with an amniocentesis was enough to make me refuse it. No way was I going to subject my irritable uterus to being punctured by a three-inch needle, no matter how fine a gauge it would be.                       

           

            What worried me more was the ominous sixteen-week ultrasound to ascertain the placenta’s location. Would my baby and I be out of the woods on this one, or would I be setting up camp in an apartment, blocks from Dr. Landry’s office and the delivery hospital?

           

            The evening before the test, surrounded by country sky darkness, I paced slowly down our long driveway and settled myself on the monolithic boulder at the end of our property entrance to gaze at the velvet black heavens. My prayers were desperate and halting. I thought it bordered on ridiculous to ask—no, beseech—God to plant the placenta in a good location the night before going into the doctor’s to look for it.

           

            But I asked anyway. Several times I added simple requests for protection, strength and help.

           

            Mostly I prayed for faith. To endure whatever tomorrow’s results would be.

           

            Then my thoughts retreated to an event that occurred soon after receiving the happy pregnancy diagnosis at Dr. Landry’s. I’d wanted to forget it, banish it from my memory banks. But now the memory returned.

           

           

           

            I’d been sleeping soundly, contentedly one night when my eyelids abruptly snapped open to find myself dripping in a panicky sweat. Horrifying words, like accusations, shouted relentlessly into my head. I had thrown off the covers and bolted from bed, heaving great gasps of air.  It wasn’t my voice I heard, though, but someone else’s—vile and hate-filled—attacking my psyche.

           

            You’re going to die! You’re really pregnant, and you’re going to have another previa, and you’re going to bleed to death…and there is absolutely nothing you can do now about your decision! You’re going to hemorrhage to death during this pregnancy, and Parker is going to grow up thinking he wasn’t good enough, that you weren’t satisfied with him! How could he forgive you after you’re gone? What have you done? You’ve been such an arrogant fool!

           

            I clamped my hands over my ears and rattled my head to dislodge the incriminating words. Pacing the floor in my darkened bedroom, and swiping at the perspiration streaming down my face and neck, I managed to talk myself down and subdue my shallow, racing breath.

           

            It was then that I sensed it. Felt it. Chris and I weren’t alone in the bedroom.

           

            I spun around and my eyes were drawn to a ceiling corner in my room, where a hideous, frightful atmosphere of evil seemed to be perched, gleefully watching me unravel in the darkness. Egging me on to deeper mental destruction. Something, or someone, was watching me. Someone I could only perceive and not see. Someone who could clearly see me and was enjoying the show.          

           

            My fists clenched and unclenched rhythmically. “No,” I breathed back into the darkness through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to die. Parker’s not going to be left without a mother. I am not going to lose this battle!”

           

            As I uttered my last word, the imposing thickness vanished, like a flicked-on light switch abruptly banishes darkness from a room. An atmosphere of peace replaced it like a heavy, protective shroud.

           

            I carefully climbed back into bed and turned over to lay my hand on Chris’s chest, which undulated in measured swells.

           

            He hadn’t heard a thing.

           

            Within minutes, I had returned to a restful sleep.

           

           

            Now I was perched on a boulder, remembering that night and understanding it for what it was: a vicious encounter with my enemy—the spiritual forces of darkness. Only Satan could thrive on orchestrating such an assault rendering such severe emotional pain. The kind of pain and turmoil that physically sickens you, makes you feel as if you’ve lost all control. Where you resemble a wild, hunted animal, fleeing from something that threatens to devour you slowly and completely—without mercy.

           

            That night I thought I’d acted without God’s permission and run headlong into a decision upon which He had not put His blessing. I’d felt terror, anguish and remorse and—for several seconds—believed I would pay a high price for my self-indulgence.

           

            But that night was over. Whatever the future held, I needed to face it squarely, with unwavering faith. So there I sat, perched on a large piece of granite, searching the firmament for holy strength and hope…and a conquering peace in the midst of my personal storm. We had weathered so much during the first trimester of this pregnancy. Surely we could endure another obstacle.

           

            Tomorrow would bring the anticipated diagnosis, and tomorrow is what I’d have to wait for—and stop worrying about.

           

            Tomorrow would provide the answer.

           

            Though I could detect His loving, protective presence, that night, I knew God would make us wait long past tomorrow for our ultimate answer.

           

            My lesson in trust was nowhere near being over…

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NEXT WEEK: The results…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea