When I was pregnant with our little munchkin, we had a rough few months in which ultrasounds (we had plenty of them) kept suggesting potential concerns. The kind that could lead to amputated fingers, toes, limbs… You get the idea. Or the ones where there could have been a problem with the blood supply through the umbilical cord. Stuff no parent-to-be wants to hear. Stuff no parent-to-be has any business googling.
The LP actually ratted me out to the Ob at one point. Said Ob knew I had more than google at my fingertips, thanks to my then-job. A moratorium was issued. I had to stop.
In case you haven’t noticed, much is written about IVF, infertility, recurrent miscarriage and advanced maternal age on the Internet. Some of it is reassuring. Sadly, much of it reminds me more of Bleak House than Mary Poppins.
By way of non-sequitur: I adored Mary Poppins as a child. There was something about Julie Andrews as Mary in particular.
Back to the Internet. There is no one to issue a moratorium now. Perhaps I need to enlist our RE (the IVF doc) to fulfill this function? Clearly I lack the will or presence of mind to do it myself. I can overcome all kinds of obstacles, subject myself at will to various invasive and uncomfortable (not to mention embarrassing) procedures, take a crap-load of supplements (at considerable expense) and now embark on a journey with crap odds, needles and even more foreign bodies about to be introduced into the well-oiled machine (I wish). Yet keep myself from google and her equally troublesome cohorts? Surely you jest.
In other news: still waiting for the fresh blood. Stay tuned.
And wish us luck. Please.