I live in a crazy city. I already knew that, but it's been doubly reinforced by the experience of trying to find an OB here. Who knew that getting your fetus into certain hospitals was as competitive as getting your child into a Manahattan pre-school? (For those outside the tri-state area: that's, like, university-level competitive).
I called a total of nine practices over the last two days, did not find a single OB who could take me at the hospital where my RE is based, but did (just today!) get into a high-risk practice that delivers at another top-ranked hospital closer to the park. (And two NYC-bloggers, Sienna and Fairytale Ending, are also patients there). I'm a little embarrassed to admit that the OB hunt was sending me into a frenzy. I think that I channeled all the anxiety I was feeling about Smudgie and passing (or not passing, who knows right now) milestones from the last pregnancy into worrying about getting a great doctor at one of the hospitals I wanted. Lawyer Guy was (perhaps rightly) completely dumbfounded at how stressed I became about all this.
And of course, now that I have the appointment set up for next Thursday, the day I switch over to 9 weeks, I'm back to worrying about more ordinary concerns: Will Smudgie be okay? I'm so afraid he won't be. I'm so afraid that something terrible will happen again.
LG reminded me of what Dr. Wonderful said last week: the time to stop worrying is now. I reminded myself that when my bloggy friends get to the point I'm at today-- 8 weeks with two good heartbeats under their belts--I officially move them down to the Pregnant blogroll. But I can't emotionally move myself to that place. I'm doing better at imagining. I even let myself look at custom nursery bedding on etsy last night. But we still haven't told our families and the thought of telling them makes me want to throw up. How can this work out? How is it possible that after all this time, we'll finally be lucky?
Please let us be lucky.