A bad dream

We’re still waiting for official word on the result of today’s ultrasound. My midwife has checked in with me, both to see if I’d heard anything and to tell me she was trying to track down my records from this morning. But I’m assuming the worst.

As the sign on the examination room informed us, the technician was legally not permitted to tell us anything about the results. After the first part of the exam, the external scan, she said she might show us some of the pictures at the end, but after the internal scan—which took longer than any I’ve had before—she didn’t bring it up again. She did, however, leave Trillian and me in the room for a few minutes with thumbnails of the pictures she’d taken up on the screen. I realized, after staring at them for a while, that I could barely make out some of the labels she had put on them, now in about 4 pt. And for the measurements, I’m pretty sure I saw “7 weeks” and “7 weeks 1 day.” I should be 9 weeks today. So that doesn’t bode well.

After we got home—with Trillian driving, very rare indeed—she made a confession. Throughout her light-hearted reassurances last night, she kept from me the fact that the night before, the same night as my dreams, she too dreamt that I miscarried.

Now I feel the need to make it absolutely clear that Trillian and I do not regularly turn to our dreams for prophecy. While I do have a tendency towards vivid dreams (something I usually enjoy), I tend to approach them as a way of decoding my emotions or as the seed for a story idea. But for whatever reason, pregnancy has brought me dreams of a different sort. And Trillian, who will tell you that she almost never remembers her dreams, has had dreams that are oddly in tandem with mine during this time too.

I have cried a lot this afternoon, and I will be able to talk to the midwife without breaking down when she calls back. Trillian and I will be taking another break, this time for several months, so that I can focus on my school work and Scooter for the time being. Yesterday, I was going to write a post about how I was sad and frustrated after a second visit to the speech pathologist, because Scooter is just enough within “normal” limits that it may be hard to convince people that he needs the services we’re trying to get for him. And so when I emerge from my current haze, I will set myself upon that path.