Letters to Poetwig: Secret Company

It used to be, I was alone. Friends whom I've grown close to have left the company where I have been staying for over nine years now. Almost a decade, nine times around the sun. I'd commute to work on my usual route, passing cars of strangers absorbed in their daily routine. I'd sit at a desk and do my work, not really part of a specific team as the company's shared resource. When lunch came, I'd take it to my desk to eat, introvertedly browsing my smartphone as the downstairs communal area was chock-full of coworkers sharing tidbits about their day. I'd take a walk when lunch is done, smelling the seasons in the air, the flowery scent of spring, the green leaves baked in summer sun, the rich scent of autumn with changing colors arrayed as a feast for the eyes, and the empty blandness of winter occasionally awash in rain. In the evenings, after a long day of the work and the office grew quiet, I'd haul my bag to the gym downstairs and start my exercise routine: stretches, treadmill or elliptical, ab crunches on the ball, weights, yoga. I felt isolated in my days, despite meetings and all the work interactions with coworkers, but no one knows me on an intimate level, the brightest part of my day being coming home and seeing my husband and dog.

And then you came along, my growing bean, at first just a concept, and then a group of cells quickly multiplying to become a being inside me with his own personality, progressing day by day. I'd talk to you in my anxiety, telling you to keep growing strong. I'd sing to you during my commutes to and from work to the Oldies I recorded on a USB stick for you, so that you would get to know the sound of my voice. If I worked past lunchtime, you'd nudge me gently, and then started kicking me forcefully, if I didn't feed you on time. On our walks, I'd whisper to you to tell you about all the sights surrounding you: the woman with her two dogs, the garden of hyacinths and jasmine, the water fountain, the beautiful blue sky. I'd go to the gym knowing I'm not just keeping myself healthy but you as well, and I push for my full half-hour workout. We'd snack together, and you'd stir in my belly, keeping secret company, and I don't feel so alone anymore.

We are linked by a simple umbilical cord, but my ineffable love for you runs deep. One day, we will be separate entities. You'll be on your own way, and I won't always know where you are or what you're doing at the moment. You won't be nudging me from inside, reminding me to snack and eat. They say you feel the phantom kicks of your little one long after they're born, so in tune with your body as a mother. I'll never forget the secret company I kept with you, my little one. Thank you for growing in me, for letting me know that, even when I am feeling my loneliest, I am never truly alone.

Ode to tC Sen

My husband Tung relinquished his nine-year-old car today. As we have traded up for a bigger, family-sized crossover model, he said goodbye to his Scion tC sports coupe and signed off the car to his dad to use as a commuter vehicle. The tC has clocked over 100,000 miles.

 

In contrast, we were given the keys to our brand-new Subaru Outback, “Subie Sen,” when it had a fresh 4 miles on it, shipped straight from the production facility in Indiana to the dealership lot where we bought it.

 

We bought the tC together as Tung’s first new car, back in 2006 when we were still college students, before we got married or owned a house together or expected a baby on the way. It was a trade-in for his Mitsubishi Eclipse, a sporty, green, obnoxious model with an American engine that died on us in the middle of parking lots and the road to beach bonfires with friends, an embarrassment to all cars passing smog check as it constantly spewed clouds of carcinogenic, noxious bile while we idled in the In-n-Out drive-thru waiting for our order and feeling bad for all the cars behind us in line.

“tC Sen” was a good car, requiring little else than new low-profile tires every so often, content with the basic oil changes, 87-Octane gas, and fluid top-offs. He got flecks on his front flint-mica bumper from all the road trips we took together, up and down the California coast. He got windshield chips from errant rocks flung up at him during Tung’s commute to Pleasanton, taking him from college jobs to several companies as he tested out the waters of different Silicon Valley tech corporations, from start-ups to post-IPOs. He had a huge, almost all-glass panoramic moon roof that Tung would expose on our summer drives during date nights so I could gaze up at the stars and tree branches that whizzed by overhead in a blur as we picked up speed, inhaling the scent of oak leaves and jasmine blossoms from the outside. For a tiny coupe, he packed a huge trunk space, carrying our boxes of clothes and belongings and disassembled furniture as we moved in together, then all the goods from Home Depot as we new homeowners frantically patched up the house to be in live-able condition. Over the winters, we loaded up his hood with Christmas trees to tote home and adorn our house with holiday warmth and cheer.

 

Now, it’s on to bigger things. New things. There’s no doubt that lots of fresh new memories will be made in our Outback, the first car we own that will bear a baby seat and stroller, diaper bags and a squirming little body in the backseat, along with our dog, as we brave new road trips and adventures together as a growing family. 

There is a fondness that grows in your heart for inanimate things. We are “lifers” with our cars. We don’t believe in leasing or trading in every couple of years for new models and new technology. When you’re part of an immigrant generation that landed on American soil with nothing but a few outfits that you’ll quickly outgrow and a handful of cash to start a new life, you value what you can accomplish, and what you can afford to buy. Over the years, through hard work and dedication, your material possessions grow. You can do more, purchase more. But you never forget the ones that started you off, that saw you through the more difficult and unaccomplished parts of your life struggles. 

 

Thank you, tC Sen, for giving us that privilege. We’ll miss you but know that you’re not too far away, racking up the miles toward new adventures.

 

3rd Wedding Anniversary

To my husband, on our third wedding anniversary:

“If it is your intention to dance together through the years, with your joys and sorrows and all that life will bring, then bind yourselves to each other as husband and wife.”

Once upon a time, you took dance lessons with me before our wedding, learning the tricky steps of the Fox Trot to lead and whirl me around dance floor on the day we married. I know dancing is not exactly your thing, but this was one of the many things you went through to keep me happy and smiling. The supposedly long journey of the first three years of matrimony passed by imperceptibly as every moment you “filled my days with sunshine.”

This year, you have given me such a wonderful gift: My heart’s desire that’s been a long time coming, locked in its secret chambers from trial and despair until you coaxed my dream to life. I have gotten to know ineffable joy and unconditional love as together we await our first child to enter our lives. I can’t wait to share this new adventure with you—in the Subaru that I promised you could have when we are finally blessed with children—and I look forward to continually dancing through the years with you, my love.

Gender and Fetal Movements

Old Wives’ Tales for Gender Determination:

I did these tests for fun to see how these myths stack up to the actual, scientific result.

• Heart Rate: Under 140 (Boy), Over 140 (Girl) = Girl (measured at 8 & 12 weeks)
• Wedding Ring on Necklace Over Belly: Back and Forth (Boy), Circle (Girl) = Boy
•  Cravings: Salty (Boy), Sweet (Girl) = Boy
• Ramzi Theory: Placenta on Right of Uterus (Boy) or Left (Girl) = (Inconclusive—Anterior Placenta)
• Clumsy (Boy), Graceful (Girl) = Boy
•  Left-Side Sleeper (Boy), Right Side Sleeper (Girl) = Boy
• Dry Skin on Hands & Feet (Boy), Normal Skin (Girl) = Boy
• Nose on Mother's Face Getting Bigger (Boy), Not Bigger (Girl) = Girl
• Clear Skin (Boy), Acne (Girl) = Boy
•  Mayan Tale (Add Moms' age at conception + year of conception): Odd (Boy), Even (Girl) = Boy
•  Morning Sickness: Little (Boy), Lots (Girl) = Boy
• Mom's Mood Swings: Mellow (Boy), Moody (Girl) = Girl
• Mom's Hair Growth on Legs: Lots (Boy), Little (Girl) = Girl
•  Cravings: Meats & Cheese (Boy), Fruits (Girl) = Girl
• Linea Nigra: Past Belly-Button (Boy), To Belly-Button (Girl) = Boy
•  Stress Test: Which parent was less stressed while TTC—Gender is less-stressed parent = Boy
• Mom's Dreams: Child will be opposite of that in dreams = Boy
• Chinese Gender Predictor = Boy
•   Boy: 11 Girl: 5

Chromosome Test Result @ Week 13: It’s a Boy!

First Fetal Movements Detected:

• 12-13 weeks: Gas/bubbly feeling in abdomen
• 14.5 weeks: Slight thumping/knocking (“popcorn”) feeling from inside
• 17-18 weeks: More consistent movements and more often
• 19-20 weeks: Daily movements detected (kicks, rolls)

Perseverance

I debated for a while whether the following was an appropriate speech to be delivered at work, as I wanted to announce my pregnancy to my coworkers before I started to obviously show. I joined my company's Toastmasters club a year ago to overcome my fear of public speaking, and for me, this was the ultimate test of bravery--to get in front of a crowd and not only speak, but bare your soul, the most intimate, vulnerable, and embarrassing parts about yourself. This was the speech I gave as a culmination of my TTC journey.

*****

"Perseverance": Delivered on August 5, 2015 

Dear Toastmasters, today I speak to you of an intimate and very personal journey of mine. Any woman who has ever dreamed of becoming a mother knows the very real fear of being faced with infertility and of never having a little voice call her Mommy. For those of you who are already blessed with children, despite how much grief they give you throughout their lives, imagine—just for a few seconds—that they are not a part of yours. This has been my living nightmare for the last 18 months as my husband and I struggled to start our family.

After we got married, we decided to get our traveling fix out of the way and see the world. You know how it is when you first start trying. People tell you, “Just relax! Don’t stress. It’ll happen.” After 6 months of trying naturally and nothing happening, I began to suspect that there may be something seriously wrong with me. I went in for blood tests and ultrasounds to be diagnosed with a condition called Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. In order to be diagnosed, you would have to meet the minimum of three of the many criteria, and mine, namely were: 1.) Elevated levels of testosterone and androgens; 2.) Irregular cycles; and 3.) The formation of cysts along the surface of my ovaries that, on ultrasound, appear like a ring of pearls. These were the follicles that failed to mature month after month to become viable eggs that could be fertilized.

Statistically, 12% of couples, or 7.3 million people in the United States are diagnosed with infertility every year, according to the Center for Disease Control (CDC) in 2002. 10% of women in the US are diagnosed with PCOS.

I started my battle against infertility by turning to Eastern medicine in an effort to be as gentle to my body as possible. My weekends were shot as, every Saturday, I’d lay beneath a heat lamp for fertility acupuncture, poked by 3 dozen needles along my abdomen, up my legs, and on my hands at key fertility points. My acupuncturist prescribed these herbal teas that I had to brew myself and drink twice daily. They smelled like forest floor, tasted like dirt, and were quite frankly very difficult to swallow. Over the course of being on this treatment for 3 to 4 months, I ended up ingesting over 200 cups of this tea.

A year passed, and when I had no results to show for, I decided to pursue more aggressive Western hormone therapy. I was prescribed medicines called Clomid and Letrozole, which were designed to help me ovulate consistently. In her memoir, Waiting for Daisy, Author Peggy Orenstein calls Clomid “The Gateway Drug”: You start by taking a little hit of Clomid, and before you know it, you’re spiraling down this rabbit hole where suddenly, it seems like a brilliant idea to drop $30,000, inject yourself with daily hormones, have your eggs harvested while you’re under anesthesia, and tossing them into a petri dish in a procedure known as Invitro-Fertilization, or IVF.

Before we got to that point, my husband and I decided to pursue Inter-Uterine Insemination, or IUI. When you’ve resigned yourself to this procedure, the intimacy and spontaneity of creating life between you and your husband is lost. Dignity goes out the window as every month, during your peak ovulation days, you’d lie there, poked and prodded every which way by a team of medical professionals who ask you intimate questions in an effort to find out the root cause what’s wrong with you.

Meanwhile, in my regular life, the pressure was on. Upon seeing my cousins cradling their newborns or bouncing their toddlers on their knees at family gatherings, my mom would turn to me and ask, “When will you give me grandchildren?” Well-meaning friends and acquaintances pester, “When are you gonna have a baby?” Upon seeing me give up things such as alcohol, caffeine, and raw foods like sushi, women would actually walk up to me and ask, “Are you pregnant?” These were the words that wounded, despite their best intentions.

At work, I sit but a few paces from the New Mother’s Lactation Room. It’s just one of life’s little ironies that I’m situated next to this room, watching women go in, day in and day out, some on their second child, while I have not yet my first to cradle and love. Those women who have already used this room may think that it’s nothing more than a mandatory convenience provided by the company. Men may not even know it exists. But to people like me, this was the Mecca of all rooms—the one that I aspired to one day be in.

I was used to hard work generating desired end results. I studied hard and got a graduate degree. I worked hard and landed a promising career. I saved hard and afforded a house in the competitive Silicon Valley. I never thought I would work so hard at something like Trying to Conceive, not to be met with desired end results. Outside, I am still your coworker, Daisy. I write your tech manuals. I lead your Toastmasters meetings. I share a drink and a laugh with you during Friday Happy Hours. Inside, I was broken, my self-confidence shattered, the very essence of my womanhood in question as I struggled to do something that was supposed to be inherent to my gender. I gave up everything that meant anything to me—aikido, because I was afraid this high-impact martial art would jeopardize my chances of implantation. Every time my cycle ended, I’d break down. In the early morning hours before driving off to work, I’d stuff pillows underneath my shirt in a pathetic fantasy to feel what it would be like to have a ballooning belly. The sheer desire to feel life growing inside me raked across my heart with ragged claws. I was failing, and I was coming to terms with the very real possibility of never being able to give my husband biological children.

This journey has taught me a lot about my body. Before I started tracking my Basal Body Temperature in an effort to pinpoint my key ovulation dates every month, I couldn’t tell you where I was in any given month with my wacky cycles. And now, not only can I spell and pronounce, but define words such as: Hysterosalpingogram, Human Chorionic Gonadotropin, and Inter-Cytoplasmic Sperm Injection. Yes, I was failing, but knowledge is power, and power can be used to succeed for next time.

Dear audience, my story may seem intimate and personal, and some of you who may not even want kids may struggle to understand the depths of what I’m willing to go through for the chance at having a child. But tell me, who here has not been faced with a seemingly insurmountable battle that they feel they cannot win? Well, I’m here to tell you that, with perseverance, there is always hope. On days when it’s a Herculean effort to haul yourself out of bed—those are the days you think of me. On days when it’s just too much work to get yourself dressed, go through your basic hygiene routine, eat your basic meals—those are the days you think of me. On days when you feel like there’s this huge cloud hanging over your head, threatening to overwhelm and undermine you—those are the days you think of me. Because there is always hope, that last little creature to fly out of Pandora’s box with gentle wings. After 18 months of trying and failing, trying and failing, I am happy to announce that in another 6 months, if all continues to go well, on January 24, 2016, I will get to meet my very first baby, for the very first time.

“What ended up working?” you may ask. Nothing more, and nothing less, than my regular dose of the “gateway drug,” a vacation to Las Vegas, and an upgraded suite. So there you have it, “Vegas, Baby!” and “Vegas baby!” After all, you know what they say: What happens in Vegas…ends up coming home with you, as one of the greatest accomplishments in your entire life.

Letters to Poetwig: Sugarcanes

Dear Baby,

Tomorrow, I take my first liver ultrasound in pregnancy to make sure my liver functions are in order. I got Hepatitis B from your grandma, at birth, Baby, and am now a permanent carrier of the virus. I want to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to you, so I will be regularly monitored by a Gastroenterologist with blood tests and ultrasounds. Your father asked me why I’d go through all this. To me, it’s simple: So that you would not be born with the same thing that plagues me now; so that you do not have to fear passing it on to your future wife or children, and feel guilty for following your heart; so that you may not have to face a liver transplant or worry about dying of liver failure one day. And maybe it’ll never be that dramatic. But if I can save you from any kind of pain, I would.

The liver ultrasound requires fasting from food and water after midnight until 9:40AM the next day. Not a huge feat if you think about it, but possibly made more difficult by the demands of pregnancy’s constant hunger and thirst. When I think about how little we go through with technological conveniences and nutritional abundance today, it really puts into perspective what your maternal great-grandmother went through when she was pregnant with her first baby. She earned a little money by selling pre-mixed fishsauce—the culminating sauce for Vietnamese cuisine, one that your own mother learned to make very well. Every morning, she’d carry two big buckets of fish sauce suspended by a pole draped across her shoulders, balanced like an old-fashioned scale, and make the trek to sell her goods.

The hunger of pregnancy is like no other; even after you’ve eaten not long ago, lack of food can claw at your stomach as your baby demands more and more from your body. That’s how it feels like to me, and your great-grandmother had even less to eat. On the side of the road along her journey were disposed sugarcane stalks from a plantation; they had been juiced dry, and it was these that she picked up to suck on, the last remaining sweetness that remained hidden in the fibrous husks. I think of your great-grandmother making this long trek alone, the hot sun beating down on her, hunger haunting her footsteps, the baby inside her wanting more and more and not getting nearly enough. I think of my last meal before my ultrasound being but a mere twelve hours prior, and a fulfilling one at that, and how I spent my work hours before that sitting in an air-conditioned office, well-fed, well-hydrated, and you sitting happy in my belly.

I have no reason to complain. I did not suffer as she did. And I am doing my best to safeguard your health and your future. So bear with me one night, my hungry little bean, and we will meet the hour after the ultrasound with a delicious meal, with your father beside us to entertain us as we eat, my perfect little family.

Letters to Poetwig: Strong Like Me

Dear Baby,

I wasn’t supposed to live long enough to have you. In fact, I was only 3 years old in the year I was supposed to die from a brand of baby powder that entered the Viet Nam market as the latest and greatest import, but ended up being toxic to infants. So many of them crowded the hospital just a few weeks to months after usage. The powder caused high fevers, seizures, and skin lesions and peeling. Even hospitals in the hustling and bustling city of Saigon did not meet health and safety codes as here in America. The bed sheets were often ridden with bed bugs and did not get laundered for as long as a patient decided to stick around.

They told me they rushed me up and down the hospital stairs, to different floors and wards to get diagnoses and treatment, my Uncle Ut there to carry me when my parents’ strength gave out. They told me my seizures shook the bed, and that I was drifting constantly in and out of consciousness, seemingly losing the battle toward the end of my hospital stay. They told me a boy next to me died from this poison, his body covered by a thin white sheet and his gurney wheeled out of the room we shared in the middle of the night, his distraught mother trailing after.

My own mother was constantly by my side, talking to me, singing to me, coaxing my little spirit to stay strong and stay with her. Her first baby that lived, her only daughter, her little girl. In the midst of being lost in the fog of my unconsciousness, in the shadows that live between nightmares and dreams, it was my mother’s voice that brought me back to the land of the living.

I healed from near death, with scars of stretchmarks raking across the surface of my hips and thighs and bumps of discoloration along the back of my arms. I survived an immigration experience as one of the “boat people” during my growing years, living on an Indonesian island for two years, eating a ration of rice, salt, soy sauce, and sardines, developing digestive problems and stomach worms from lack of nutrition and fresh fruits and vegetables.

In America, we live in abundance now, and I cater to your every craving, from fruits in the morning, to Taco Bell nachos and Little Caesar’s pizza for lunch, to potato chips for staving off nausea in the evenings. There are days when I wonder whether you’re doing alright, days when my symptoms leave me and I wonder if you’re growing as you should. This worry nips at me like a winter night’s frost. This is when I lay my hand on my stomach and talk to you, coaxing you to grow. I want you to give me some sign for reassurance, as small as you are, with no way of telling me. But remember this, my little one, that when I was most far gone, when it felt easier to slip away and depart from this life, it was my mother’s voice that coaxed me back to earth, as I hope it will be with you now.

In middle and high school where young girls especially prided their vanity, I was ashamed of donning summer dresses and swimsuits for waterpark field trips. I’ll never know the milky-smooth skin that normal girls are blessed with. I hid my poisoned past--stretch marks and arm bumps--with modest layers of clothing. I wondered if I would find a man who would be willing to love a woman so scarred. Luckily, your father sees past these things, to my humor, my sass, my spunk. As my vanity shrank and my self-confidence grew, I came to look at my aberrations as battle scars, as a visible attestation of my willpower, through an incident that not every child was lucky enough, or strong enough, to live through.

It is the tiger’s stripes, strange like stretchmarks, that makes him unique and lends him his strength and beauty, one part bold like the sun, one part dark and mysterious like the moon so he could stalk in shadows. Though you cannot yet talk to me, I talk to you daily, so you will be comforted and strengthened by your own mother’s voice, so you know you are loved. And despite the stress of a hundred diagnostic tests—to see if your blood is compatible with mine, to check if you have Patau’s or Edward’s or Down’s Syndrome, to look for the perfection of your heart—deep down, I know that you must be ok. Because you are made of my essence, built from my spirit. You are of me, and from me, and that makes you strong like me.

Letters to Poetwig: Gift

Dear Baby,

You are used to hearing me whisper these words to you in those private moments stolen between us: "I hope you're doing ok in there. Mommy loves you very much. Stay strong, my little one." I worry about you every day, hoping that you are safe and growing as you should. Today I got to see you on ultrasound for the first time, meeting with my OB since I first learned that you exist. I was so busy with work in the morning that I forgot to snack as usual after a light breakfast, and by 11:45AM, 15 minutes after we were supposed to have seen the doctor already, you made it known that you were hungry. No wonder you were so active on the screen.

You gave me the best present today, indication that you are alive and well. I was amazed to see your peanut-blob shape for the first time ever, giant head, pudgy body. You wiggled around as if to say hello (and "I'm hungry."). You measured spot-on as you should for this stage, 2.05-2.15cm. And then the most amazing part of all, when the OB turned on the ultrasound audio and Daddy and I heard your heartbeat for the first time, thumping away like you had just run a marathon instead of doing just a few wiggles: THOOM-THOOM-THOOM! 170 beats per minute, good and strong.

Daddy was very happy tonight to be able to see you. We kept looking at your ultrasound picture printout and made copies on thicker photo paper, manhandling the poor printer on its last throes of death to spit out two copies. We re-watched the brief video clip of the ultrasound to listen to your heartbeat.

When you are challenging me through your teenage years, when you have moved away temporarily for college or permanently to start a life and family of your own with the wings of freedom to which you'll be entitled, never forget how much you are wanted, and cherished. Mommy loves you to the moon and back.

"I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be."

-Robert Munsch

Letters to Poetwig: What's in a Name?

Dear Baby,

You already have many nicknames, even if we do not yet know if you are a boy or a girl. I call you Poetwig as my online handle (bear with your geeky mommy) is Poetree. Someone dubbed you Poetwig, a small branch off a larger tree, and it stuck. Your daddy calls you Baby, Beebee, the little Beebee, and Beebee Rascal for how much you move around on ultrasound in Mommy’s tummy.

Do people grow into their names? Do they sometimes become the legendary figures that they are named after? Do they possess the characteristics that their name suggests—Grace, Chastity, Belle for beauty? David, the giant slayer, Jonathan, a gift from God.

I don’t know a lot of things about your future. I don’t even know what we will call you. I write these letters to you so that one day we can sit together and reflect back on these early times. So for now, all your nicknames you will be known as—Poetwig, Baby, Rascal—until one day we can truly call you by name.

Pregnancy Cravings, Aversions, and Screenings

Cravings (and there are many):

•  Pickles 
• Ramen
• 4 Cheese Hot Pockets
•  Dried fruits (apricots, cherries)
•  Nuts (raw almonds, walnuts)
•  Pluots
• Pasta
• Japanese food/sushi/edamame beans/seaweed salad
• Chocolate cake
•  Pizza
• Hot dogs
•  Tuna sandwiches (sadly have to avoid some of the things on this list while pregnant)
•  Chips (Ruffles Cheddar & Sour Cream, Lay’s Sour Cream & Onion, Doritos Nacho Cheese & Cool Ranch)
• Chicken wings (Wing Stop, Wing Box)
• McDonald’s cheeseburgers (gross, I know)
•  Hamburgers & French fries
• Taco Bell (chicken quesadillas, Crunchwrap Supreme, tacos, nachos with plain nacho cheese and jalapenos)
• Watermelon
•  Oranges, orange juice
•   Dairy (milk, yogurt)
•   Strawberry & vanilla ice cream
•  Sweet red beans in che
•   Eggrolls
•   Balut
• Mango lassi
• Okra
• Boiled eggs in fish sauce
• Mooncakes
•  Fruit pies

Aversions:

•  Indian food/curry/Biryani
• Fried/scrambled eggs
•   Mediterranean food (gyros meat)
• Chicken breast (especially plain)
• Zucchini

Screening Tests:

First Trimester (Tri1) screening consists of some routine bloods, along with any special tests the doctor feels should be looked at more closely due to heredity or personal health history. In my case, I have Hepatitis B, passed on to me by my mother from birth, so my baby will need extra screening to see if my viral load is high enough to warrant oral antibiotics to prevent damage to my own liver and the greater chance of passing it on. Since my blood mixes with my baby’s by way of the umbilical cord shortly after birth, the baby will receive 2 vaccines: one is the inoculation, and one is a preventative. I've been referred to a gastroenterologist to more closely monitor me.

The other blood tests, pretty routine for Tri1, include STD screening like the Gonorrhea/Chlamydia urine sample (note: mandatory test where you’ll have to hold your urine for an hour in advanced). Also HIV, some "prenatal panel" blood tests, hemoglobin (iron), and blood type so that they can test if I'm RH positive or negative (if you are one type and Baby is another, you'll be offered a Rhogam shot to make sure your blood mixing with Baby's will not harm it). This test is also called Indirect Coombs to check for the Rhesus Factor.

The SIS is the California Sequential Integrated Screening, which consists of two blood draws (for me, Weeks 11 and 15) and one Nuchal Translucency ultrasound scan at Week 13 (to measure the fluid at the base of the neck and detect the chance of Down's Syndrome). It's kind of like a more detailed Quad Marker screening that also checks for chromosomal/trisomy irregularities.

Due to family history and me being close to 35 years old, I'm also opting to do a Counsyl test, similar to MaterniT21/Harmony/Panorama, which checks the Trisomies 13, 18, and 21 (Patau's, Edward's, and Down's Syndromes, typically done from 10-13 weeks); sex chromosome abnormalities; and micro-deletions. This test also comes with a session with a genetics counselor to analyze your families’ histories to see if there are any major concerns. Since SIS and Counsyl each have a small margin of error, having two to compare data is most helpful, even though they seem to check for mostly the same things. Because Counsyl checks/counts chromosomes, they can tell the sex of your baby as early as 11-13 weeks by also checking for XX or XY. Gender is otherwise determined via abdominal ultrasound at the 19-20 week anatomy scan.

 For the 12-week ultrasound, they see how the baby is growing/progressing by doing another CRL (Crown-to-Rump Length) measurement and comparing it to the one done at 8 weeks to see if the baby's due date is spot on or needs to be adjusted.

We decide to skip the Cystic Fibrosis blood test since my OB explains that we are at low risk for a baby with CF. However, this test is also included in the Counsyl screening.