Archive for July, 2008

So I went to work, and it wasn’t that bad, though I did find out that my extraordinarily sympathetic boss is moving back to Korea where she can be a housewife & concentrate on getting pregnant/staying pregnant. I will miss her. And envy her.

But that wasn’t the most fun.

The most fun was realizing that I really was fine. Well, at least as long as I was sitting at home in bed with my feet propped up. Working – even as a librarian – means being up and down, sitting, standing, reaching for books, storming over to holler at obnoxious kids, sitting, standing. That didn’t work out so good for me. Oh god.

So after an afternoon of cramping, I started bleeding a lot – gushing, actually – while trying to find some guy a copy of Oedipus Tyrannus. I got too lightheaded to see anything and basically crawled downstairs so I could get to the restroom without ruining more clothes &/or bringing a shelf of books down on top of me as I collapsed. Made my excuses to the assistant manager, whose response was “go, please go!” and got on the subway & home without much more of an incident. Though I think the clothes just might be ruined after all.

My complacency certainly is.

So I have tomorrow off, and I suppose if I have to, I can call in on Saturday though that will leave my co-workers dangerously short-staffed. Of course, me dashing off in the middle of the day, or passing out and being hauled out of there in an ambulance would also leave them short-staffed, if that’s my main concern. I guess I simply don’t know how to judge “ready to go back.” I mean, I honestly felt fine this morning, and I really really really thought the bleeding was tapering off and would soon be gone entirely. I even went to work wearing just a panty-liner instead of the great big honkin’ sleep-through-the-night-even-when-you’re-bleeding-like-a-pig-at-slaughter pads.

Hah. Serves me right.

So much for all my pride about my suddenly cooperative body. You’d think I’d learn by now not to crow over any-damn-thing. Not two pink lines on a HPT. Not a heartbeat. Not a goddamn 1-day-that-wasn’t-so-bad miscarriage. And the boy is out of town with a daughter again. Where I encouraged him to go, since, hey, I’m fine now. Ugh.

So ok, Fates. I have officially gotten it. Message received. Thanks for the reminder. Yep, I know. No, no plans for anything at all tomorrow. In fact, I’m thinking lying in bed all day with my feet up is gonna be da bomb, ok? Nothing going on here, you can just go pester some other cockeyed fool. Please, in fact. It’s been a long few weeks.

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I feel better. Better physically and even better emotionally than I have, really since we found out that I was going to lose the baby.

The bleeding’s already tapering off, and I had a couple of cramps yesterday, but nothing that a couple of tylenol couldn’t deal with. I had hot & sour soup for lunch & tom yum soup for dinner, (comfort food in my world) and both stayed down and tasted great despite the insanity of eating soup when it’s this hot & muggy.

I’ll be going in on Monday for my weekly HCG test, and likely for an US scan, if I know my doctor. Which is fine. I’m feeling confident that this is over, and that everything that was supposed to happen, did.

This whole experience actually, in a weird way, makes me appreciate my body a little more than I have in the last few weeks/months/years. Because, see, my body apparently sucks as far as girly-functions go. It wouldn’t give me the baby I want, and even when I tricked it, it refused to give me the pregnancy I wanted. But it handled the miscarriage without needing more interventions. It dealt with everything pretty efficiently (if later in the game than I would have preferred) and when it was over, it apparently decided to let me off the hook, hormonally at least, for a while.

ie: I haven’t wanted to kill a receptionist or a loved one in nearly 48 hours.

Which is a nice, refreshing feeling.

Never thought I’d say this, but damn it feels good not to be pregnant.

And I’m back to work today. I considered bailing again, but decided that was too much, and that I will desperately want those sick days back sometime during my next, successful, full-term pregnancy.

(So there, Fates! I defy thee!)

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It looks like I will not, after all, be a candidate for a D&C today. Uncooperative body finally comes through on something I’m asking of it.

Of course if I’d had any notion what yesterday would be like, I’d’ve signed up for the surgery the day after I found out what was going on, just to preclude any possibility of having to go through that.

Understand, I’ve had a miscarriage before. When I was 25. I was probably only a week or two late at that point and deeply ambivalent about the thought of being pregnant. It was a heavy, painful period. Nothing more or less, and it was emotionally troubling, but really not a physical blow at all.

Yesterday. Wow.

Right after my post about the crazy-ass moodswings & inappropriate humor thing I’ve got going on here, right after the cramps that merely buying a latte were apparently able to induce, everything started rolling. Put it this way – when I weighed myself this morning, I weighed 5 pounds less than when I weighed myself yesterday. I’m estimating some of that is dehydration – I really couldn’t get anything (like water) to stay down. But I honestly think at least a couple of pounds of that was blood and tissue. I wasn’t expecting so much blood, in such a short amount of time. We’re talking 8 hours, tops, before I started feeling – well, not good. I still feel like someone beat me and then jumped up and down on my lower abdomen for kicks – but better. Definitely better.

And the boy came home via Fung-Wa bus in the middle of the night. Which, although there wasn’t much for him to do at that point, made me feel better just knowing he was there, and knowing if I passed out again on my way to the toilet, at least I wouldn’t lie there all night long.

It was scary. And messy. And upsetting to watch my body reject everything so decidedly. And physically, the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Worse than when I shattered two bones in my arm and had to wait over 24 hours for a table in the OR. Bad pain. Bad pain made worse by the fact that I kept vomiting during the worst of it, which made everything that hadn’t hurt from the uterine cramping hurt from the stomach/intestinal cramping instead.

But it’s also over. Over quicker than I feared it might be. I’m still bleeding, but I’m talking bleeding like, say, a heavy, painful period. Not like I’m going to die sometime soon.

I’m taking today off work because I need to be able to stand up for more than 2 minutes at a time, but I think if I can keep anything down, I’ll go back tomorrow.

And in the meantime, I’m thinking it’s going to be a long day of napping, and sipping juice and boullion and maybe, if I’m feeling crazy, a cup of gazpacho for dinner.

Because living crazy? It’s what I do.

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So I keep having flashes of inappropriate black humor and it’s sort of starting to wig me out. I mean if my closest friend tried to turn what I’m going through into an opportunity for a giggle, I’d probably never speak to her again. This attitude must be apparent, since the boy – who, though I love him dearly, is not known for his tact or willingness to leave any subject un-laughed about – hasn’t even attempted to find a spark of funny in anything that’s been happening to me lately. Which is good. Which is why he’s not walking around with a frying-pan shaped dent in his head, or looking around for another girlfriend, or both. I mean, humor is not appropriate. Not right now, & come to that, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to yuk it up regarding this period in my life. Ever. Nothing funny about it.

So why is it that my brain won’t stop already with the colorful commentary?

Point in fact – After getting a phone call from the woman at the clinic where I’m scheduled to have a D&C tomorrow, who called, in fact, to work out payment details since she figured I really would be in no shape to deal with them tomorrow, she signed off by saying, “I hope you have a great day.”

Well, no, actually. I’d say chances are good that this will not be a great day, by any measure. How could it, you stupid fucking bitch? And, come to that, do they give you lessons in what not to say? I mean, I know sympathy tends to make me break down, but is an angry patient really that much easier to deal with than one who’s leaking from her eyes as well as her girl-goods? (See? More and complete inappropriateness going on here.)

After I hung up, (and thankfully my self-control lasted long enough to hit the ‘end’ button on my cell-phone,) I spent the next fifteen minutes explaining in great graphic detail to the empty room exactly why this couldn’t possibly be a great day, and why. Some of the lines I came up with were rather funny, if I do say so myself. I should reserve a spot on the midnight miscarriage amateurs’ hour at the local humor club. I’d be a hit. “Take my uterine lining. No really–” Badda-bing.

And when the first real knock-me-over cramps of the day started just after I’d bought, (but before I’d enjoyed) my first cafe latte in over a week – because, hey! what can it hurt except my sleep patterns, & due to said outrageously painful cramping last night, I’m not enjoying much in the way of sleep anyway – my first spoken words (again to the empty room) once I could gasp past the pain were: “Damn, they TOLD me caffeine wasn’t good for a pregnancy in the first trimester, but do I listen? No…” This, while I’m clutching the toilet with both hands, wondering if vomiting or screaming is a better response to this level of pain & helplessness. I’m pretty sure trying for a laugh is not a good response on any level. Even when it’s just myself I’m trying to amuse. (And yes, I usually do speak out loud to myself when I’m alone. Holdover from many happy years surrounded by many pets.)

So what gives with the running commentary. The running inappropriate commentary? Am I trying to distract myself? Am I trying to confuse everyone around me? I know I’ve freaked out a friend at work with a blackly funny comment that slipped out, and I’m pretty sure that the boy has given up trying to track my mood swings (from bitterly amused to despondent in less than half an hour. Hear me roar, I am Hormonally Imbalanced Woman!) But seriously, am I thinking it’s going to make for an amusing story later on to regale the ladies at the book club meeting with? I mean, I know I regularly give out too much info on my girl-goods here: it is, after all, a blog about dealing (hah) with infertility. But by the same token, I’m certainly not expecting to get a giggle from my loyal readers out in cyberland: women who, for the most part, found this blog because of their own struggles to carry a baby to term. I think they’d all mostly agree with me – nothing funny here. So, really -who am I trying to impress here with my quick wit?

I don’t know the answer to that, but I’m ready for the mood swings to dissipate almost as much as I’m ready to finish passing the physical remains of this failed pregnancy. Waiting for a call-back from my doctor, where I’ll likely get to detail the exact amount, severity, and texture of the bleeding over the phone so he can decide if it’s worth showing up to the surgery tomorrow, or not. I wish I could leave the house long enough to go buy another coffee without risking a re-enactment of The Death of Marat. Or that a bottle of merlot would magically appear to refill my now-empty latte cup. Stupid Brooklyn. A baby-store on every block – two within shouting distance of home – hawking fancy strollers and bottles and cute little onesies, but I have to hobble a quarter of a mile to buy a latte or a bottle of wine? Somethin’ just aint right here.

And I’m not talking about my innards, for a change.

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…slightly more than yesterday, but the cramping is way more intense.


Let me say that I don’t have a lot of basis for comparison, being one of those women who suffers only a teeny tiny bit each month. Translation: Once a month, I have one cramp, just enough of a twinge to let me know that my period’s starting. Otherwise I’d never know anything was happening down there.

I figured this would be more of the same.

It’s not, and I’m not even bleeding heavily yet, though I can’t believe that’s far off.

My doctor called yesterday with the results of the bloodwork and to let me know that they’re holding my appointment for surgery tomorrow in case I want to go through with it. I don’t think I will, but we’ll see. I’m bailing on work today, because I can’t imagine being on the desk when one of these stop-breathing-and-just-try-to-hold-on cramps hits, and also because I am unreasonably terrified of bleeding heavily on the subway. Like my fellow riders are bears or sharks and will be able to sense my weakness. *rolls eyes at own idiocy*. Actually, I think it’s more just a deep aversion to being somewhat helpless & in pain in a public place. Going back to the animals metaphors, I know exactly how cats feel when they hide in a small dark place to lick wounds, get over feeling sick, etc.

Of course, the good news is that my HCG levels were down around 1800 yesterday – down from 8000 the week before. So things are progressing faster on that front than I’d feared they might.

Not much else to report, save that I’m really looking forward to this being over, I really hope I’m not pissing off my co-workers too much by bailing this week, and I feel really lucky to have the doctor that I do. His receptionists might not know how to do their job, but I feel like he’s handled this better than I ever would have dreamed it could be handled.

And now I’m going to go gasp and whine in a dark place for a while longer.

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Still spotting, though now it’s accompanied by some pretty regular cramping. Looks like this is it, so I was able to cancel my D&C appointment for mid-week. I did take the day off work, but so far I could probably have sat my butt in the chair & answered questions. Maybe not, though. God, I just want this to be done. Hurry up, body. You’ve figured it out – finally – now get a move on.

I still had to go in this morning for HCG tests, and when my doctor had a look at me, he ordered some tests to measure infection, as well. Not feeling so great = not looking so hot, I guess. Then, as I was congratulating myself for having gotten through another incredibly painful reminder of what I didn’t have to look forward to, he chased me down the street to ask if I had anyone to talk to, and would I like the names of any, you know, people to talk to.

And here I thought I was just sad. Turns out I’m crazy, too.

Maybe next week, if the dropping hormones don’t do enough for the sadness. Or the craziness.

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I spotted a little bit of blood this morning, but haven’t seen anything since. Intestinally upset, though, which would be par for the course if I were about to start a normal period. Hah.

So I’m hopeful (hopeful? Now there’s an inappropriate word in this context) that this might ‘resolve’ or ‘complete’ or whatever the hell weirdly vague term it is that doctors use in this situation before my appointment on Wednesday.

Maybe I can get lucky here at the very end of things. I wouldn’t turn down being the beneficiary of a little bit of luck at this point.

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