Posts Tagged ‘ectopic’

Yep, another bloodwork appointment tomorrow, and, I assume, an ultrasound, since I haven’t bled anything out yet.  Which is frustrating.  I’m just ready to move on, though I suspect that’s not going to happen until after the first of the year. I’ve been on tenterhooks, waiting to see if this miscarriage would hurry up and complete, but it occurred to me today, (when I saw what almost looked like fertile CM on CD14,) that my set-in-stone cycle must have already kicked back in. Probably won’t be seeing anything coming free until my normally scheduled period is due to start. ie: January 3.

So I’ll stop waiting anxiously, and just assume things are progressing as they should, until I hear otherwise. Actually, I’m hoping for an ultrasound to confirm that the embryo has left my tube & is just hanging out in utero. Mostly because I’m tired of waiting for, you know, unbearable pain which might signal internal bleeding and impending shock and death. If I’ve got to get back to ‘normal’ life, I’d like it to be normal, so I can enjoy normal activities. Ahem. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I’m pretty stressed about Christmas, which is just four days away as I type this – oh gads! Probably better off being stressed about the holidays than about everything else going on in my life, to tell the truth.  Holiday stress is familiar and almost comforting. Other than stress? Not a hell of a lot happening in Sprogblogger-land. Another holiday, another series of regrets and fears passing before my eyes. You know the drill.

I’m so ready for it to be January 7th or so…

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Stronger, yes.

I’m feeling better, physically, than I have since Monday, though I’m a bit concerned by my lack of symptoms.  Yeah, I know.  Nothing’s going wrong, so, naturally I assume that something’s going wrong.  It’s a failing of mine, but I would like it to be understood that this is a recently developed failing.  I used to be pretty damned optimistic , even blasé about things going the way they were supposed to, and even used to assume that things would always go pretty much how I wanted them to.


Seriously, though, I’m wondering if I’ve taken my newfound belief – that if a thing can go wrong, it will – to a somewhat exaggerated level.  I’ve been completely paranoid about Nellie’s health ever since we got her.  I love this dog so much that it doesn’t seem posisble I should be allowed to keep her and enjoy her for a natural dog’s lifespan.  I think it’s starting to irritate the boy, this not-so-hidden pessimism/fear/apprehension, and I wonder if I should be actively trying to squelch this tendency, when I notice myself indulging in it, or if it’s a healthy reaction to the events of the last year. 

Because, you see, I’m quite convinced that the easier time I had with this miscarriage is simply because I never had any hope that I was pregnant with a viable pregnancy.  I knew I wasn’t pregnant when I went in for that first beta titer, and so with every additional one – rising though they were – I knew it wasn’t a good sign, but rather the opposite. And yes, it was preferable to the soul-wrenching grief I had to deal with over the summer.  

I just wonder if I’m doing my eventual sprog a disservice by refusing to embrace “the pregnancy experience” as fully as I was prepared to, at first.  I certainly won’t be planning how I’ll decorate a nursery when I see two pink lines, next time.  Hell, I probably won’t be bringing home any baby stuff until a pregnancy gets past 26 weeks.  (and doesn’t it make me cringe just to write those words so confidently – not ‘unless’ but ‘until’!)   I won’t be naming the next proto-sprog until we’re reassured that it has a good chance of becoming a sprog, in truth.   Last time, I figured we were safe once we’d seen a heartbeat – silly me.  This time, I never got to that point – somewhat more realistic me.  Next time, I’m thinking it’d be after I got into the third trimester with absolutely no complications – pathetic me?

I just don’t know.

I miss that optimistic woman who – less than a year ago! – set off to make a baby with the help of modern medicine. That woman fully expected to be seven months pregnant by this Christmas. That woman expected that the uncertainty she had already experienced when it became clear she and her boy weren’t going to be able to conceive a child without medical intervention was about as bad as it could get. She read blogs like a little pregnant and knew – knew – that she could never deal with what Julie had to deal with in her quest for a real live baby. And here I am, with an entirely revised set of expectations and hopes for the new year.

Stronger, yes. But at what cost?

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hCG = 92.8

Pure and unadulterated good news.  Despite my glum predictions, it doesn’t look like anything is going ‘wrong’ with this miscarriage.  Thank anyone who’s listening. 

And, hCG dropping as quickly as it is, I could, conceivably (har har har) be ready to start trying again in the next couple of cycles.

For I am a glutton for punishment.

Actually, at this point, limbo is what feels like the punishment. 

Whatever flu I had last night seems to have given up the ghost when confronted with the huge doses of OJ & coffee I flooded my system with this morning, for which I am grateful.  And I don’t have to go in to the clinic until Monday – for which I am way grateful   They’re nice folks, they’ve been very good to me, and I am mortally tired of spending all my early mornings there.

And I’m feeling good.  Feeling a hell of a lot better than I did this summer, during the miscarriage-wait.  This is easier, this time.  Maybe because it’s earlier, but I think mostly because I knew from the beginning that this wasn’t viable.  My hopes never got higher than, say, gnat-height. 

And, weirdly enough, I’m feeling encouraged that we managed to produce such a strong embryo.  Stupid – hey dummy, wrong spot to settle down in! – but strong.  So maybe next time…

Have I mentioned the whole “glutton for punishment” aspect of my personality?  How about the “Pollyanna on crack” aspect?  Yeah, I suspect that’s becoming obvious even without me detailing it.

Feeling cautiously optimistic.   And that’s without the DHEA mood-boost.  I guess I can start taking that again.  I guess I can start thinking about next time again.  I guess I can relax for a while.

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A long night.

I seem to have come down with the flu or something similarly fever-producing, which made for a long, unpleasant night.  Too hot!  Sweating!  Ack, too many blankets! Followed immediately by Shivering!  Too cold!  Brrr!  Goddamnit, I need another blanket!  Repeated into the wee hours of the morning.  Plus, Nellie was fussing at her stitches.  Finally, the boy went and picked her up and laid her on top of me – I think he was aiming to cover up my mouth with the large, hairy dog so my complaints would be muffled and he, at least, could get some sleep – but whatever his motivation, it did the trick.  Warm dog worked better than blankets at keeping me at a comfortable temperature, and once she was on our bed, she stopped fussing at her stitches, and so we all got an unbroken 3 hours of sleep until my alarm rang so I could get to my blood draw on time.

Still spotting clots of old dark blood, and so I’m hoping that everything is moving through my innards as it’s supposed to.  No pain or serious cramping, for which I am grateful.  I’ve started being such a baby at my blood draws, but really, it’s just that at this point, I seem to take every bit of physical discomfort personally.  The techs have been very kind about humoring me and my lousy veins.  I think they’re all getting better about drawing from the backs of hands, since those are the only non-scarred veins I have left.  They hate doing hands, but damn, it feels like those needles are sproinging against nerves when they go inside my elbows, these days.

No ultrasound this morning, which was nice.  A girl gets tired of having her lady-bits on constant display.

Working late tonight – oh yawn! – and feeling cranky about it already.  Maybe cranky is too strong a word.  Feeling exhausted, already, is more like it.

Must wrap xmas gifts & bake cookies this weekend, ack.  If I were really on top of my game I’d do it tonight, but instead I think I”m going to try to go to sleep early tonight.  It’s been a long day already, and it’s only 11am.

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A bit better

Went to bed with what I can only describe as a migraine – couldn’t read through the pain, because it was making the words shimmer on the page.  Neato effect, even if I wasn’t in a position to appreciate it at the time.  Another prednisone withdrawal symptom, I think.  I remember this from last time, too.

But I woke up with less of a headache, and my middle feels like it’s been, say, last week since I was last kicked.  I’ve also stopped bleeding entirely, which I find slightly worrisome.  I know for a fact there’s a fair bit of clotting & other icky matter in there.  But for the moment, I’m less sore than yesterday, and since today I have to teach a group of teenaged boys how to make chocolate mice, I’m happy for the physical reprieve.

Dog comes home today – even the “I hate dogs” boy missed her terribly.  He posted on his blog how empty the house feels without her.  I expect to take lots of pictures of the whippet wearing her Elizabeth collar, so that I can blackmail her when she’s naughty.  And the bed seemed very big last night, though I have to say it was nice not having to get up that extra half-hour early this morning.  I could have, literally, slept for 5 more hours, even going to bed at about 9:30, I’m still wiped out.

Off to work, but first I wanted to thank people who’ve been commenting with notes of support and advice.  It’s appreciated, and it makes me feel less alone, which, at a time like this, is more comforting than I can express.  I love my husband dearly, and I know he adores me, but he has no idea what this is like.  Knowing there are other women out there who have survived this and even gone on to live happy productive lives(!) is comforting.  It’s a bit of light, a flashlight beam to follow until the sun comes up.

Thank you.

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Update: hCG=441

First good news I’ve had in a long damned time.  This just might ‘resolve’ on its own.

Celebratory chocolate and coffee are in order, I believe.  Not to mention some ‘nog for tonight.

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I did not, in fact, take the methotrexate shot this morning.  Last night, on the subway home from work, my innards started to twist and twinge, gushing blood like a geyser.  By the time I got home, I was panting and whining through the pain.  It felt like the worst part of my miscarriage, when my innards were turning inside out, and I was ready to help them do so, by any means possible.  Seppuku, anyone?  

So, after toughing it out for an hour or so, I collapsed on the bed and called my doctor.  Well, actually I called the answering service who called the nurse who called me and who then called my doctor after speaking with me.  After asking me a few questions, my doctor offered me the choice of going to the emergency room where they would, he assured me, rush me into surgery – which he knew I didn’t want.  Or, if the pain was bearable, I could hang tough until the morning – with the understanding that I’d “get my ass to a hospital” if things got too bad.  I went with option number 2 – emergency surgery at midnight has never been my favorite situation to find myself in.  The pain finally started to abate by about 2:30.  Then I slept like a dead thing.

This morning, I woke up, stretched cautiously, and stood up.  Not so much blood, and not so much pain.  Felt like I’d been kicked in the belly yesterday, but no worse than that.  Last night was much worse than that.  So I took the dog in to be spayed (yes, the irony is amusing, even today.  I had a hard time resisting my urge to ask the receptionist if they’d give me a ‘twofer’ deal on female organ removals today.) I did have the satisfaction of telling off the receptionists and nurses when they swore they didn’t know who turned away Nellie & my husband last week when he brought her in after the chocolate episode.  Long story short, they agreed that should never have happened, & swore that it would never happen again.  Blah blah blah.  Abandoned my poor dog in the scary-place – god, I hate doing that.  As far as she knows, I’ve sold her to an animal-testing firm.  And they don’t release dogs until tomorrow.  Ack.  Then I limped into Manhattan, bought my methotrexate shot, and went to the clinic so they could administer it.  

Whereupon my doc did another ultrasound – and bloodwork, because, hey, can’t get enough of my blood these days!  (If I’m feeling lightheaded I’m inclined to believe it’s from the constant bloodletting, to be honest.  I’m ready to just install a port in my elbow.)

But the ultrasound was a good thing.  Sure enough, my wayward embryo aborted last night all on its own, but instead of moving all the way into my uterus from whence I could expel it, it’s still lodged in my fallopian tube, being pushed by a ‘sausage’ of blood coming from the implantation site.  The pressure should eventually persuade the embryo to end up in my uterus , which will then cramp like a motherfucker in order to expel it.  Or so we hope.  

Because if it doesn’t work like that best-case scenario, if the lower part of my tube is too narrow, or the bleeding too insistent, the tube could rupture, or blood might just start blowing out the ‘ovary end’ into my abdominal cavity.  Either of which would be bad.  

He said that 15 years ago, I’d be in surgery right now having that tube removed.  But it’s not 15 years ago, and these things have been known to resolve themselves quite often, and it’s not like I’m living in some tiny little town in the middle of nowhere.  There are hospitals on every corner of NYC & Brooklyn.  So, after due consideration, we’re watching and waiting.  I’ll need to go back in on Thursday for an hCG test to make sure it’s not re-implanted somewhere (though, given my track record, I’m taking bets on this outcome.)  We’re hoping that everything just keeps bleeding out without too much clotting or cramping, and without producing unsustainable quantities of gore.  

Yes, dear readers, I’m back in limbo.  

So I missed my window of Methotrexate opportunity, and am now waiting to see if I’ll be spending Christmas recovering from laproscopic abdominal surgery.  Yay!

Do I sound perky about all this?  In a way, I am, because you know what?  I didn’t have to kill that embryo, it suicided all on its own.  And having to merely deal with a miscarriage/potential tubal rupture sounds like a walk in the park, by comparison to how much I was dreading that experience.  Seriously – this isn’t fun, but mentally at least, it’s a hell of a lot better than how I thought I was going to be spending the day.  I’m grateful I didn’t have to do that, and I’m grateful that things still have a chance to actually possibly potentially resolve on their own.   Plenty of time for things to go south, but at the moment, limbo’s an ok place to be.  Beats the hell out of any of my alternatives.

I’ve got a ton of errands to run today, and I’m not sure how much energy I’ll have to do them with.  All else aside, I only got about 4 hours of sleep last night, and I look like a zombie.  (Seriously – young men offered me their seats on the subway during rush-hour.  I must really look like death.)  

So I’m going to go bed, to curl up around the internal bruise that is my belly.  I wish Nellie were here to nap with me.  After I fell asleep, she used my belly as a pillow, which was comfier than it sounds.  She’s sort of like a heating pad that moans every time it shifts position.  Maybe when I wake up I’ll go mail gifts and buy wrapping paper, though maybe not.  I’m thinking this Christmas this year might just have to be holly-jolly without me.

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