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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