Just In Case You Thought I Was Done Talking about My Uterus

Where to begin?

I have two friends with kindergarteners.  There is nothing essentially profoundly special about kindergarten, though I do have a softspot for the age of five.  Five, as I remember it with LG, is when parenting gets easier (at least until ten, and then it's a different sort of complicated).  It's a milestone, this beginning of elementary school, and it occurs to me every now and then that I could have a kindergartener, too, if only I hadn't had that miscarriage back in June 2009.

I am mostly solidly on the other side of infertility and loss.  One might say healed.  I attribute this partly to my relationship with The Artist and being involved in the infertility community as writer, as advocate, and not as patient.  It's also the publishing of books and having to talk about all this stuff as ancient history, the stuff of books, rather than my present.  And, well, frankly, time.  Tiny Boy is almost four.  This life on the other side stuff?  A nice place to be.

But there's something about this time of year for me that I associate profoundly with infertility. Maybe because I was first pregnant in October and did IVF in October and fretted about IUGR in October.  Or something about the changing of the seasons.*  I'm really not sure.

I'm not sad.  But perhaps wistful.  Thinking about the life I could have had and the one that I do.  And pregnancy loss be damned, if I hadn't lost that baby I surely wouldn't have had a Tiny Boy.  But I would have a kindergartener...

* Tiny Boy told me this morning it wasn't winter yet and it would be winter when his teacher flipped the page on the calendar.  She is THAT powerful.  

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

I don't need a day.  I always remember.

But today I am especially grateful for my two pregnancies that grew into healthy kids, despite the odds.

And I am thinking of those who are still trying, and waiting, and remembering.

Write It

So the problem with writing a book about one's sordid story with infertility and pregnancy loss?

You have to reread the thing in order to edit it.

And it hurts.  Even eleven years later.  It really hurts.

Something Remarkable

I don't think I ever mentioned where the title of this blog comes from.  It's indebted to a line from Calvino's wonderful novella Mr. Palomar that goes something like (if not exactly):  there is something remarkable to be seen in Rome this late autumn, and it is the sky crammed with birds.

There is something remarkable about this spring.  What got me through those long months (years) ttc and then the scare of early (ok, all) pregnancy was thinking this time next year you could have...  And, indeed, now, a year later, I do have.  A Tiny Boy.  A giggly, squirmy, rolling over and almost-sitting-up guy who is an absolute delight.  He's 5.5 months old and I am still astonished that he is here, that he is healthy, that he is mine.  And that makes those 3-5 am shifts in the rocking chair more than bearable.  If the worst thing in my life is an exhausted snuggle with a baby in the wee hours of the morning, I've got it pretty damn good.

What got me through was knowing there was an end point.  That when I turned forty I wouldn't be an assistant professor anymore (I might not have a job, but I wouldn't be an assistant professor), that I wouldn't be doing fertility treatment anymore (I might not have a baby, but five years of treatment wasn't a possibility I'd consider).  And here I am, on the other side.  I can't really ask for more.

*

I was at a lecture the other day and the speaker made a comment about how negativity is distracting.  And I thought about all those mornings I should have dedicated to writing over the past few years but couldn't, either because I was in the car driving to the clinic for an ultrasound or because my brain was skittery with sorrow and fear.  I am now flush with desire to get back to work, even as it is so easy to sit at my computer and click a link to another blog and get sucked down that sad road again.  Slowly, a word at a time, a day at a time, I am healing.  And that, too, is something remarkable.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Tiny Boy and I took a trip on The Blasted Highway of All Things Fertility today.  We took the same exit I took for three years, just made a right instead of a left, and found ourselves at Doctor of Boy Parts #2.

We had basically the same conversation I had with Doctor of Boy Parts #1, back when Tiny Boy was only 5 weeks.  Since then I've come around to thinking he'll probably end up having the surgery, but maybe not.  #2 agreed that his condition is borderline, that his penis will in all likelihood function normally with or without surgery (just with a bit of effort on his part, in terms of learning to pee standing up).  The new piece of information is that surgery done on infants is much more likely to be successful than surgery done on an older child/adult, though the older person would, you know, actually be able to consent to having the surgery.  But I think I'd rather Tiny Boy be upset that he didn't get a choice than having him make the choice as a Big Boy and not have it go well.  Maybe.  If we we go forward, it won't be until he's 10-12 months, so we've got some time yet.

*

So I made a left turn when we were coming out of Doctor of Boy Parts #2, and I kept going another mile and there we were.  Thankfully, a receptionist who knew me was at the desk.  Thankfully, there were no patients in the waiting room (the advantage of Dr. G not being there).  There was Nice Nurse who saw me through countless IUIs and botched IVFs, Happy New Nurse who gave me beta results last spring, the great ultrasound tech, the friendly andrologist, the same old phlebotomist with feathered hair.  No Nurse of the Everchanging Nickname, but otherwise the gang was pretty much all there, excepting, of course, Dr. Gorgeous.  Lots of hugs.  Lots of cooing over the baby.  And, well, of course I was in tears by the time I walked through the door.  We've got Kleenex, the andrologist said.  Boy do I know that.

I don't know what I thought would happen, but I knew I needed to go back there. It wasn't cathartic.  But I needed to bring that baby into that space and show people (even if I was crying) that they made me happy.  There are no words to express the gratitude I have for all of them, not just Dr. G.  After all, I saw much more of them (how many ultrasounds?) than I did her.

I am raw, people.  The minute we got on the highway my brain started spinning through those countless internal monologues about cycles and whether or not to do DE and whether or not to do IVF, and I had to stop myself, look at the baby in the rear view mirror and consciously think It's OVER.  And, despite the odds, it ended in the best possible way.

*

There's a Carter's outlet on the way between here and there.  A couple times, when I was hopeful, early in the process, I stopped there and picked something up.  A monkey onesie he's worn a few times.  A duckie sleeper.  But I never actually bought something for my son, just for a hypothetical much-wanted baby.  Mostly Tiny Boy wears hand-me-downs.  Some from a wonderful online friend (you know who you are!), some from Best Professor Friend, who has a two-year-old son, some from A, and some, even from LG (because what I saved was mostly gender-neutral).

I splurged.  I bought him a bunch of stuff he probably doesn't need (but he does need shorts, right?  and who can't use more onesies with animals on them?) and I pushed my sleeping baby around the store in his stroller and I was just any other mother of a 4-month-old.  Only I wasn't.

My scars are real and still tangible.  A purple gash from my c-section, a line of bruises (yes, even at 19 weeks postpartum) from lovenox, a thickening in my veins.  And then there are the scars that are less literal.

It was a really long road, Nice Nurse said, but you made it.  Yeah, I did.

A Post About DE/DS One Year After the Petri Dish

Exactly a year ago, Tiny Boy was on the cusp.  A few million sperm shipped from California and an egg just removed from my donor's ovaries, along with fourteen others.  Five days later he was one of two embryos transferred to my uterus; the other was The Twin Who Wreaked All Kinds of Havoc.  I think sometimes about what would have happened, could have happened, if I'd listened to Dr. Gorgeous and just transferred one.  I might have had Tiny Boy.  Or I might have had another miscarriage.  But I suspect even Tiny Boy wouldn't be Tiny Boy without those early weeks fighting.

Although I am grateful to the two men who donated the gametes that ended up being the "other half" of my children's DNA, I don't think much about them.  I do think about the egg donor, mostly because she seems more real to me as a person; she lives in my state, I sat in the same waiting room at the RE's office (and sometimes, I imagine she was a woman I will never forget who smiled a knowing smile at me before I was called back for an ultrasound).  She underwent surgery so I could have this child.  Coming to DE was so much harder as a decision than using DS, which, honestly, I never had any qualms about.  Then again, I decided to become an SMC at 27.

Although I didn't think much of it at the time, I took a home pregnancy test on St. Patrick's Day.  And I found this onesie in my stash of stuff I bought on a hopeful day that the pregnancy might actually work out.  But when I think about how miraculous it is that egg + sperm = an embryo that happened to be put in my body, and happened to survive an Evil Life Sucking Twin and a gestational sac two weeks too small (90% loss rate be damned) and whatever fucked up placental abnormality that led to IUGR, well I think that Tiny Boy is indeed one lucky kid.  And I'm certainly a lucky mom.

It's been a year, people.  And while I'm far from over the anxiety and the anger and the grief and the fear, I am someplace very different than I was.  For Mo, for Maddy, for my other readers who are in the trenches, I so hope that you can join me over here in a land that resembles peace.

 Tiny Boy in One Lucky Kid Onesie

(and yes, he damn sure is!)

Nine Years

Nine years ago today I had a D&C to end my first pregnancy.  I wonder how I would have felt if only I had known that a year later I would be pregnant with LG and nine years later the mother of two.  I miss that little boy I didn't get to know beyond those few weeks.  But how wonderful my life has turned out to be.

Post Reproductive Traumatic Stress Disorder...Or Something

Maybe it's the sleep deprivation.

Or maybe it's the postpartum hormones.

Or maybe it's the reality of bringing Tiny Boy home.

(You know, after years of treatment and RPL and using DE, not to mention the fact that I'd completely given up on this pregnancy at 5 weeks and 9 weeks...and that whole placental insufficiency/IUGR thing)

But I am one weepy girl.

I don't think this is postpartum depression, because I'm not depressed.  I don't even think I'm sad.  I'm just overloaded with emotion, anxiety, something.  And I really wish that my old therapist was covered by my insurance, because I could use a chat about now.

I triaged my work email this morning and found a message from Dr. Gorgeous, and I started bawling again.

I am so grateful.  To her and her staff.  To the two donors who made Tiny Boy possible.  But I have to say, even now, holding him, nursing him, taking oodles of pictures of him...I'm not over it.  I know I've said it before, but I feel like a happy carefree pregnancy was stolen from me.  And a real birth was stolen from me.  I'd like to shelve all that.  Just enjoy him (and believe me, I am enjoying him) without all the emotional baggage of the past three years.

But at least for now (knock wood) my body seems to be doing something right.  As of yesterday morning, I have a thriving 5 lb 3 oz (yes, he's surpassed his birth weight) baby.  Whom I need to wake up to nurse...

1000

Yes, apparently this is my 1000th post.  I should say something smart, right?  Or at least interesting.  Perhaps a recap is in order.

I began Something Remarkable just over three years ago, when I was beginning the process of trying for Baby #2, which has turned out to be much longer and much more complicated than I could have imagined.  My daughter, who will be 8 in February, was conceived after a year of ttc, on my 10th IUI cycle, following a miscarriage and an APA diagnosis; I started trying for her at 29.  Perhaps that should have been the first clue that trying at 35 would not be smooth sailing.  I thought perhaps the universe would cut me some slack.

In October 2002, I had my first miscarriage.  It was a long, drawn-out affair, technically a blighted ovum (hate that term--prefer anembryonic pregnancy), but it took almost six weeks, methotrexate, and a D&C to get rid of it.  I was 11.5 weeks pregnant.  I started lactating a couple days later.  Happy 30th birthday.

In October 2008, I was a sparkly new fertility patient again, just undergoing unmedicated IUI #2.  I actually thought that might work.

In October 2009, I did IVF #1 (or IVF attempt #2, the real first was converted to an IUI).  Following the failed cycle, I ended up with a uterine lining of over 3 cm.  My RE stuck me on iron-supplemented birth control pills and told me to expect to bleed for the entire pill cycle.  I think that was the first time she mentioned donor egg as a possibility.

In October 2010, I had a consult out of state to discuss IVF #2 (or 4, depending on how one counts these things) vs. donor egg and started the crazy acupuncurist-inspired anti-inflammatory diet that almost starved me.  By December 2010, I'd made up my mind to do DE with my current RE, assuming I didn't conceive on my last IUI (or the one after that, you know, because it's hard to stop).

And, now, in October 2011, I find myself pregnant (via DE-DS) with a little boy who, so far, has seemed to overcome every horrid obstacle thrown his way.  An evil, life-sucking vanishing twin.  First trimester oligohydramnios and a gestational sac too small to hold him.  Threatened (or real?) IUGR and placental insufficiency.  By the end of October, he might actually be a person I can hold in my arms.

Throughout, this blog has introduced me to many fabulous people who've had stories similar to mine, or harder than mine, and really put mine in perspective.  I doubt I could have made the move to DE had I not had online friends like Sprogblogger, who made it seem not only doable but the best possible way of handling a very sucky situation.  I only hope that my story has helped someone else--perhaps even a quiet someone who never comments--as well.

So if you haven't introduced yourself, please do.  And if there are things you'd like me to chat about, dear readers, let me know.  Very soon I hope to be an academic single mama to two beautiful hard fought children.  And you know, despite all the tears and sleepless nights, I don't think I'd have it any other way.

In Which Gwinne Reveals Herself to Be a Petty Bitch

(perhaps otherwise titled:  "This Is My Infertility Talking")

So...I learned over the weekend from a mutual friend that someone I know, a good friend actually, is pregnant.  Given my current state, that's not enough to throw me into a near suicidal tizzy anymore.  But, let me give you the details, fellow current and former infertiles.  This friend is another single mom of two (more by chance than choice); her youngest child is a teenager, who actually babysits LG on occasion.  She's 44, just started dating someone this summer and, bam, unplanned pregnancy (which is how she ended up with kid #2 as well).  Talk about fertile.

I'm conflicted, to say the least.

On the one hand, there's still that part of me that thinks how the fuck does a 44-year-old get pregnant without even trying when I needed to resort to donor eggs?  Yes, that's the jealous, petty response.

Then there's the part of me that thinks I've known too many of my friends with PhDs throw their careers away for men/babies (that's not the pregnancy per se but her response to the pregnancy).  And that pisses me off (this friend is actually a former grad student so I'll need to write her a letter of rec in another couple months).  She's on the cusp of having everything she wanted, including a tenure track job in a highly competitive field, and now, well, probably not.  She's brilliant when it comes to her work; she's an idiot when it comes to her life.  But who am I to judge?

Then I think I'm angry that she's not planning on telling me for a good long while, but I needed to be subjected to this info via the gossip mill, because the friend who told me is also having a very hard time processing this news.

And then I'm very scared and very sad, because I know what the stats are for Down Syndrome and miscarriage at her age and, well, it's not good, as you all know.  And of all the people she could talk to about this...I'm the only one who's had the experience of pg loss, dealing with a high risk pregnancy where we live, etc.  She's my friend, and I want to be there for her at a time I know she's completely overwhelmed and stressed out.

And one more thing (that occurred to me a day later):  when I say I'm a single mother by choice, I mean it.  I mean, DE was certainly not my first choice, but dammit, both my children will know that they were wanted with every fiber of my being and a grand total of (oh my god I really don't want to do the math) maybe $70K worth of fertility treatment between them.  And I've watched this friend raise two children and believe me, she's a good mom, but her daughter has to know she was the result of an unplanned/unwanted pregnancy.  And this new baby, assuming it becomes a new baby, will know the same thing.  What does that do to a family?  Sigh.  Believe me, I've been telling The Peanut, aka The Boy, who I think will eventually be LB on this blog, all day long you are loved.  (And I'll I get in return is a quick jab to the ribs, but I think we'll work that out in counseling when he's 10 and pissed.)  Sigh.

Infertility/RPL is a fucking bitch, isn't it? 

Post Infertility (21w4d)

For those of you who travel in the ALI blogosphere, I suspect this post is nothing new.  But as I find myself--happily, comfortably--21 weeks pregnant, I wonder when, or if, the scars of long-term infertity treatment and loss ever really go away.  As Cute Andrologist put it when I stopped by the other day, you had SUCH a hard time.  According to my planner, I spent 60 days (in 2010 alone) at Dr. G's office; and let's not even try to add up the number of phone calls.  I've been around long enough to know there are many in this community who've been at it longer than me, or had more losses, but, damn, have I put in my time.  It was all over Dr. Gorgeous's face the other day:  I think it was the first time she'd ever seen me something close to zen.

And I am, really.  I walk around my (overheated) house, with LG asleep in her bedroom and 2 cats in her new windowsills and am astonished at how far I've come in 10 years, since I graduated and started my first job.  Back then, all I really wanted was a baby.  And if all goes well, by the end of this year, my family will be complete, and I'll be an associate professor at an R1 institution (that's a major research university, for those of you who don't know the lingo).  I have a good life, and it's not something I take for granted.

It is so precious, I'm terrified of losing it.  I've been so weepy this week.  And dreaming infertility/loss dreams.  And panicking when The Boy isn't smacking the side of my uterus with his little feet. 

Pregnancy after miscarriage was hard.  Pregnancy after multiple miscarriages and a trainwreck of a first trimester?  That, my friends, really requires valium or large quantities of vodka, both of which are contraindicated in pregnancy.

My therapist--whom I saw for the last time last week--thinks I'll be okay at the end of this.  And I'm sure she's right.  But I also wonder if the scars ever really go away.

Twelve Week Reunion

It's been 12 weeks since I left Dr. Gorgeous's office in tears.  I stopped by today ostensibly to bring some leftover drugs (really time to clear out the IVF drug box in the basement), but mostly to have an excuse to say hello.  She's got an office that she uses in town for consults (no monitoring, unfortunately, or it would have saved me hours in the car) so it's pretty low traffic compared to her main office.  I don't think I could have handled it otherwise.

Well, I managed to have a conversation with her without crying; I started immediately after leaving.  I'm not entirely sure what I'm emotional about.  Except there are parts of this whole process that just left me so raw that it's just under the surface.  Still, I'm glad I went.  Got a couple hugs and a belly rub (yes, she asked), and she had a bunch of questions about how things were going and she she couldn't stop talking about how cute I looked and asked me to stay in touch.  And she had a big smile on her face and tears in her eyes, too.  I suspect I am one of those patients who are simultaneously her biggest failures and greatest successes, depending on one's point of view.  Or maybe that's just how I  feel.

Encounters with Fertiles

So yesterday LG and I were at a party, and I happened to be sitting at a table with a woman who has a two-year-old, and we were talking about toddler speech.  Out of the blue, she asked me if I planned to have "another one."  Totally caught off guard, I eventually managed to say well, I'm actually pregnant (which clearly caught her off guard, and she ended up commenting on how small I am [uhh, not really], blah blah).  At that point she volunteered that she was trying very hard for number two.  I nodded, sympathetically, let her go on talking.  At which point it became clear that her version of very hard has nothing to do with my reality.  Like, she's been off the pill a couple months, which seems like an incredibly long time when kid #1 was conceived the very first try.  At some point I said matter-of-factly well, this one took me two and a half years and LG was 10 months (I left out the miscarriages and the IVFs and the drama).  Gee, a couple months of unprotected sex with your spouse is very hard?

What was interesting about this encounter is I didn't end up hugely upset about it.  The woman just struck me as an ignorant but well-intentioned fertile.  And I had something she wanted.  Weird, huh?  I'm certainly not "over" the close to three years trying and the $50K+ worth of fertility treatment and the RPL and the need to use donor eggs.  I still have moments (many, if you want to know) that I wish I knew what the problem really was, when I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't done this DE cycle but resorted to IVF at another clinic this summer.  I'm still not convinced I'll have an actual baby in my house in November, even though it's playing soccer in my uterus as I type.  And yet...I made it through the conversation without batting an eyelash, much less crying.  And that seems like a monumental step toward peace.

(We'll see how at peace I feel when I learn that my little peanut is sporting a little penis on Friday...)

Repression, anyone?

So yesterday I finished the article that was the thing standing in the way of my major summer project (writing that damn book) and developed a list of secondary projects I'd like to do (shorter things that can get in the mail relatively quickly).  I work in (at least) two fields, so that's a way to keep a hand in both.

It hit me on the way back from yoga today that I need to write about DE.  And I just sat down and knocked out 827 words and could easily keep going.  What I hadn't counted on was crying through the whole thing.  I thought I was done with that part of things.  Guess not.  One of the moments I wrote about was the time Dr. G asked me--this was the day of my trial transfer--if I thought I'd be able to love this baby.  (Even at the time I was struck by how real it was to her--this baby--when I was damn certain the cycle would fail.)  And that was the point in the conversation when I broke down and said of course, it's just you know my body's radical failure at all things reproductive and I'm fucking petrified and please make sure we are doing everything to make sure that my body doesn't fuck this up (not that I've actually ever said fuck in front of her, but you get the gist).

And here I am, about four months later, and I feel exactly the same.  I have absolutely no regrets about doing DE.  And, yes, dammit, I love this baby and LG will love this baby and really, even now, I know it's mine.  But I am clearly still far from being okay with needing to do DE and wondering if I actually had a male sex partner, would I have just gotten knocked up like billions of other women?  Not that any of this is surprising.  It's what I told my therapist:  I will do it and I will deal with the emotional aftermath later.  And here we are.

And then there's the aftermath (12w3d)

I went to therapy yesterday and spent most of 45 minutes sobbing.  Apparently the declaration of "normal" doesn't make 2.5 years of hell just disappear (duh).  It's really hard to be told you have a 80-90% likelihood of miscarriage and then have that taken away a few weeks later.  Not that I wanted to miscarry.  It's just the psychological trauma of all this doesn't just go away because you're declared "normal."  Talk about psychological whiplash.

I'd like to enjoy this pregnancy.  I mean I've wanted it for so fucking long.  But just signing up for different insurance (one that Dr. Gorgeous's office doesn't accept) was such an incredible leap of faith it literally made me sick to my stomach.

When I got pregnant with LG (which was after 10 IUIs, a miscarriage, and an APA diagnosis), I was ecstatic.  And even though there was this undercurrent of anxiety the whole time, it wasn't my primary emotional response to the pregnancy.  I loved it (despite the vomiting and the heartburn and the almost literal inability to walk).  I had that feeling for about 12 hrs after the positive HPT this time (until I started bleeding) and for another few hours after beta 3 doubled appropriately.  Don't get me wrong:  I'm attached to this baby.  I mean, I feel it sloshing around in my uterus, and I talk to it, and love it, however much you can love a 2.5 inch being that looks more alien than human.

But I don't trust that I'll actually have a baby in November.  Hell, I don't even trust that I'll still be pregnant the next time I see the OB, despite being declared "normal."

After 22 cycles, including 3 attempts at IVF and, eventually, DE, I am finally a success story.  But I certainly don't feel like one.  I feel like I've just been through a war.  And even if I won it, I've got battle scars that aren't going away any time soon.  Or maybe ever.

Increased Risk

History of recurrent pregnancy loss:  increased risk of miscarriage
Antiphospholipid antibody syndrome:  increased risk of miscarriage
Beta hcg levels failing to double:  increased risk of miscarriage
Heart rate low for gestational age:  increased risk of miscarriage
Small gestational sac:  increased risk of miscarriage

At what point does increased risk translate into definite loss?

Next Steps?

The news of this week still has me reeling. I'm alternating between completely fine, numb and stunned, and grief-stricken. I know there is the smallest possibility that the number will continue to rise on Monday; clearly Dr. G hasn't ruled out a viable pregnancy, or she'd have me stop progesterone/estrogen/lovenox. But with two betas in a row that didn't double...I really don't believe that's a likely scenario.

The irony is the actual number is not even technically low. Until Wednesday, it was actually on the high side. If Wednesday had been my first beta, as it was supposed to be, I wouldn't yet be so certain of the outcome.

I don't really know what to do next. I feel like I probably need to take a few months off, to clear myself of all these hormones. But that just means prolonging this process. It's already been 2.5 years. I don't know if my next step would be a FET with the remaining 2 embryos or a fresh IVF cycle of my own. Or a combination. Or a consult with a place like CCRM.

The things I think I want to ask Dr. G about are the possiblity of me being hyperthyroid (my thyroid was tested earlier this year, but clearly something's going on with the insomnia and weight loss) and whether taking steroids for a longer period of time is indicated. I'm not sure what else. My last hysteroscopy, in November, was clean.

I know it's possible to have a miscarriage for genetic reasons from a DE cycle (I mean, that's still the most common reason for miscarriage, even for women in their twenties), but given my history, it seems more difficult now to say that the problem is "egg/embryo quality." These were perfect 4AA embryos, from a proven donor (X 3), at a clinic with a 70% or higher LBR. And it seems significant to me that this pregnancy failed on exactly the same timeline as my last proven pregnancy (May 2009), with betas rising essentially until 4w5d and then declining. The starting place was much higher this time around, but the pattern is rather similar. Does that point to a particular problem?

I swear I can feel this embryo, either burrowing or detaching, I can't say. I've felt it a lot over the past week, toward my left side, though the intensity of those sensations is dwindling (along with the breast tenderness and everything else). As I remember it now, I felt an incredibly sharp series of twinges on my left a day past transfer (the equivalent of 6dpo). I'm assuming we won't be able to see anything on ultrasound (unless something changes radically for the better, beta won't be high enough) but it would be interesting to see.

I really appreciate all your kind words and support over this past week. If you have any suggestions about what to do next, I'd like to hear them.

Helpless

I've been mostly okay this afternoon because I've assumed this pregnancy was over since Wednesday.

But really, Dr. G is right, it's not over.

There is an embryo in my body. Dying. And I can't do a fucking thing about it.

Beta Hell

Just got off the phone with Nurse of the Everchanging Nickname, who did not actually give me my beta level but said the rise was "not sufficient." Having called the lab myself about 5 minutes ago, I know what we're looking at: 437. Which means my beta has not quite doubled in 4 days. Which means Game Over. I'm not a fool. But since it hasn't actually dropped we're all pretending I'm pregnant.

Still supposed to take estrace/progesterone. Still can't self-medicate with valium or take Ambien.

And Dr. G wants to see me for u/s on Tuesday regardless of what Monday's blood level shows.

I really don't understand how my beta could start off so strong and just not go anywhere.

I can't believe I got pregnant. I can't believe I'm probably losing another baby.

Game Over

I haven't gotten the official call from Dr. G, but I just called the local lab to find out my results.

367

Fuck.


Update at 8:17: My doctor the optimist thinks this might still turn out okay. She's standing by her two-to-one theory. I don't buy it. But I'm not self-medicating with valium tonight either. And really, I could not have had a shittier day, for other reasons beyond what I'm taking to be an impending loss.