Slight Exhale

Several hours in Gynae A&E later… well, the good news first, peeps: clear heartbeat. I managed not to cry when I saw it, although I’m not sure why I was trying, really. No sign of uterine misery, but my left ovary has what looks like a million chunky follicles on it and looked most sorry for itself. This is the ovary that is usually lurking, dead as a sulky doornail; last month’s gonadrotrophins have evidently galvanised the poor old girl into A) shock and B) frantic remedial output. Said over-excited ovary, they feel, is probably being twisted about on its stalk, and is the likely culprit, taken in conjunction with a fairly blocked bowel, for the pain.

The subsequent management advice I was given reminded me of the ancient farming adage when uncertain of an ailing animal’s diagnosis: keep the bowels open and trust in God.

The not-quite-so-good news is that no matter how many times or ways the nurse measured, the crown-rump consistently measured 4 days behind, but they weren’t mightily mithered by that, so I shall attempt not to Google.

I don’t know what to think about the peesticks. I am emotionally, if not quite rationally, attached to my peestick science. I cling to the information they give, like sticks of balsa wood in the great dark tide of the Unknown. However. Given that my recent – third – peestick of the day is a little less less wishy-washy than this morning’s efforts (although still unable to hold a reagent candle to those of a week ago) I will reluctantly concede the possibility that they may, in fact, have abused my trust again. I have stoutly defended their 25-for-£2.99ness from scorn and ridicule, and yet they are still prepared, it seems, to fuck with me.

I will badger The Professor for a serial beta on Monday, assuming all is still looking ok in there. If it has gone Pete Tong by Monday, then my beta probably is dropping, and at least I shall know I wasn’t deluding myself beyond reason, although it will be scant consolation.

Sorry for worrying you, internets. I should write posts after hospital dashes, not before, when I can sow my seeds of panic in a much more measured manner.

I can now improve this pregnancy’s ranking a little. It has passed the 2 early losses with no fetal pole. It has passed the 7-weeker of appropriate size but no heartbeat and continual bleeding. It has yet to beat my 8.5-week-with-heartbeat-and-appropriate-growth first-ever pregnancy, and Harry’s 33-week-ventilated-straight-to-NICU exit. Any improvement on that would be… appreciated.

Of course, this now means that I know there is something in there to be afraid for.

I hate this. If I could safely enter an induced coma until the fat lady is singing, I would be proffering an eager arm for the needle, were it not for the time I would lose with Harry. I would cheerfully lose the X many months of my own life in order to escape the grinding anxiety and continual panic (did I mention Harry kept trying to die/arrive before viability?) – bring on the oblivion.

John has offered to wield a sand-filled sock on me as a temporary measure in emergencies. I may take him up on it.

It’s Not Going Well

I’ve been awake since the small hours with sharp, rhythmic pain very low down on the pregnant side. The Schrödinger side. The whatever side. Painful enough to make sleep a practical impossibility. It eased off at dawn and has now subsided to a most unpleasant twinge every few minutes.

I’m not bleeding, so I am theorising that my cervix is still shut, despite feeling that I have suffered sufficiently for several cm of dilation by now. I’ve been in some degree of pain, more or less continually, for several days.

Added to which fact, there is the clear evidence of three days’ worth of lightening-in-shade peesticks, which had previously been quietly getting gradually darker. This morning’s is very significantly paler, and so is the second one, which I used in the vain hope it might tell me a different story.

I had booked an emergency scan for tomorrow, in any case – this amount of pain is never good – (and I am theoretically away on a hen weekend from tomorrow that I was apprehensive of ruining) but I have just rung up the early pregnancy unit to explain I need to go in today. The sister offered me a 12.40, but matters are complicated slightly by the fact that today is my father’s 65th birthday, and we have a table booked at 1pm, 25 miles away from the hospital. We agreed, before I dissolved utterly into tears, that I should wait, come in at 3pm, and she’d squeeze me in asap.

Wretched.

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