Bed Rest

at the ripe old gestation of 8 weeks, prescribed on the basis that the fat lady has not yet definitively sung. The area of endometrium that has, for reasons known only to itself, decided to fall off and haemorrhage badly (heparin and aspirin are not helping the oh-dear-God-so-much-blood situation) is situated below Turbo and not above. Turbo is still there, still struggling bravely to stay alive – albeit mysteriously shrunk 1.5mm overnight – and probably eyeing the immediately-adjacent-to-gestational-sac source of the bloody torrent with well-founded apprehension.

It would be unlike me to get things over with in a mere 24 hours; that is not usually how I fail at pregnancy. Not for me, the swift clean ending. I fear I must trespass on your spectacularly kind limb-holding a trifle longer. Little Turbo’s demise, if demise there be (and oh, how I am miserably expecting to let you down, Turbo. I am powerless to rescue you from this lethally faulty housing I have hopefully, naively, installed you in. How did I ever think I might avoid disaster this time?) will likely be a protracted affair.

I have, of course, been told to go straight back if the pain or bleeding gets worse, but my biggest immediate fear is miscarrying without warning at home, and having to take pregnancy sac – assuming I manage to save it from a watery and ignominious toilet grave – back to hospital for tests. Which has happened before.

Poor Turbo. Poor John. Poor Me.

And It Gets Worse

The spotting stopped fairly quickly. Unfortunately, it was succeeded this morning by a sudden, heavy, haemorrhaging bleed with clots that instantly soaked an entire pad.

This is what you get for starting to hope.

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