Notes on recovery November 9, 2009

I’ve even left the house a few times.

I know, big hairy deal.

Except, actually, it is a bit of a big deal. The one thing I can’t shake is this endless sense of exhaustion. I stopped spotting altogether a week ago, so it’s not continuous bleeding. I finished the whole course of antibiotics on Thursday, so my bowel function (sorry, but antibiotics play hob with said function) is returning to normal, and I am eating sensible healthy meals and taking my vitamins and iron supplements. I’m even sleeping quite well. What more can I do? I have been signed off work until next week, so this is in no way a vital or pressing question. I am just. So. Fucking. Tired. So I am very proud that I went out, walked about, and came back. Especially so as I got to meet Womb for Improvement for hot chocolate (squeeeeeee!)

Last time I miscarried, I was very emotional. Devastated. Heart-broken. Raging and inconsolable. This time I feel, chiefly, tired and bitter. So far at any rate. We shall see what spectacular outbreaks I come up with as time goes by. Because, oh, yes, H and I got into a deeply, deeply pointless fight last night, based on the sort of infinitesimal misunderstanding we’d normally clear up in seventeen placid seconds. It then occurred to me that we went through this sort of stupid blow-up and resultant disproportionate fury from last time. It’s like misery-induced paranoia, as if there was no possible way anything could be meant in all innocence. The universe is, after all, a heap of shite, right?

I personally attribute the lack of immediate devastation to:

• a) Denial. It’ll smack me upside the head at some point. Heigh ho.
• b) I’ve already lost my miscarriage virginity. The first time, I knew intellectually that shit happens, but, in my innocence, thought getting pregnant was the hard part, and that I had, therefore, paid my ‘hard part’ dues. This time? Feh. I am comfortably tucked into the box marked ’shit happens’.
• c) By the time I knew I was pregnant, I had already been cramping and spotting. I knew it was doomed. I had no chance whatsoever of getting attached, or invested, or whatever. Actually, I suspect that this will be the part of this loss that will come back to haunt me most. Me, watching the second pink line coming up on the pee-stick, and thinking not: ‘hurrah, I’m pregnant!’ but ‘oh God. This isn’t a wonky period. This is a miscarriage. Oh, please, no. Not again.’

H also seems more resigned. He is also more communicative (yay for counselling!), and we both seem to find the fact that we’re being taken very seriously and sent off to specialists reassuring. Last time, we were adrift on a vast ocean of confusion and loss, and nobody in the least bit interested in hauling us in to shore. Contrary to popular (medical) belief, there is nothing in the least bit reassuring or comforting about the diagnosis ‘It’s just bad luck, it almost certainly won’t happen again.’ Statistics may say this is so. We, the couple sitting before you, are not statistics. Statistically, any given couple should get happily, innocently pregnant in one year of banging away. We have already flicked the V at statistics. We can’t possibly feel that statistics apply to us any more. The unreasoning, meaningless diagnosis ‘bad luck’ is also the unreasoning, meaningless diagnosis ‘there’s fuck all we can/will do for you. Now bugger off.’

*Momentary pause while I feel some sympathy for doctors saddled with having to give the diagnosis ‘bad luck’, and the powerlessness they get to ‘enjoy’ too.*

And now all is onwards and upwards. Take more blood. Do more tests. Test both of us. Find a cause. Treat it. We may turn out to be in a shitty-bad place, but at least we won’t be lost in the dark anymore.

At least, I hope so.

Things we can’t say in front of Mothers-in-Law November 8, 2009

We have been dealing with this miscarriage inappropriately.

While we were waiting for the scan to confirm whether I had an ectopic or not I stated calmly: ‘Last time round I made the mistake of only asking to get pregnant. This time, I remembered to ask for a genetically normal embryo, but stupidly forgot to mention in the uterus.’

Once we’d discovered it wasn’t ectopic: ‘Ah, see what I did there? I forgot to ask for viable. I need to make a list.’

While we were walking home from the hospital the first time round, after blood tests and a thorough wanding (during which the technician left the room to find the consultant and H ended up holding the ultrasound wand in place inside me until she came back (um, yeah, that was so very very not erotic) I told H he’d need to give the RM clinic blood and semen samples. He flailed his arms wildly and staggered across the pavement clutching his brow, wailing ‘It’s so intrusive! It’s so invasive! I don’t how I could possibly cope! It’s just too much to endure!’ and I leant against the wall and nearly peed myself laughing.

‘We didn’t have time to think of a cute nick-name for this one,’ I said. ‘Flash-in-the-pan,’ said H.

After it was all over, and H and I were having a sorrowful embrace, I tenderly said: ‘The thing about Pikaia was, we were given the time to fall in love with her, or, at least, with the idea of her. [Pause] Of course, this one was a pain in the arse from the moment of conception.’

As I lay on the hospital bed, H took my hand and said ‘Life really is a sexually transmitted, fatal disease, isn’t it?’

Shortly after that, the sweet doctor came in to tell us that my Beta levels had dropped below 5, and I wasn’t in the least bit pregnant any more. I distinctly heard H mutter, ‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time.’ I cracked up.

Whatever shall we do? November 6, 2009

To book an appointment with a specialist clinic, one has to tell one’s GP (or, possibly, one’s GP tells one instead) that one wishes to do so. The GP writes out a slip of paper, and one takes that to the receptionist, who takes it to the secretary, who allegedly will come right out and book you an appointment there and then, or (as has happened every time I’ve used the system) will not come out, and the receptionist will return and tell one to go home and wait for a phone-call, as the secretary is ‘a little busy right now.’

It took four days for the secretary to get back to my this time, one weekend short of my ‘this is the fucking limit‘ rule and subsequent seige of the GP’s offices until results, em, result. And, bless her heart, having established that I was me, said ‘I’m so sorry you need this clinic.’ Me too, sugar.

Anyway, I have an appointment to see the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic at Mothership Hospital on the 7th of December.

Now I was all, whoo! It’s only a month wait! Whoooo! H was more, wtf? A whole month? Bloody NHS. I insist on being pleased. The NHS is perfectly prepared to let people wait for ninety million weeks to have an actually painful and disruptive condition checked. Technically, I’m fine hanging about for a month unless (wahey) I get pregnant this cycle, which brings me to the next big freak-out:

Should I even be trying to get pregnant this cycle? Keeping in mind I always know exactly when I ovulate, so the whole ‘but then we won’t know the dates!’ is bull-pucky. At least, it is for me. And I didn’t have surgery, so I don’t have to worry my pretty head about healing. And I was less than five weeks pregnant, so I doubt my uterus was feeling much strain. I can’t think of a physical reason why I should carefully lay a naked blade down the length of the bed between us.

Emotional reasons? Well. Should I be risking another bleedathon right after this one? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to know what is wrong and why and what can be done about it before offering up more hostages to fortune? And will I snap like a dry twig if it happens again?

Also, I am 34 and beginning to feel the breeze from the onrushing juggernaut of Advanced Maternal Age. Also, I go completely nutzoid at Christmahanukwanzaa (what? Don’t all infertile people?).

Also also, despite the recent sudden realisation that I am quite good at getting pregnant as long as I actually ovulate, I still can’t help but feel that the chances of getting pregnant in any given cycle are somewhere between ‘ah hah hah hah hah hah’ and ’snowball in hell’.

I never said I was rational about any of this.

I win. Damn. November 5, 2009

Item – Since the momentous day I decided not to renew my Pill prescription, four years ago now (four! Four years! For fuck’s sake!), and start a determined assault on Castle Baby, I have had twelve ovulatory cycles. Twelve in four years. Pfft. However, of those twelve cycles, two (with an option on possibly three) ended in pregnancy – I use the word ended with all possible irony. Even I have to admit two (three) out of twelve is really not bad. It’s ’statistically normal’, or possibly even slightly better than ’statistically normal’. I win.

Item – I was so worried about the state of the One And Only Fallopian Tube. I have had two HSGs, and both times the radiologist mentioned it looked, well, borked, and both times Miss Consultant thought it looked OK, and I would wind myself into a frenzy about it. I think, now, with two intrauterine pregnancies (or, fuck-ups, as I prefer to call them when I’m in this mood), we can be sure the damn thing is not blocked. It may be leaking unspeakable fluids of toxic death into my uterus from the possible mild hydrosalpinx the radiologist kept seeing, but it’s not blocked or so damaged it stops eggs wafting along it in a timely fashion. So, I win.

Item – My mother came over for dinner last night. It was good. She seems to get it now. She did bring up the whole ’so excited you can get pregnant!’ thing, but she followed it up by saying ‘because, after last time, I was so worried you wouldn’t be able to again.’ And looked sad. And my heart melted. I won that one, in the end, but sheesh, be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. (And apparantly, when Mum told Diva about the miscarriage, Diva cried. Oh God).

Item – I thought of another possible diagnosis that would explain both the miscarriages and the fact I bleed like stink during periods and bled so very, very ludicrously much for a less-than-five-weeks-gone loss. Von Willebrand’s disease, or a similar clotting factor deficiency. About one in a hundred women have it. It is hereditable, from one or both parents, and the mild version is sometimes not even noticed at all in men (though my Dad has a tendency to turn a small kitchen accident into a flailing blood-spraying-up-the-walls melodrama. Maybe he’s not actually being melodramatic? For once?). In women, it causes really, really heavy periods and pain on ovulation (from internal bleeding). And possibly an increased risk of early miscarriage. Of course, the GP ordered the blood tests for a clotting disorder, not a bleeding one. I was thinking about this, nodding along with the GP’s thinking, and I announced firmly to H that it’s not like I bruise easily or get nosebleeds much, and he looked at me as if I had suddenly declared I was a turquoise stoat and pointed out I do bruise easily and I get a damn nose-bleed every time I get a damn cold (only, they tend to come on at night and end up in my throat rather than down my face. Umm. That was disgusting, wasn’t it?). So I thought, indeed, why a clotting disorder? I am positively lavish with my blood. I catch a hang-nail and it bleeds for fifteen fucking minutes. Should we perhaps be looking in the opposite direction? What do you people think? Is this a win for self-diagnosis and Dr Google, or a fail for vapouring?

Item – At this very moment I am only being tested for the clotting disorders mentioned before. I’ve had my thyroid tested (twice) in the past, and both times it came back normal. My mother, however, who does have real official thyroid problems, got a little hacked off about this and pointed out there were several different things that needed to be tested to determine thyroid function, and they only found her issue by testing all of them, as the standard test comes back normal for her and frankly, her thyroid is visible across the sodding room. So I think I need a proper thyroid screen, clotting tests, bleeding tests, karyotyping for the both of us, FSH and LH tests, testosterone and SHBG tests, progesterone, estrogen, anything I’ve missed out? I shall have to print out a list and take it with me to the clinic. And this is a win, you know, because thanks to the wonders of blogging, I have internet friends who can tell me I need these tests. I have advocates.

Item – I’ve lost a few more pounds this week. I am thinner than I was when we married. I am thinner than I have been for seven or eight years. I am within a few pounds of BMI 29, and the green light to go ahead with IVF (this being a whole ‘nother post, you understand). It’s a fucker of a way to lose weight, though. Bit of a pyrrhic victory.

Item – I am watching movies and eating chocolate in my pyjamas, on a Thursday afternoon. This is totally a win.

Status report November 3, 2009

First, a quick State-of-May report:

• Uterus – has shut up. Is merely spotting. This is good.
• Bladder – has also shut up, most of the time, but still thinks making me need to pee every seventeen minutes is funny.
• Stomach – being walloped by the antibiotics (the antibiotics are for the UTI). Seriously, I get to feel sick for an hour or so every morning. Yes. I miscarried last week and I get to feel sick every morning this week. Because, you know, the universe has a very strange sense of humour.
• Pallor – much improved, thank you. I just look tired and sulky now.
• Emotional state – numb. Or furious. Mostly numb. Realised last night that we actually got pregnant all by ourselves, and all my fears and vapourings about never getting pregnant again after Pikaia were completely unfounded, and laughed the sort of laugh that is shortly followed by a thunderstorm, mysterious groans and lurchings about in the cellar, and fifty-odd villagers with pitch-forks turning up at the front door.

And now for the State-of-Play report:

H and I went to the GP yesterday, to get the referral to the Recurrent Miscarriage clinic, and to get a sick note, so I can stay at home and sulk for a bit. I took H along in case I got flustered and incoherent. We saw Doc Tashless, because I asked to, because it’s boring explaining all the past history over and over again and he has seen me often enough to have a vague grip on it all. Upshot:

• When I mentioned perhaps taking the rest of the week off work, he promptly signed me off for two weeks. H mentioned that last time round I’d probably gone back to work a little too soon, and Doc Tashless promptly decided I’d need to see him again on the last day of my sick leave so he could be sure I didn’t need even more time off. Oy vey, but that’s being taken seriously.
• I asked him to be perfectly open and put ‘miscarriage’ on the sick leave form. You see, sick leave taken for reasons of pregnancy or maternity cannot be added to your sick-leave total and used against you in disciplinary procedures, and I am off sick every sodding month as it is, so I thought, and H thought, my ass, covered, please. Not that I think anyone at work will make a fuss, but HR has an automatic sick-leave tracking system and gets your line manager to have words with you if you take more than a certain amount of time off in a year, and my line manager has already had to do this once. She was lovely about it, but nerves? Racked.
• We discussed the recurrent nature of the situation, and I (hesitantly, feeling like a dork) mentioned the possible chemical in July, and he took that seriously too, which made me feel flustered and like a dork because, you know, no proof beyond a ‘funny feeling’ (incidentally, a funny feeling I had this time round, and Pikaia time round, eeeeeeek eeeek eeeeek eeeek, but I digress). I hunted down their website this morning and found out that the RM clinic takes referrals from couples who’ve had only two consecutive miscarriages, so I could’ve left the possible chemical buried in decent obscurity and not endorkified myself.
• Doc Tashless decided we may as well get the ball rolling, as the referral could take a couple of months, and sent me directly to the phlebotomy nurse to collect what little remains of my blood for examination of my Antiphospholipid Antibodies, Cardiolipin Antibodies, and I think the paperwork said something about Lupus as well. In the event the needle-jockey only took one vial, so either they don’t need much for each test or they’re all the same test or the needle-jockey can’t read Doc Tashless’s handwriting.
• It made me quite sad and cross that I recognise the above terms, and have heard of Hughes syndrome, without Doc Tashless having to explain a word of it. But, hey, if that is it, it is treatable.
• I’m always impressed when someone, anyone, remembers to ask how H is doing as well. Because, yes, I may be the one leaking tears and snot into this wad of blue paper ripped hurridly off the roll normally used for protecting the examination couch, but H also lost a baby. And had to deal with a sobbing, vomiting, haemorrhaging emergency wife. Which was no picnic. I’d've hated it and freaked the fuck out when it was all over, had the roles been reversed.

Conclusion – I now am, and for some time shall be, sitting about at home, ‘resting’, and being kindly distracted by friendly visits, emails, and phone-calls. H went back to work this morning, so hopefully was keeping busy there. We are waiting for a date from the RM clinic. We are waiting for the results of Doc Tashless’s blood tests.

I still feel mostly numb.

Does this sound lunatic to you? October 31, 2009

So, a few days before I knew I was pregnant (hah! Pregnant, indeed), I called my sister Trouble about my niece Minx’s upcoming 6th birthday. Was there a party? Was there a plan? And Trouble thought it would be nice for us all (i.e. Minx, her daddy Formerly-Known-As-Fucktard-With-An-Option-On-The-Nickname-Being-Reinstated-If-He-Doesn’t-Grow-A-Pair-Sharpish, Trouble, Diva, my brother-who-doesn’t-have-a-stupid-nickname-because-he’s-too-nice, my Mum, my step-father, Minx’s bestest friend, bestest friend’s parent, H and I) to all go to a sushi bar and then to see ‘Up‘.

(Yes, I did say Minx was turning six, but seriously, the little eccentric adores sushi with the same fervent passion her mother and aunts do).

I thought it was a lovely idea. H and I both wanted to see the film, family outings with raw fish emporia in them are good (we always behave better in public. Like most toddlers, really). And, secretly, I was hoping that the famous opening sequence, which is about infertility (infertility! Dealt with sensitively and In a kids’ cartoon! I know! I was so pleased!) would perhaps assist some of the more relentlessly clueless family members to, umm, get a clue. Or possibly not, but it’s harder for them to argue I am making a fuss if the almighty Pixar thinks I most certainly am not.

And then… And then. Yes. Arse.

I was all prepared to pull out, because a) I am tired and sore and still a little feverish, b) there is a good chance I will bawl hysterically during the movie, c) the six-year-old’s birthday treat is, um, not a good place for bawling aunties and d), well. Family. Duh.

Anyway, I did some pre-emptive ground-laying by calling my mother and just right-out telling her what had happened (novel tactics!). To her credit, or, possibly, to my credit, I did not feel the violent urge to reach down the phone and rip her a new one. We’ve both learned. She has learned not to be such a colossally insensitive runaway juggernaut of Stupid Things To Say. I have learned that I won’t get much support and understanding from her. Love, concern, generosity, gifts, hugs, and mothering, yes. But she had three easy, easily-come-by pregnancies, three full-term easy labours. She does not get it. And, I suppose, never will. (My MIL, on the other hand, burst into tears when H told her the news. But then, she lost a baby between H and his younger brother, so. Poor MIL).

Mum’s one stupid remark of the conversation, just to prove she hadn’t completely lost the knack: ‘I know it’s hard for you, but it’s actually quite exciting that you can get pregnant!’

Err. No. Not if they keep dying.

But at least she acknowledged it was hard for me.

Anyway, there I was, all braced to back out, when Trouble called to finalise plans. And I realised Mum had not shared the news with her at all (WTF? My family normally elevate gossip to a vocation). So I did. And, to my shock, my absolute shock, Trouble said all the right things. She said she was sorry. She said that it sucked. She said that she understood if I couldn’t face family and movie. She asked anxiously if I was OK now, and recovering. She asked how H was doing. She sympathised about all the rushing in and out of hospital. She laughed at my jokes, especially the one about having mastered getting pregnant, so, now, how did staying pregnant go? And we talked about my mother’s relentless jollity in the face of disaster, with daughterly wry amusement.

So, you know, I thought I might go after all. Especially when Trouble said we could hold hands and bawl at the first part of the movie together.

These are the good parts October 30, 2009

Item – HFF sent me these:

The bouquet was too big to put in any of our vases, so I made H divide and conquer it, and now the flat looks like a stage-star’s dressing-room, with flowers all over the place. Can you see the white roses? I love roses. And lisianthus. *pleased sigh* (God knows what the florist thought on being asked to write ‘Love, the Hairy Farmer Family’ on the little card. I had a mental image of him/her desperately maintaining a very professional poker-face. For some reason it made me giggle for hours).

Item – I have had so many kind, supportive text-messages, from HFF (hi, HFF!), and from my friends Ben (hi Ben!), who comments here, and her lovely husband, who doesn’t, but does read (hah! Hi to you too!). There are people out there who really really care about me. Nice, funny, sweet, intelligent people. I can’t tell you how much it helps to feel people (especially people I know and am fond of) care. I also have a friend who doesn’t know about this blog, but who I had to strand on his own on a theatre door-step with no bed for the night because I was, uh, miscarrying again (he was around the first time I miscarried too, and I messed up his plans that time as well). He has been emailing me an endearing mix of kind, caring emails and some excellent gallows-humour. I am so proud of my friends.

Item – The comments! Dear God, the wonderful, wonderful comments, from my usual Bloggy pals, and from new people wandering over from LFCA (I got three mentions in a row!), and from long-time lurkers decloaking in my time of need. I am so touched. You have made me feel so cared for. OK, now I need a tissue.

Item – My Friend Who Knows Who She Is came round with a bucket of ice-cream and a precious packet of real Russian cocoa from her super-special stash. And we had one of those pleasant, slightly twisted conversations which meandered through miscarriage and various other medical mishaps and ended up cheerfully general, and we ate the icecream and then we had tea and tea-cake. I felt quite jolly after that. It takes a magic sort of person to make a woman in my state feel jolly. I am impressed. And grateful.

Item – Codeine. Codeine is good. Only, it makes me burble like a loon and walk into furniture. Hot damn, but I feel so much better today. It can’t all be the codeine, can it? Look, if I sound stoned, it’s because I am. I’ll probably read this tomorrow and see all the typos and infelicities of orthography and cry.

Item – My tutor has, cheerfully and for the mere asking (though I did mention ‘hospital’ and ‘emergency’), given me extra time to finish my first assignment for the creative writing course. Bless her. I was beginning to feel a little melodramatic about that. Because, seriously, every SINGLE time I have been studying in my ENTIRE LIFE, some huge and ridiculous drama has blown up in my face. And now, again? I was only doing the creative writing for fun, FFS.

Item – H. H is the best part of my life so far.

In which I lose all self-respect October 29, 2009

Hello, I’m back, I’m writing this in the comfort of my very own armchair, drinking flat ginger ale out of my very own glass, wearing (thank God) my very own pyjamas. Aaaaaand…. breathe.

Well, that sucked. As H said, yesterday I was sitting about at home, minding my own very gloomy miserable business, when I noticed the bleeding getting more-so. Fair enough, I am having a miscarriage. The pain is getting more-so too. Only to be expected. Only, hang on, surely, this is just a little much? This pain, this bleeding, a bit fucking much? And at the point where I collapsed on the bed sobbing and howling in a manner that makes me feel quite pink with embarrassment to recall, H decided, that is enough. And started calling in medical assistance. I have no idea who said what to whom about what and when, as by this point I was kneeling on the bathroom floor with my head in the toilet. Oh, joy. And then there was an almost-pleasant-in-comparison interval while I lay on my face, thinking ‘holy hell, when did I last mop in here? This floor is disgusting‘ while H ran about finding clothes to stuff me into and books and keys and phones and a bag and whathaveyou while waiting for the ambulance.

The gas and air in said ambulance was very nice, by the way, once they’d solved the air-lock in the feed which had the mouthpiece making a hideously funny farting noise every time I sucked on it. The pain was still going on, but it was happening to some other poor unfortunate woman just over there, so that was all right (I remember pethidine having much the same effect on me). I was aware that my undercarriage was very very wet, downright soggy, even, and possibly this was cause for concern, but hey! gas and air says relax!

When the ambulance driver was helping me roll from their trolley-bed onto the hospital trolley bed she said ‘oh! You’re actively bleeding, aren’t you!’ and I was alas too stoned to say ‘nooooo, I’m definitely passively bleeding… I’m just lying here getting you to do all the heavy lifting…’ Then the gas and air wore off (the cruel brutes were taking the cyclinder back to the ambulance with them, as if anyone else needed it more than me, HAH) and I realised that in the 30 to 40 minutes we’d been in the ambulance (they were taking us back to the hospital that released me the day before, hence long drive), I had bled through a super-duper heavy flow pad, the track-suit bottoms H had shuffled me into, the thick towelling dressing-gown ditto, the ambulance blanket, the sheet, and onto the trolley.

Yes, I know. Yuk. Exactly.

Anyway, this sort of thing gets the attention of the A&E doctors fairly sharpish, and I was being peeled out of my sodden clothes and put into a hospital gown in short order. My blood pressure had dropped, not catastrophically (or I suppose they’d've been ripping me open looking for internal bleeding), but definitely, so they got a drip in – the poor nurse had to dig for a vein, what with mine all being half-empty and pathetic, and I even noticed that it bloody hurt despite Cute Ute ramping up the hysterics. And then the on-call gynae doctor turned up, and she was very nice, and announced she was going to examine me internally, at which point H firmly announced he was going outside to find a glass of water. I think he’d had about as much gore and sobbing as he could take, poor lamb.

Cue unpleasant episode with speculum, swabs, tweezers, and so on.

Gynae doctor finally explained that she thought a piece of pregnancy tissue had got stuck in the cervix, and all the massive cramps, bleeding, vomiting and horrible horrible blood-clots where the Cute Ute’s attempts to get it out (cervixes are fussy like that). It had gone now, anyway. And finally, here was some codeine to make it all better, and a bed in a private room to feel all better on. And poor H, who had reappeared when the exam was over and had been holding my hand and carrying bags of my blood-stained clothes about, was allowed to go home.

Today started quite well. The sweet doctor who had diagnosed the not-ectopic-after-all reappeared, and there was talk of scans and second opinions. I felt… OK. Sore, but OK. I read my book. I dutifully used bed-pans so the nurses could check the amount of fluid coming out of me was matching the amount going in, and (urgh urgh urgh) keep an eye on the blood-clots to make sure I was passing pregnancy tissue, as they kept calling it. I was. Urgh.

By lunch time everything was going tits-up again. The sweet doctor and the nurses had got all at cross-purposes, and no-one knew who was doing what with me when, or, at least, certainly not bothering to explain it to me. H called the ward at midday to ask after me, but they didn’t bother to tell me that, and I was wondering where the hell he was. They told him I had had a scan (I so had not) and a second opinion was needed (actually, sweet doctor wanted a second opinion to decide if there was any need to do a scan). H called back at 2, and no one told him that I was asking for him, ohh, no, and then no one told me that H said he’d be along at some point later that afternoon, so I was getting quite stressed on the ‘where the buggery fuck is my bloody husband?’ scale. This was all compounded by the fact the pain was back, in spades, with added burningness and tenderness, and by the time I drew the nurses’ attention to this and she finally got around to finding some more codeine, I was having a ‘pain peak’ in the cute phrase of the sweet doctor and neither codeine nor diclofenac could control it.

In short, gentle readers, I panicked, and cried. Again. Which sucked.

Luckily, sweet doctor had been collecting together all my blood and urine test results and had found her second opinion and came back to find me tear-stained and dishevelled (thank GOD for the private room, eh?) and in need of reassurance. So she gave it. The blood test (the Beta, you call it in the States) was under 5, and the pee-stick was negative, and there was no danger of a lingering ectopic they’d missed. The cramps were certainly caused by the passing of the ‘pregnancy tissue’ and would get better over the next few days, as should the bleeding.

As for the rather extreme nature of the pain I was in? Umm, well, it would seem I had managed to pick up a urinary tract infection on top of everything else. The burning pain? Err, that was that. Made worse by pressing on a wildly cramping uterus and all the general prostaglandin excess in the area.

The indignity of it. A feckin’ UTI. I cried like a terrified six-year-old over a UTI. I will now burst into flames of shame. *foom*

And, naturally, having discovered that the reason I was feverish, with a racing pulse, cramping and aching horribly, and feeling like I’d been run over by a small-to-medium sized tractor, was a mere UTI (oh, and some mere serious blood-loss), and not internal bleeding or a ruptured ovary or John Hurt’s Alien heading for fresh air and daylight, I cheered the fuck up and felt much much better. And then H turned up, and I felt better still. So much so that they agreed I could go home, with a big pile of antibiotics and pain-killers, and lots of warnings about coming straight back if I got worse again (or panicked myself into hysterics again. Hah hah).

Embarrassing, really, to discover just how much you can aggravate your own physical pain by being terrified and miserable. Also, my famous posh British stiff upper lip? I’ve lost it. I shall have to make do with a fake mustache.

Anyway, Gentle Readers, I love you all. Thank you a thousand times for the support and comments.

Limbo, take two (update from H) October 29, 2009

Another quick update for those who want to keep track of progress.

Just spoken to the ward. May has had a scan this afternoon, but the Gynae is not happy and is seeking a more senior second opinion and may want another scan/futher treatment. They’re taking it all one step at a time, which is fair enough, but very frustrating too.

I’m going down to visit May now and take clean clothes, apples and (most importantly) chocolate. I will pass on all your good wishes and kind thoughts. Blessings from the deity of your choice/good karma for you all.

H

And then it got worse (update from H) October 29, 2009

It’s 3am I’m just back from hospital where May is being kept overnight for observation. Throughout the day pain and bleeding worsened. By 9pm pain killers were obviously totally ineffective, so I called the out-of-hours GP service (completely useless), by the time they called back May was throwing up, so I called an ambulance.

Ambulance driver took the extra long route (blindly following the very badly designed Sat Nav that either didn’t really give proper turning warnings alternating with requesting turns too soon – probably not helped by the sudden appearance of a rather heavy, gothic type fog over our area of the city). Just as well gas and air was on tap and helped a bit.

We finally got there at 11:40pm to find blood soaked through everything. They took away gas & air, but nurse as May asked for something for the pain brought a paracetamol(!) – talk about trying to swat a pterodactyl with a feather. After going through full medical history for a fifth time in two days (I think I shall take printed handouts next time). May was finally given some proper pain relief and admitted to the ward at 1:30am

Fingers crossed no surgery needed this time, but Gynae said if she was still bleeding tomorrow she’d be prepped for it.

Just a personal thank you for all your kind words and thoughts.

H