So. We’re back from the hospital, at last, after spending six hours or so in a holding pattern in various waiting rooms and consultation rooms. And now we know, or hope we know, what’s going on.
The Good – it’s not ectopic. There was a ‘cystic mass’ at the distal end of the fallopian tube, which panicked the ultrasound technician into fetching the Head Consultant, but it turned out to almost certainly be a rather impressive corpus luteum or maybe a luteal cyst. It will go away by itself. To be completely sure of this, we had to wait for the blood test results, which took hours and hours and hours, during which H and I were bored, terrified, miserable and furious all at once and used a great deal of very black humour.
The Bad – it is a miscarriage. There was nothing in the uterus except a vague blobby smear which could have been the remains of a pregnancy, or possibly just a vague blobby smear. The blood test confirmed I had been pregnant recently, but my HCG was so low it must have failed days ago. Less than 20. More than 5. There was something briefly there. Shit shit shit shit shit SHIT SHIT.
The Ugly – the cramps. Ramping up all day from ouchy to miserable to curling-up-in-a-ball. One of the doctors got me some co-codamol eventually, and it worked, and I feel so much better. If stoned. I don’t suppose the next few days will be much fun either. Heigh ho.
The Uglier – The sweet, sweet doctor who got me the good drugs also wants me to be referred to their gynaecology clinic again. For repeat miscarriages. She thought that, despite the fact that I’ve only had two official ones (though there’s always the one possible chemical back in August) my age and other issues meant it would be worth getting the ‘situation looked into’.
I had thought I was an anovulatory PCOS girl who couldn’t get pregnant. Now, all of a sudden, I’m a multiple miscarrier instead, and getting pregnant is only the start of my worries.
Did I say shit? Good. I shall say it again.