H and I spent four hours in A&E at the Mothership hospital today. Three of those ornamented with a drip needle, dangling ports and tubes like a Borg implant, ‘just in case’. The nurse took one look at the puffy bruised mess on the back of my right hand from Wednesday’s drip and… tutted. And went for the crook of the left elbow instead. I peed in a pot (and a nasty bloody mess I made of it too). The triage nurse took several vials of blood and sent them off to the path lab. The results should have taken about an hour to come through. My over-elaborate drip and I sat in the A&E waiting room for said hour or so, and then, as soon as H had gone off to re-park the car (natch), I was called through to a cubicle. Hah. It was the same cubicle they put me in in October. Hah.
A very nice doctor came to talk to me, and explained that whatever they did next really depended on the beta level, but in all probability they’d send me home for the night and get me to attend the Early Pregnancy Unit the next day. He’d see if he could find my blood test results and book me an EPU appointment. He also thought it was highly unlikely to be left over from the October miscarriage, as my beta had reached <5 that time and I had had a seemingly normal cycle since, without any intervening random bleeding.
H found me again and we sat about, listening to the high comedy/drama in the next cubicle, characters being one exceedingly deaf nonagerian and a very quietly-spoken doctor ('Can you do a wee for me?' 'What?' 'Can you pass water for me? Urine?' 'What?' 'Can you pass water for me?' 'Can I what?' 'CAN YOU DO A WEE?' 'Of course I can, it's not me waterworks, I've got a cough!' 'What I meant was…'). Unfortunately we also got to hear the poor old thing screaming when the doctor tried to take some blood samples from her fragile, fragile veins. *Shudder*.
Two hours later, my nice doctor stopped yelling at people down the telephone, came over to us, and said, ‘look, I’ve spoken to the lab, and they’ve said it’ll take another half-hour [expressive eyebrow indicating scepticism]. In any case, we’d send you home and have you come in to the EPU tomorrow – I’ve made you a 10 am appointment with them – so, if you like, you can go home now and I’ll call you when the results come back.’
And we said, ‘yes please and thank you very much.’
And a nurse removed the monster Borg drip, and H and I went out into the ice-cold, beautifully clear sunset and drove away.
True to his word, the nice doctor phoned about 15 minutes after we got home. HCG beta level?
Not dead. Not alive.
I managed not to punch the living-room wall.
I am now lying in bed drinking tea and eating crisps (I haven’t eaten anything since this morning) and H is doing yoga with his brand-new Christmas Wii Fit. To soothe his exceedingly frazzled nerves. He’s a very endearing man, bless him.
OK, as a first post of 2010 this sucks arse.