Whoa, what happened to the optimism?

Item – I managed to get a GP appointment for this morning. Yay!

Item – The GP was, naturally, one I’d never seen before in my entire life (oh, the joys of belonging to a large urban practice). But she was sweet, and sweet is good.

Item – We explained the Saga and showed her all the letters from Mothership Hospital’s EPU. She did a visible double-take when reading the date of my last period. Yes, quite, that’s what we all thought.

Item – She then asked me the very same thing quite a few nurses and doctors and consultants have asked me now. What on earth made me take a pregnancy test at a mere two weeks into the cycle? What, apart from the violent stabbing cramping pain in my right iliac fossa and sudden freaky bleeding? Surely if anything gynaecologically weird happens, you reach for the HPT? No? Oh. Well, I decided explaining about calm, sardonic little voices in the back of my head was open to misinterpretation. So I waffled something about feeling a bit sicky and weird and having a hyper-sensitive sense of smell, as in all previous pregnancies (and most previous luteal phases, but hell no I’m not mentioning that).

Item – Dear Internets, this was actually untrue. The nausea and tracker-hound smellorama only started a couple of days ago. At the time I took the test, I only had that little voice, sounding wryly amused at the very suggestion it was making.

Item – Anyway, the GP seemed a little non-plussed by the original diagnosis of non-viable and/or ectopic, so I reminded her of the weird dates and weird bleeding and weird cramps. She went through a delicate routine of trying to be optimistic about the rising beta (but not a doubling beta, as H keeps pointing out, I think because the sight of people being chirpy about this causes him actual physical pain he’s so anxious), while expressing due acknowledgement of the all-tits-up nature of the Saga so far. She even, Gottenyu, went on to suggest I make another appointment at the GPs if the beta next Monday goes well, so they can book me into the ante-natal clinic. At which point the tiny, shrivelled gland I use to generate hope exploded in a little puff of dry dust.

Item – So I asked if, in that case, I should go back to work tomorrow? She instantly switched to a serious face and said that really, under the circumstances, it would be better if I stayed at home for a few days and relaxed as much as possible. WTF? I mean, I know the heavy-lifting, front-desk-staffing parts of my job should probably be avoided, and I had planned on asking her for a note ordering my bosses to let me stay in the inner office and catalogue books with a distracted expression on my face. But stay home altogether? Did I say WTF?

Item – H then asked if I would be OK on my own all day, and she very promptly said, err, no, actually, it would be better if someone was with me for at least most of the time.

Item – Umm, so, is the GP being ridiculously cautious? Or was her optimistic act the ridiculous part? Should I be reassured? Should I be scared shitless? Anyway, H has got an office lap-top now and will be hanging about looking as bored and frustrated as I am, so no-one else need be anxious about me. Just, WTF?

Item – This is going to be a very long week.

Item – Also, there are six pee-sticks left in the house. Any bets on how many will survive until the weekend?