I had taken the morning off work so I could peaceably trundle down to Mothership Hospital after the main onslaught of rush-hour, and had had no intention at all of leaping out of bed the minute the radio-alarm came on. For muddle-headed reasons neither of us can fathom, H nevertheless went straight into his ‘prising May out of bed’ routine*.
I therefore started the day somewhat lacking in gruntle. The lack of sleep, you see. Very disgruntling. Also, does something destructive to my powers of reason.
Anyway, answers! We need answers! So, as the EPU nurse was taking my blood, I quizzed her about the lack of proper bleeding. She pointed out on my notes that my always-pretty-low HCG had been going down very slowly, and under those circumstances it is not unusual to merely spot non-stop for over two weeks (like what I did). I mentioned that I hadn’t spotted for days now. That too is normal. Last time I had an ultrasound my lining looked thin, so I may even not bleed at all until ‘my cycle re-establishes itself’.
Not sure what I make of that.
I then tried to cajole my recurrent miscarriage blood tests out of her. Oh, please, I said, pleasepleaseplease I’m in limbo here please? Senior Doctor hasn’t got back to me and I don’t know what’s going on please?
She duly checked on the computer system and said, yes, my results were there, but she didn’t know what they meant and couldn’t interpret them for me. I asked for a print-out, at least, and she shook her head mournfully. She can’t interpret them for me. Oh, she could tell me my FSH. It was 3. But not the others.
I could see them on the screen, just slightly out of my focal length. Argh.
But wait! I can ask my GP for them, apparently! My GP can access the Mothership computer system and print them out for me and tell me all about them! That’s the best solution! Yes? Yes! OK? I mean, God forbid that anyone attempts to interpret their own blood test results. That way madness lies.
And as I opened my mouth to point out once again that I didn’t want her to interpret them, just GIVE THEM TO ME FOR CRIKEY’S SAKE, she added, very firmly, ‘you must not try to get pregnant until after you’ve been seen by the clinic.’
Now this was an excellent tactic for getting me to shut the fuck up, because I was stunned into total, meek, compliant silence for a good few minutes. And then I promised to go and talk to my GP. And then I left.
Work did not utterly suck, and I even did a (very) small amount of whateverthehell it is they pay me to do. Something to do with books? Possibly. I remember there were books. And… shelves?
The EPU did not call me back until I was on the train heading home again (oh, perfect timing).
My HCG has, now, finally gone down to ‘less than one’. Less than one! You couldn’t get less pregnant if you were monk. I felt relieved and pleased and miserable and weepy all at once, and have continued to do so all evening.
And when H got home, we Discussed Contraception (or, H looked wistful while I added ‘condoms’ to the shopping list). Because, while The Positive Thinking Fairy is quite sure the nurse was just being boiler-plate cautious, had no idea what the tests meant, yada yada, every other nerve in my body has joined Bitter McTwisted in the ‘she wouldn’t tell you because she knows it’s baaaaaad‘ corner and tonight I shall not sleep and Lord alone knows if I shall ever sleep again.
PS – FSH of 3 during luteal phase (I was 6dpo when the test was taken). Any thoughts?
*(Nag. Make tea. Place tea out of May’s reach in next room. Tell May all about the lovely steaming tea. Nag some more. Gently remove duvet. Firmly re-remove duvet. Look reproachful when May, standing in the kitchen with one sock and no bra on, complains the tea is cold).