Important first things first: I am not bleeding.
There. Now we can all relax for another 24 hours.
So, this morning I didn’t pee on anything interesting at all. I went straight to The Professor’s clinic, where a very, very gentle nurse took two vials of blood, and still left an absolutely navy-blue bruise, despite endless care taken in putting pressure on the puncture (we are blaming the aspirin). And then I went on to work.
Work was (mostly) nicely distracting, because we had the annual Christmas lunch for my team, and so we all went off to a restaurant and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
And I was the only one not drinking, and the only one who didn’t have coffee, and the only one who couldn’t finish her pudding (chocolate suddenly tastes quite grim. Too sweet and metallic. This… well, I’m distraught, is what. Chocolate not lovely? Chocolate not comforting? WHAT?). I muttered something about medication. Line-manager did Significant Eye-Brows. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Mid-afternoon, I finished tidying my desk and putting post-it notes on everything on it (just in case… You know. Just in case) and took myself back across town to The Professor’s clinic, where, shortly, H joined me, and very shortly after that, The Professor called us in to her office.
At which point every single synapse in my fore-brain fused into a jellified lump of stupid. My only conscious thought was ‘I bet she’s going to tell me I’m not really pregnant.’
No, she didn’t tell me that.
What she did tell me was that the aspirin alone had normalised my blood-clotting, so I didn’t need heparin. Just stay on the aspirin. She then went on to book me in for a scan next week, just as if this pregnancy was going to last that long. And a scan for January as well. Bitter McTwisted had full control of all conscious thought by this point, so I asked what I was supposed to do when I started bleeding. I’m fairly sure I said ‘when’ and not ‘if’, but The Professor merely gave me a kindly look and the appropriate phone numbers. It’s all very awkward, Christmas cantering about in the middle of all this and shutting offices for days at a time. We have people to phone, and people to phone when the people to phone aren’t there to phone, and the option of just turning up on the obstetrics ward next door and wailing like a banshee. I feel, not reassured, exactly. More of an ‘at least I won’t have to explain everything eight million times to eight million people this time’ feeling. I am grim, but calm.
It’s going to be a long, long week.
And I very much wish my brain hadn’t liquefied in sheer terror in The Professor’s office, and I very much wish H’s hadn’t either. I don’t know if I actually had an HCG blood test. And if I did, I certainly don’t know what it said. The nurse took two vials, but as far as I’m aware a TEG test only needs a little bit of blood. At the time of the stabbing I didn’t question the second vial – I thought it was the HCG. But The Professor didn’t mention it during the visit and I didn’t ask. How much am I paying this woman to forget to ask her these things? What the hell is wrong with me?
On the other hand, The Professor seemed perfectly satisfied that I was, indeed, pregnant and not about to miscarry any second now. She reassured me that while she knew she couldn’t tell me not to worry, I was on the right medication now, and doing the right things. Scan next week, right?
Right. And logically, I know that HCG tests cost money, and are usually used diagnostically to make sure a suspected ectopic isn’t about to tear merry hell through your guts, or to confirm whether a bleed is one of those things or a Royal Fucker of those things. So maybe they didn’t bother doing one and we’re winging this on the strength of one-and-a-half pee-sticks bought cheap on the Internet.
Never mind. I shall email her PA again tomorrow and ask for the numbers. That’s what expensive private clinics are for – to harrass for information.
Whole consultation lasted about five minutes. After which H took his credit-card over to reception and handed it over for a thorough rogering. Walking away from the place, we had a slightly nervous discussion as to financing of Operation Schrödinger Take Six, but we still have a bit of the money my mother gave us for just this sort of thing, plus all the goddamn money I saved up for IVF, and it’s fine. It’s fine. As the Hairy Farmer Wifey said yesterday, “Ah, the proactiveness of private healthcare. Itches a bit around the morals and the wallet, but awfully soothing where it counts!”
And to be honest, I think the NHS and my principles have duked it out between them so long that I think I’m owed some expensive queue-jumping kid-glovery. Bring it on.