We didn’t go to the In-Laws for the weekend after all. It snowed instead. Trains were delayed, sometimes by hours, or cancelled altogether. The In-Laws got snowed in completely and couldn’t even drive the mile-or-so to the nearest supermarket, let alone all the way to collect us from the probably non-existant train.
(Britain is on the same latitude as Canada, Alaska, Norway, Russia, that sort of place. We’re north of New York by several hundred miles. Because of the Gulf Stream, we usually have oddly mild and damp winters. Last year we had one that was more, eh, latitude-appropriate, and the entire country fell apart for weeks. This year we’re having another latitude-appropriate one, and the country has fallen apart for weeks again. I throw up my hands).
Instead, we went to a matinee. I felt fine, you see. Well, not fine. More, off my face on opiates, NSAIDs, lack of sleep and the relief of not being in amazing amounts of sodding pain. I had been looking forward to going to this matinee for weeks and weeks. I was GOING TO THE MATINEE. There was a spare ticket going for the evening performance after it, so I went to that as well. Fuck it. I was with a good friend (H declined to cough up for the evening performance and went home to teleconference with his father on the new software he’d given his father for Christmahanukwanzaa). I felt fine already. Stop fussing. Why yes, I sat in this very theatre two and a half years ago as I was miscarrying Pikaia, and oh, I certainly did go to another theatre when I was losing Zombryo as well. I sense a motif. And why should my other embryos have all the fun? And I got home safe despite the snow, and I had something interesting to think about other than the blasted heath that is my uterus. All good.
On Sunday, I very nearly passed out cold in the middle of the kitchen floor. Hm.
Today, I went back to the GP, to discuss how much time, actually, I’d need off work and when I should go back. This GP, who I think I’ve seen once or twice before, was concerned that I am still bleeding (should he be? I mean, I only started bleeding on Wednesday, that is, six days) and sore (well, I wasn’t that sore over the weekend. Am feeling more crampy today, which I was putting down to not having had any painkillers for over 24 hours). I was a bit startled. I was there to discuss my mental stamina. The miscarriage itself was, well, it was… well. You know what my periods are like. I bled a bit more this time. I threw up a lot more. Other than that… So I was non-plussed that he was bothered about it. He asked more questions. I let him know I was very tired, and having dizzy spells, and this definitely bothered him. He prodded my abdomen, took my blood-pressure and my temperature, noted I was pale and my hands were freezing (uh, doc, it’s snowing outside?), and declared that I really should, really really should, go to the Early Pregnancy Unit tomorrow at dawn and get a scan. I looked at him as if he’d suggested I climb Everest in my knickers. I pointed out that I had been barely four weeks pregnant. Nevertheless, he said, there could be something retained in the uterus. Or I could have an infection (WTF?). I should get a scan. And not go back to work this week.
When I got home from this medical disconcertment I was bleeding merrily and passing clots again.
So much for being stoical.