I liked it so much I did it again.
I went back today to get my blood hCG levels checked after Thursday's dose of misoprostol. My doctor saw me in the waiting room and took me aside to ask me how it had gone. When I told him that it was mostly unproductive, he furrowed his brow and suggested an ultrasound. Why not? It had been days since I'd been romanced by a cold piece of medical equipment. A girl could start to feel neglected.
Sure enough, half of the sac was still there. He said I would probably pass that on my own if I was willing to wait, but he didn't seem surprised when I said I was eager to get it over with.
The weeks without a resolution have been excruciating. From the day of my second beta test, I've worried; from the day of my third I've known this wasn't a viable pregnancy. At this point, I'm in favor of anything that will hasten the end of this discouraging cycle.
On the way home, I stopped and picked up three large Symphony bars, a giant bag of potato chips, and a fifth of vodka. (A girl needs her medicine.) When I got home I inserted the tablets as before and sat down to wait for my insides to fall out.
I didn't have long to wait. This time it took effect more quickly. Within three or four hours I was having some fairly strong cramps. Now I'm having some spotting, some bright red blood instead of the dark sludgy stuff of last time. I have taken to the sofa and I will not budge until it's over, or until I need more chocolate, whichever comes first.
I can't even do this right
I don't believe it worked.
I bled some during the night, but not enough to convince me this is over yet.
I have yet another hCG test scheduled for Friday...my eighth, I believe. I am thinking of having a convenient grommet installed in the crook of my elbow for easy withdrawal.
Third time's the charm
I went in today for more bloodwork to confirm that the second dose of misoprostol worked. I had my doubts, as I'd finally had some bleeding, but not as much as you'd expect from a real live miscarriage. (I'd sort of expected to wake up the next morning with HELTER SKELTER painted on the wall in blood.) As I waited to be taken back for the blood draw, my doctor breezed past the waiting room, saw me, wheeled back cartoon-style, and took me aside to ask me how it had gone.
I told him what had happened, and what hadn't, and he seemed nonplussed. I had no ultrasound scheduled, but before I knew it, there I was, naked from the waist down and impaled on a probe. (Hello to you, too.)
What we saw was not encouraging. The remains of the sac were still there, the same size they'd been on Monday. "Want me to just get it out?" he asked.
"God, yes," I said.
A harrowing description of my cervix being wrenched open follows. You've been warned.
I gave my blood for the hCG test, took a couple of Vioxx, and waited for them to take effect. I asked for a sheet because I was cold. "I'm not cold," said the doctor. "Are you cold?" he asked the nurse. "No," she answered. "In fact, it's kind of warm in here."
"See, the thing is," I pointed out reasonably, "you're wearing pants." A sheet was produced with alacrity.
Shortly thereafter, the doctor and nurse collected their tool kit and got down to business. Speculum: check. Cervix swabbed with iodine: check. Panic attack held valiantly at bay: check.
"Okay, first I need to see where your cervix goes," the doctor told me. "Everywhere I do," I answered. Oh, how we all did laugh. Discuss among yourselves this question: why must I try so hard to be entertaining?
"Now I'm going to attach a grasper to your cervix to open it up," he said, and I was instructed to cough. It took him three tries to get a firm grip on my recalcitrant cervix.
"Grasper," I said, when I'd caught my breath.
"Yeah," he said. "It sounds less threatening than tenaculum."
And then things stopped being funny. I was given a local anaesthetic — lidocaine, I believe — and he waited a moment for it to take effect. Then the nurse, a real sweetheart, came to stand beside me, held my hand tightly, and said, "This is going to hurt, for only about 30 seconds."
Finally the doctor said, "That's got it." He and his nurse were quick, efficient, and as gentle as they could be under the circumstances. And they did a first-rate job of not letting me see any of the implements used or the so-called products of conception. (I know I would have looked. I don't think it would have bothered me, but I can't really know.)
My uterus continued to cramp for several minutes, so I lay quietly on the table under my hard-won sheet. The nurse brought some water, which I didn't want but drank. Another nurse came to check on me in a few minutes, and assured me that I could stay as long as I needed to. In about 15 minutes I was on my way home.
I guess I can't complain. It's not like I had a co-pay or anything.
After three attempts to end this once and for all, I am still pregnant. Only today, 8 weeks and 3 days after my egg retrieval, was I finally diagnosed with an ectopic.
The doctor's office called and said the pathologist found no chorionic villi in the tissue removed during my D&C. We weren't sure whether I'd passed it during my earlier miscarriages (and how strange is it to make that plural?), or whether it was a more ominous sign, so I went in for bloodwork to make sure my hCG levels had decreased as expected.
Well, they hadn't. In fact, they'd risen — a pretty clear indication of an ectopic pregnancy. Why didn't we know this earlier? I blame society.
No, wait. I blame the pseudosac.
Apparently, in 10 to 20% of ectopic pregnancies, a pseudosac is formed in the uterus, mimicking the appearance of a real gestational sac. I don't know why a pseudosac sometimes develops. Who the hell does it think it's fooling?
In my case, the sac we saw on ultrasound looked like an early intrauterine pregnancy — just one that was far behind where it should have been in size.
As to why this wasn't detected sooner, I can only assume it can be hard to tell the difference. Either you can wait for the development of a yolk sac and a fetal pole to be sure it's a true sac, or an ultrasound can show the characteristic double ring (known as the double decidual sign).
My doctor pored over the ultrasound films and determined that it looked like a real live sac. Because I was eager to move on, we didn't spend any more time waiting for a yolk sac to develop. We concluded it was simply a non-viable uterine pregnancy, and acted accordingly.
What can I say? Mistakes were made.
I've had attentive followup care; otherwise the situation could have become dangerous. I have some mild symptoms (cramps, bleeding), but I would have ignored them because they're also what you'd expect after a D&C.
I go in tomorrow for a shot of methotrexate, which should arrest the growth of the pregnancy, allowing my body to resorb or jettison the remaining tissue. After working so hard to achieve a pregnancy, I never imagined I'd be working just as hard to end one.
After a quick detour for still more bloodwork, I went in today for the aforementioned methotrexate injection. Now, methotrexate works by interfering with rapidly growing and dividing cells — i.e., an embryo. Or a tumor.
That's right. Methotrexate is used to treat cancer. The pharmacy gives you the medicine in this big lightproof bag with fluorescent stickers all over it: "CAUTION: CHEMOTHERAPY!" and "DO NOT HANDLE WITHOUT PROTECTIVE CLOTHING." It makes you want to use tongs and gloves just to carry the bag back up to the nurse (who then dons a disposable gown, gloves, and fetching plastic cap, of course).
It seems like a scary drug, but apparently it's very successful in treating unruptured ectopic pregnancies. About one patient in 20 will still require surgery, but I have no intention of being among those ruptured few.
The injection itself was uneventful. I was given a stern talking-to about the absolute necessity of follow-up bloodwork on a weekly basis, and a long list of things I must not do:
Sunday, bloody Sunday
Every time I go to the bathroom, it's like I'm visiting my own murder scene.
I am shocked to be bleeding this much. I started bleeding after my D&C more than a week ago and haven't stopped since. It wasn't clear where the D&C bleeding stopped (if it ever did) and where the ectopic bleeding started (if it has). There's certainly been a qualitative change in the bleeding, though.
I am totally fascinated by the torrential downpour landing on my maxi-pads. If you're not — and who could blame you? — don't read any further, okay?
See, at first the bleeding was just this thin bright red stream. It looked almost like Kool-Aid, cheerful and watery. When I'd crouch over the toilet, curling over to watch it leak out, it would just flow and flow like urine.
But in the last couple of days I've been producing these awe-inspiring clots. Today I passed one the size of a quarter. The blood has gotten darker, a little more serious-looking, and rather viscous. I'd swear there's mucus in there; when I wipe with toilet paper there are these impressive pink and gooey strings.
I can't wait to see what's next.
The downward spiral
This morning's hCG level seems to have plummeted from 4,583 to an astonishing 317.
Can this be right?
I'd thought it should take approximately as long to come down as it did to go up. I found an interesting note here, though:If this is true, today's number makes a lot more sense than I initially thought.
No major change on the pain front: Still hurts like a motherfucker. I'm experiencing general abdominal cramping, with special bonus throbbing on my lower right side. The nurse assured me this is expected as the pregnancy detaches from the tube. Don't let anyone tell you Tylenol 3 will do the trick, though; hold out for the Percocets. This really hurts. And I assure you I am no piker when it comes to pain tolerance.
I'm also sprinting to the bathroom every half-hour or so, but yielding only these ridiculous little trickles. I unbuckled my belt for that? I'm told that the increased urinary urgency is a result of blood in the peritoneum — I guess that's not supposed to sound as alarming as it does, because the nurse didn't seem concerned.
The bleeding appears to have stopped for the moment. Since this morning I've had only scant spotting, quite a change from yesterday. Overall, I appear to be holding my own, except for the minor matter of abdominal agony, inadequate pain relief, and the complete denial I seem to be luxuriating in.
This too shall pass
All hail my Fallopian tubes. I passed it at last.
The pain was bad throughout the afternoon. I called the doctor's office to ask for some sort of medication. All they could prescribe without an order in writing were those damned Tylenol 3s. (Thanks for the war on drugs, Ronald Reagan. Fucker.) The codeine didn't help much, but I was gobbling them hungrily, for want of any other relief.
By evening, I was spending a lot of time in the kind of pain that made me see stars. The cramping was intermittent but strong. When a cramp came on I was reduced to taking fast, deep breaths to try to work through it. The breathing didn't help but it was the only thing I could think of to do.
I lay in bed most of the time because I felt light-headed whenever I stood. Sometimes I'd walk to the bathroom, sit on the toilet, and then sink to my knees and crawl back to the bed to avoid fainting.
At one point I became convinced that only a hot bath would soothe the cramps. I ran a tub full of hot water and sat in it for about half an hour, until I was well and truly boiled. The hot water did help relieve the pain for a while. When I got out, though, I was light-headed again, so I lay down on the bathroom floor to rest for a while.
Just in case you're planning ahead, a word of advice: Never do this unless your bathroom has been cleaned within, say, the last week.
Another word of advice: If you're easily squicked, read no further. Really.
When I finally managed to stand up, I realized I'd been bleeding all over the bath mat. I also realized that the mass that had been in my right tube wasn't there any more, because I felt it slither down my vagina. I had the presence of mind (and the requisite twisted interest) to cup my hands between my thighs to catch it.
Now, I should make some excuse for my deep fascination with this. All along I've felt like a human science experiment. My body's reaction to the stims, my weird pregnancy symptoms, my apparent inability to miscarry when told to — I've found all of these things mysterious and interesting. Since my narcissism is apparently infinite, maybe it's no surprise that I wanted to inspect the yield this time, too.
And inspect it I did. It was about the size of a walnut, and composed of three distinct parts. Part of it was a giant blood clot. Another part looked like ground meat. The third part looked like whitish tissue.
I wonder which part was which. I couldn't tell. I imagine it had gone through some unpleasant compacting as it got squeezed through the chute. There was nothing there that looked remotely like baby, but then I didn't expect that at such an early stage. It was pretty much what I did expect: a gelatinous blob of rejected tissue.
After inspection, I deposited it unsentimentally into the toilet and gave it the royal flush, with my most intense feeling being relief.
Now, you know, there are women who save the remains of a miscarried child and bury them in the garden. There are women who can't save the remains and agonize because of it. There are women who memorialize their never-to-be babies, who name them, who think of them as angels who simply never had the chance to live on Earth.
I didn't. I don't. This wasn't a baby, a child, or an angel. It was an agglomeration of cells that grew in the wrong place, and that might have killed me had it grown much more. Forgive me if I don't seem, well, maternal.
What I am is tired. I'm feeling exhausted from the pain, relieved that it's over, and strangely peaceful at last.
Note to self: clean floor before dying.
Have you ever honestly thought you were going to die?
The early hours of the morning found me on the bathroom floor again, the floor which needs a good wash now more than ever. I lay there naked on a towel, thinking, I wish I'd made a will.
After I passed the big clump of tissue last night, it seemed that the worst was over. I limped into the den and arranged myself very carefully on the sofa, aching and enervated but feeling rather triumphant. I couldn't stop talking, making poor Paul listen to Blood-soaked Tales of Horror from the Master Bathroom, rendered in glorious verbal Technicolor. I guess I was giddy. I know I was proud of myself for making it through.
When we went to bed, I dutifully took two Tylenol 3s, thinking it would send me into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion. Not two hours later, though, I was back on the bathroom floor, planning my many bequests.
I didn't know whether there was still more tissue that my tube was trying to jettison, or whether it was just trying to shrink back to its normal size, or whether it was spraying a hot jet of blood through my abdominal cavity like a garden sprinkler. Maybe it was all of the above.
Three hot baths and three blood-spattered towels later, I'd finally concluded that it was time to go to the hospital. I'd spent the last several hours arguing with myself. I knew surgery at that point was probably unnecessary, as expelling the mass earlier surely removed the possibility of a tubal rupture. But I was also pretty sure that if I went in, it was fairly likely I'd still be put under and sliced up.
But, see, they'd give me really good pain drugs.
At that point, that's all I wanted: really good pain drugs. Okay, and someone else to be in charge of deciding what to do with me. Someone else in charge of taking care of me, because clearly I was doing a piss-poor job of it, lying naked and whimpering on the filthy bathroom floor.
So I took my last hot bath of the morning. I tried to get dressed quietly, but I woke Paul up in the process. He had to wake up sometime, because I'd decided it was time to call the hospital.
I did, and eventually spoke to the doctor on call. He listened very patiently to my whimpering, and offered the reassurance I needed: "I don't think you're in any imminent danger, and I don't think it's an emergency. You should probably be seen, so you can come in now to the ER, or you can wait until your doctor's office opens and see them then, whichever you prefer. But you're not in any immediate danger."
Paul was already awake and showered and revving the engine out in the garage, poor guy, ready to whisk me away to safety. I decided I'd wait until my doctor's office opened, only an hour from then, so he came back inside and stood by the bed holding my hand while I lay there panting.
I'm pretty sure I've never looked lovelier.
My doctor called in about half an hour, having been notified by the doctor on call. Just imagine it, if you will: "Dude, your patient's having a real, for-true crazy-person four-alarm meltdown." To his credit, my doctor was, as ever, attentive and reassuring. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he succeeded in convincing me that the worst was over, that I just needed to lie still, take enough Tylenol 3 to fell an ox, and rest. I'd spend most of the day feeling like I'd been hit by a truck, he warned, but it would get better.
It did, some. I slept most of the day. When I wasn't sleeping, I was lying in bed feeling like I'd been worked over by Turkish prison guards. But the worst did truly seem to be over.
File under love
So where was Paul while I was doing all this writhing and moaning?
Why, he was feverishly filling out extension forms for my income taxes so I wouldn't have to do my writhing and moaning in jail.
Love. That. Man.