What's driven me back to blogging at 3.42am GMT is a strong desire to write down everything that happened last week.
On Monday 2nd December I had a positive pregnancy test for the first time in 2.5 years of trying to get pregnant. This was particularly suprising, as on Thursday 29th November my husband and I were finally approved for IVF on the NHS, starting in January. This was brilliant for us. Stressful, but brilliant. I planned a December worthy of a Richard Curtis ensemble cast movie, both to boost mine and hubby's spirits before what we expected to be a trying New Year, and to celebrate my mum's first Christmas since moving 200 miles to live near us in our adopted home town of Durham.
Unfortunately, what prompted the pregnancy test was a suspicious bleeding on what Period Tracker told me was day 10 of my cycle. We were mid transfer between the local Assisted Conception Unit (specialising in diagnosis, IUIs and reassurance) and the new shiny IVF Clinic (specialising, we hoped, in actually getting women pregnant). So first I tried the ACU because we'd worked with them over the last year and a half, and they quite literally know me inside out. The friendly healthcare assistant reassured me it was either a mid cycle bleed, which the IVF clinic would ignore, or my period brought on early by the stress of the previous week's IVF appointment. But I should call the IVF clinic and check what they wanted to do.
The IVF clinic's receptionist, I discovered, is fiendishly hard to persuade to let you speak to an actual nurses. I assume because the nurses are inundated with jubliant calls of all the successful patient's they're treating. I tried in the morning, no joy, so tried again that afternoon - still no joy. Whilst waiting to make a final callback at 4.30pm a though struck me that pregnancy might be a cause of mid cycle bleeding. This is not particularly astute - over the past couple of years I've Goolged every single early pregnancy symptom from 'peculiarly puffy face' to 'nipples slightly off'. But like most infertile women I keep a hopeful stash of pregnancy tests in drawer by my bed that would be far more interesting if it was stuffed with sex toys and lube rather than Clearblue and an a BBT chart beginners kit. Taking the pregnancy test resulted in something that had never happened before - an immediate, strong, stark second line. My hands shaking I rang the IVF clinic and demanded to speak to a nurse, before screaming down the phone 'I'M PREGNANT AND I'M BLEEDING'. The nurse congratulated me and said this was 'common but not normal' in early pregnancy, and I should get to my nearest Urgent Care Centre or Accident and Emergency department. Three more 'I'M PREGNANT AND I'M BLEEDING' phone calls were made, to my boss (asking to leave work early), my husband S (telling him to leave work early) and my mother (asking her to leave Christmas shopping early and drive S to the hospital so he'd be there when I arrived).
Durham hospital conveniently has an Urgent Care Centre located opposite it's Accident and Emergency department. Unfortunately we arrived at 5pm and the UCC didn't open til 6pm. So we were told to go to A&E and sign in. So I told the grumpy receptionist 'I'M PREGNANT AND I'M BLEEDING', and obtained the last remaining seat in the waiting room by my mum glaring at an old man until he took his shopping off it we settled in to wait, and then my mum left to walk our dog and explain to him what was going on. Obviously sensitively, in a way that wouldn't worry him (he's an extremely sensitive dog). We listened to very cross woman opposite moan to her daughter about how they'd been there since 2pm with a bad back, and people - 'timewasters' - kept getting seen in front of her. She warned everyone she was sueing her GP and would be sueing the hospital too. Given that the average waiting time in A&E is about 4-5 hours on an evening, and the average smell of an A&E in the evening is vomit and resentment, we then did the only sensitive thing which was to discharge ourselves at 6pm and move back to the UCC, which was now open and empty.
We got straight through to see a very friendly doctor, who repeated the a pregnancy test and let us keep the little cartridge as a souvenir, and also provided the handy hint that the stronger a pregnancy test the faster the second line comes up, and ours had come up super fast. She again mentioned bleeding was 'common but not normal', and had identified that although I wasn't having any pain, I was tender on my left side. So she sent me back to A&E to wait for the on call gynaecologist. By this point the bad back woman was apoplectic with rage, and I don't think it helped that, like everyone else who'd been seen before her, I sauntered back in from being seen before her looking offensively healthy and pain-free, and sat down opposite. She then started repeating her earlier observations about 'timewasters' who 'don't even look ill, walking in here, I can't stand up!'. In my mind I congratulated her on her powerful fucking x-ray vision that could tell everything was OK with my newly discovered pregnancy. Later on my mild mannered mum said it was a shame she'd gone to see to the dog, or she'd have been only to happy to assist Bad Back to the top of the A&E waiting list.
We went through to see the gynaecologist, who examined my hoo-ha with an actual handheld torch and confirmed a closed cervix, and that bleeding in early pregnancy is 'Common but not Normal'. She found the tender spot on the left and asked about my laparoscopy in April. As my tubes had been given the all clear, and I wasn't experiencing pain only tenderness, she advised an ectopic was 'highly unlikely'. In fact, she said, she had only ever met one lady who had an ectopic without pain. She did a HCG and told me to call attend the gynae ward the next day for a scan and consultation. As we left A&E bad back's daughter was advising a fellow patient that after such a long wait her mother had finally been seen and they'd 'slapped a morphine patch on her immeidately'. 'Immediately she opened her mouth' I thought, a little bit uncharitably I admit. S & I drove back holding hands and listening to 'Please, Please, Please' by the Smiths. I told myself once the HCG result came back I would work out what month the baby would be due.
The next day I was still bleeding, so I called in sick and took it easy waiting for the afternoon appointment. My Mum reassured me that my paternal aunts both bled throughout their pregnancies. All that day I convinced myself our appointment was gong to be 'the first time we meet our baby'. There would be a heartbeat (I had no idea how pregnant I was, or when hearbeats appear, but still), everyone in the scan room would burst into joyful tears and I would whisper 'Merry Christmas' to S. Unfortunately the scan showed nothing - too early the guy working the scan machine told me. We then had a breif meeting with a nice young doctor in Gynaecology who assured me Bleeding in Early Pregnancy is Common (but Not Normal) but my HCG was strong at 500-and-something. He told me to go back the next night for another HCG. I promised myself if the next HCG showed it had doubled I would work out what month the baby was due, and my mum started fussing over what sort of bridesmaid's dress I would now need for my sister's wedding in July. S didn't want to talk about the potential baby at all, only that I was OK, and how relieved he was that it wasn't ectopic. It's hard to explain the tenderness with which one's husband can tell you actually he doesn't give a damn about a baby if he doesn't have a wife, and we would not be making any decisions that put my health at risk.
Wednesday came, and S had to go to work. My mum had the day off so she came to sit with me. She made me take a nap after lunch, and eat an apple and an orange and assured me that would help. We went out for (decaf) coffee but the bleeding started to get heavy again so she brought me back. She brought a pile of Christmas DVDs that I didn't want to watch because by this point I'd cried at the B&Q Christmas advert. DH returned and we went back to the gynae ward, where the nurse took my blood, told me her mum had bled throughout her pregnancy, and Common (but Not Normal). We went home and played Skyrim all night. I got more turns than S because I was 'sort of' pregnant.
Thanks to a sympathetic shift swap S had Thursday off to wait. since Thursday was the day we found out if it was a miscarriage or a baby. Except we didn't. Because the test result had introduced a third option to the previously expected 'double or nothing' - 'slight rise' -700 and something- 'Not what we would want' the doctor on the phone told me. No longer common but not normal. I would be back for a blood test on Friday night, and then they would talk to me about my 'options'. I rang my mum who defended the rise saying everyone was different and anyway who was to say what was normal. I rang my dad was very, very sorry, and disclosed my mum had had 'trouble holding on to pregnancies'. So I felt pretty awful for having gotten her involved and went back to playing Skyrim.
S was back at work Friday, and Mum came round to sit me again. More fruit, more naps, my mum bursting into tears and telling me about the miscarriages. By this point it's also worth mentioning that my sensitive dog had sensed something was amiss with me, and was already dealing well with the situation by preparing to take over as pack leader when I inevitably crept under a tree to die. As is the done thing with dogs. If I left the room, he went and sat where I'd been sitting. He stopped lying by my bed and started getting right in there with me, testing out the pillow situation. I didn't actually see him trying on my work shoes and sorting through my CDs for the charity shop, but it wouldn't have surprised me. Even sensitive dogs are very pragmatic, and it was clear from his snuggles I would be deeply missed, and leave a power void he would do his best to fill.
On Friday I felt so car sick I couldn't play Skyrim and the bleeding was heavier still. I slept most of the day - even between mum appointed naps - and crawled out of bed to go with S to the appointment at 8. After Wednesday's 'not what we would want' we were already resigned to miscarriage, and I was working out how long after finding out about a miscarriage was decent to return to the planned Christmas schedule. But I secretly also promised myself it the HCG went up this time I would work out what month the baby would be due. The nurse who took my bloods asked me how I was feeling and I told her - tired, nauseous, and the bleeding's getting worse. She looked unhappy with this and went to get an even nicer, even younger doctor than the one that had spoken to me earlier in the week. They did an abdominal and internal exam, confirmed my cervix was still closed and I was still a little tender when pressed on my left hand side. I was upgraded from young-doctor to registrar, who told me I would have to wait until the HCG results came back. I was so tired I slept with my head on the table of the waiting room until the doctor returned in an hour. The HCG had risen - but only to 900 and something. She asked if I knew what an ectopic pregnancy was and I felt the blood drain out of S.
She outlined my options - injection of methotrexate or surgery. She was very understanding of our upcoming IVF, and helped us to decide that surgery was the most appropriate route. She asked me if I wanted to go home and come back in the morning or be admitted. I apologised to S for leaving him but asked to be admitted on grounds of being freaking terrified. She said I would be first on the list for surgery in the morning. I was lucky and got given a room to myself by the nurses station (perfect for evesdropping). Under different circumstances I would have appreciated how nicely appointed the room was - with a writing desk equipped with desk lamp- although we couldn't get the lamp to work. S and I said a very brave farewell, he left me his jumper which I didn't need but was very grateful for. Later a nurse came in to give me a leaflet about ectopic pregnancy, and explain to me about 'sensitive disposal' of the ectopic material. All the little ectopics and miscarriages get sent together once a month to Darlington Crematorium to be sent off together. I was weirdly reassured that after what must be such lonely little lives they got to go together as a group at the end.
Having been wiped out all day, I then entirely failed to sleep all night. The sound on the television system didn't work and my iphone was very low on battery. I cried most of the night and talked to the thing I was calling Critter that had made an ill-advised home somewhere inside of me. I apologised that things weren't going to work out, and I hoped it's next rebirth would be more successful. I explained I was only going ahead with the surgery because it was an absolute certainty that neither of us would survive the pregnancy if I didn't. The broken sound TV was logged in as 'Mrs Carter', and I noticed in the early hours that the desk lamp flashed on and off randomly, fizzing and glaring and then going dark again. I don't believe in ghosts - unless I've severely greif stricken and deprived of TV/Iphone and sleep, so then I spent the second half of the of the night reassuring 'Mrs Carter' that everything was OK and I was sorry I was in her room, and she was welcome to stay with me but it might be a bit depressing, being so close to Christmas, so maybe she should think about finding somewhere nicer to move onto.
I was warned in the morning that whilst I was first on the list for surgery, the morning doctors' rounds would probably identify a few people to go ahead of me, because I was stable. The surgeon and anaesthetist came to see and I signed the 'do what you have to do' forms. They warned me about the possibility of not finding the embryo, or finding something in the womb and doing a D&C. They warned me about the (very rare) chance of finding something in the ovary and needing to remove an ovary. Ominously, they asked if I had any children already. I outlined my priorities as 1) being alive, 2) being able to do IVF, and as quickly as possible. My mum, who'd been on night shift and just found out about me being in hospital in the morning, arrived at ten to nine with a copy of The Times newspaper and a bottle of sparkling elderflower (explanation - I know you can't drink it but they'll know it's the kind of thing you like when they see it on the table. Elderflower drinkers get better care perhaps?). She offered to stay whilst I waited for surgery, she'd just come from one-to-one caring a dementia patient in another hospital, so she fiddled with my blankets and blinds on autopilot whilst I explained, by now Very Serious, about Mrs Carter and introduced her to the desk lamp. My dad rang - he'd flown to Egypt the day before on holiday and he was nearly in tears apologising and saying he should never have gone. I was very touched, but we established that whilst he was a very reassuring voice on the phone, he didn't really have the necessary surgical training to be of much practical use here in Durham. I reassured him that the hospital was exceptionally good, as my dad is terrified of hospitals, the NHS, and their secret agenda to bump everyone off.
I finally got taken into surgery at 12. The nice Phillipino nurse asked me if this was my first pregnancy, and then reassured me she hadn't had kids until she was 35. My brain had a meltdown about whether it was polite to ask if she had family in the Phillipines and if they were OK, and worrying that that was racist, a crisis that was only resolved by heavy sedation. I woke up at 2pm in recovery and dimly heard a phonecall mentioning my left tube and right ovary. I got back to my room and heard the nurse calling my husband. I watched the clock diligently for the half hour I knew it took to drive from our house, park and get up to the ward. Seeing him standing in the hospital door was probably the single happiest moment of my life right then. He sat with me, combed my hair, listened to me ramble about how much I loved him and let me paw his beautiful, beautiful face. By 5pm I'd sobered up enough to start worrying about what exactly they'd taken out of me, and particularly this mention of an ovary. I could feel the pain on my left hand side, but a glance at my right showed that I also had a bandage on my RIGHT. I buzzed for the nurse and asked politely to know what had happened in surgery. She explained as it was the weekend the doctor was still doing surgery, she was currently doing a ceserean and would see me either later that night or tomorrow. I said OK. Then I buzzed again and politely - but a bit more shrilly - asked again and explained I just really, really, needed to know if I still had two ovaries, and I really thought I should get to know that whilst my husband was still there with me. The nurse apologised and said she didn't have that information.
I cried, quite pathetically, and I may have shouted a teeny bit about my ovary and the IVF. And then about how much it hurt to cry and shout with my stitches. I heard tones of concern at the nurses station and Friday Night Nice Young Doctor came in. She'd looked on the computer, and she confirmed the left tube and ectopic had been removed. There had been bleeding by the right ovary, but they dealt with that and there was no damage to the ovary. I cried and thanked her, and told her how much it meant to me to know that, but I refrained from pawing at her beautiful face because the morphine was wearing off and also doctors don't like that kind of thing. At 8pm, just as S. was getting up to leave, the surgeon came in announcing 'you asked to speak to me about your surgery?', like it was odd to want to know what one had had taken out of one. But I had to remember that surgeons only have to be good body people, not good people people, and brought to mind television cliche's of socially awkward but brilliant doctors. She explained the surgery - ovary fine, left tube and ectopic gone, but ovary fine, totally healthy. She then asked if I wanted to see a photo and Friday Night Doctor came running over and asked if she could see too. I couldn't really say no to a fan. The photo was horrific, it showed the two tubes, one normal and sylphlike and the other twisted, bloated and horribly horribly wrong. My mother in law, a medical voyeur, was a little disappointed I hadn't snapped it with my phone but I never want to see that photo again. At the same time I absolutely had to see that photo, to be able to put the loss of the pregnancy into the context of how it could never, ever have continued.
I was too weak from the medication to go home that night, but I did had my iphone charger so I could through my post operative nervous energy into catching up on kind messages and tweets from friends. I no longer had Critter to talk to, and my lamp never fizzed again. However my mum rang at 9pm to see how I was, and mentioned that her living room lamp was now on the blink... Obviously Mrs Carter was won over by the Times and Elderflower water. Getting in touch with friends really helped, my brain was doing ten to the dozen whilst my body was still fairly non-coperative. People from all over the UK - the world even - tweeted messages of support that lifted my spirits, friends messaged two and fro about how I was doing, and I started to look forward to a planned Christmas Dinner Party with the bestie and think about things being normal again. Overnight I managed to snatch some sleep, negotiate first the bed pan, then the assisted-to-the-toilet wee, then the fully-independent-wee. and snack on hospital toast. They released me yesterday morning with a bundle of painkillers, leaflets on the operation and the pregnancy loss counselling service, and stories about every woman the nurses had known who'd gotten pregnant after ectopic and tube removal. S. remembered to bring the nurses a box of Christmas biscuits to thank them for their care.
I'll have to stop blogging now - for reasons of the post already being over long and also sudden post operative nausea that might start to interfere with the condition of my keyboard. Thank you for listening.
