How Ironic

Today was the date for their campaign for pregnancy and infant loss awareness.  Too sad to spend much time there today.

I am having a hard time accepting this.  And it will drive me insane to change pad after pad with pieces of my child on them.

When I left my weepy message at the OB's office at 3:30, they'd already left for the day.  Good for them.  The doctor wasn't in anyway, and they were completely unhelpful.  "Well, could be implantation bleeding."  {Really, at almost 13 weeks?] "It's possible.  If it turns red or you get bad cramps, then go to the emergency room.  Don't take any Tylenol so that you can tell if the pain gets bad."  But sorry, no ultrasound.  Couldn't get an ultrasound at the RE's office [sorry, you've been discharged] or at my old OB's office [sorry, he's on medical leave].

I had been afraid to go to the bathroom, because if I never peed again, then I wouldn't see anymore blood.  Perfectly logical, right?  But I had to give in eventually, and I saw that the blood had turned red.

The first emergency room was just down the road a bit.  They didn't even have an ultrasound machine (I guess "24 hour emergency care" means stitches only?).  But they were very, very nice.  The doctor tried to calm my fears, telling me that he came across a case of vaginal bleeding during pregnancy every other shift on average, and really, it didn't have to mean the end.  He also said that he could do an exam and a blood test, but if I wanted an ultrasound to ease my fears, I should find a hospital-based emergency room because it would make no sense to do things piecemeal.  Oh, and no charge for this visit, and good luck.  We went to the one that he recommended because he suggested that they would be slow at around 11:00.

It was miserable.  We had to go through a metal detector when we first came in.  Some people were nice, like the fourth year medical student.  They had a cr*ppy ultrasound in the E.R. that wasn't providing the resolution that they wanted.  The doctor and supervising doctor were trying to see something and were mumbling to each other.  When I asked what they were saying, I was told they were just talking to each other.  [Um, yes, I could see that.  That wasn't the question.]  The medical student said that they were discussing the bad resolution.  They kept turning the screen off and on and said that I would need to go and have a formal ultrasound, apparently with a screen that actually worked.  I had to have a catheter inserted for this, which was a first for me.  Which was done after they did the pelvic exam.  The doctor wasn't certain, because there was bleeding, but she thought the cervix might have been slightly open.  Sucky news.  She said not to panic; it was hard to see, and it still looked like a line to her rather than an "O."

When we finally got up to ultrasound, my husband asked if he could come in the room with me.  The b*tchy ultrasound tech shook her head in a terse no directed at the person my husband had asked the question of.  I said that he wanted to be there, and I wanted him there.  The ultrasound tech appeared irritated, but she allowed him to stay.  She told us she couldn't answer any questions.  It would have been nice if the table had stirrups.  My legs kept trembling and it was hard holding them steady during the transv*ginal ultrasound (they did an abdominal ultrasound as well, using the catheter to fill my bladder).

I'd seen enough ultrasounds to know that it was over, though my husband had no idea.  There was a sac but no baby, no movement.  When it was over, she asked if I were OK, and I said I wasn't. 

Probably the best part of the day (is there a best part of such a sad day?) was the nurse who'd come on duty by the time we came down.  He said that he'd read the chart, and he knew we were worried.  He said he would hound the doctor about getting the results to us because he knew that any wait would feel too long.  I could see a computer screen from across the room, and he said to pay attention to the pink bar across the screen (there was only one pink bar).  It meant that my test results were waiting to be read.  Once it turned green, the results would be ready.  He also told us that he and his wife were going through infertility treatments.  He'd gone to my clinic and a couple of others with her and they'd had their share of pain and anguish.  Like us, they had one precious gift and were trying for another.  And he was right there when the doctor left after delivering he bad news.  There isn't a right thing to say, but he came the closest.  Bless his heart.  I pray that he and his wife get the happy ending.

I called my RE's office to tell them and was able to talk with J.  She was very kind.  She's pretty much been the only nurse there that I've worked with for these last ten years (can it have been that long?).  The only time I didn't speak with her during that time is if she had the day off.  She gave me the best aftercare instructions of all the people that I'd spoken with today.  And, she put my mind at ease about stopping the Crinone, Estrace, and baby aspirin, because I thought that might have triggered this.  I'd taken them for as long as I had been asked, and she said that if I had stopped too soon on Monday of this week, the sac would be larger.  Sadly, no one will ever know why this baby stopped growing.

After we told DD that the baby had stopped growing, she wanted to know if there would ever be another chance to be a big sister.  I told her there wasn't (God, I wish there were - are there still miracles?  Will my forever child come to me in a different way?).  She crawled into my lap and we both hugged and cried.

I will have to see my father and brother this weekend when I go to my father's house to help out.  I don't want to see them, but unless I'm dying, I really can't get out of it.  We haven't been there for the last two Sundays, due to emergencies that my brother had.  And, my dear friend is giving a baby shower for her daughter the Sunday after, so I hadn't planned on coming next weekend.  Not sure if I will be able to handle that or not now; I might have my husband drop the present off. 

I sent my father and brother a really brief email.  I'm sure they're happy that the issue is gone.  They didn't ever approve, after all.  And I never did receive any acknowledgement from my brother or his wife after I told them I was pregnant.

I thought that I knew sadness.  Living without my mom for the last three years has been unbelievably hard, and I wish she were here to comfort me.  I can't quantify in my heart what has been the worst thing to happen to me, but I have to say that this certainly feels like the worst day of my life.  I never knew that it was possible to get chapped skin around my eyes from crying.

Nothing more to say.  I thought it might help to write these thoughts down, but it really hasn't.

 

 

 

Comments

[Pam]

I'm so so sorry. There isn't anything I can say to you to make the pain go away. Know that I'm thinking of you.

[Summer]

My heart aches reading the words on this post. I still cannot believe this has happened. I want to say the words that will help you through this, but knowing what we infertiles know about loss, I know there are still more difficult days ahead for you. And I know there are no words good enough to make those days easier.

Thinking of you...

[Paz]

It isn't believable. I am so sorry. Thanks for sharing the hard details with us, it helps us grieve with you and I hope it helps you too. We are your people here, we understand and many of us have been here before. I know this particular pain all too well; it's hard and it isn't f-ing fair that it gets harder. Big hugs to you.

[Anjali]

The breath is knocked out of me reading this post. My heart shatters for you. I'm so so sorry.

Everything you are feeling I have also felt. It is a horrible pain.

I'm here for you.

[Joanie]

I am so sorry.

[Katherine Zucker]

I am so sorry this happened. Sending best wishes to you and DD that you stop hurting soon.

[Jennette]

via LFCA

I am so very sorry. I feel so sad for you, your husband, and your precious DD who longs to be a big sister. It's not fair. I get it, I walk a similar path to you.
Hugs from a stranger afar.

[wifey]

I am so sorry this happened. so very, very sorry. I am glad that, at the very least, you had some kind souls around you as you got such awful news. Hugs.

[Dory]

I'm so sorry for your loss. It's heartbreaking. You're in my thoughts.

[a]

I'm so sorry for your loss. I also have a little girl who longs for a sibling.

Fere from LFCA

[kristi]

I am so so sorry.

[Alex]

I'm so very sorry for you loss. This is horrible. My thoughts are with you and your family.

[LaurieAnn]

My heart is crying for you. Sending you strength and light from LFCA.

[Rebecca]

I'm so, so sorry for your loss. It's so incredibly unfair that these things happen. My husband & I lost our daughter at 23wks into my pregnancy after undergoing IVF earlier this year. I know how painful it is to so badly want a child only to lose them after trying so hard. Sending thoughts of love & hope for strength your way.
~LFCA

[Marianne]

I am so sorry.