The month that is

I came up with the name for this post when I thought that I was "just" having another miscarriage. We had been advised to take some "time off" after our fifth loss in one year. My reproductive endocrinologist wanted to do an hysteroscopy to see if there was something in my uterus preventing full implantation -- some reason why all of these little fertilized eggs fail to "stick." So he suggested we take a month off and I started crying in his office. It was embarrassing. but he's seen it before and reacted kindly.

At 5 weeks, hcg had dropped but a week later shot up, and that's a problem. I went to the ER where they confirmed ectopic and removed my right tube.

That's the short story.

The longer story is that I was coming off of another chemical cycle, then got pregnant. hcg started very low and rose very slowly, but I diligently went for my blood draws every other day even though I knew this wasn't going to be viable.

My arm after following betas down from the chemical and up for the "pregnancy" -- a rich hue of shit-colored with an afterthought of purple

I didn't feel right, and I know my body too well to ignore that.  I didn't *feel* right. So I was not entirely surprised that my nurse called and told me that hcg rose swiftly a week after it started dropping or when the ER team confirmed that the little embryo had attached itself in or right next to my right Fallopian tube, missing my uterus by essentially the equivalent of a football field.

Matt was able to leave work and meet me at Northwestern, and after just a couple of hours we got a room. Spent the next 8? 9? hours laying down and trying not to breathe because, as scary as this was, it would be worse if the pregnancy ruptured and destroyed my tube, ovary, worse...and Matt watched and waited, watched and waited: watched them take blood from my hand with a big needle and watched them give me 2, 3, or 4 pelvic exams and waited through the longest ultrasound ever and watched me break down when talking to the ob on-call and then watched me on hardcore valium and then waited for the surgery to be over at 12:30, then 1, then 1:30am all alone in the room where we got the first unofficial diagnosis of Dad's GBM.

And then the fucking badass team of women at Northwestern laparoscopically removed my right tube and I came back to the room sore but alive, and then I peed and came home and we ate leftover pizza and thai at 5:30 in the morning. And then I couldn't really move for a couple of days was very sore but then the incisions healed nicely, and today I got my dressings taken off.

But the REAL long story is that my sister and two friends came over to watch our dog while we were in the hospital. And my sister and my mom came over every day that weekend to watch me while Matt went to work. That two beautiful friends, who I was supposed to sing karaoke with the same night I had surgery, instead came over and listened to me and sat by me and held me. That I was able to take 2 days off of work to recover and still get paid. That my best friends, who have very big things happening in their lives right now, showed me incredible grace when I whined and cried about my crummy lot and gave me strength and gave me hope and sent us flowers. That my guardian angel advised me through it, from beginning to end. That the internet support group I've come to be closer to than many real-life people followed the whole thing, whispering gentle encouragements and allowing me to wallow, wallow, wallow in the stink of it all.

That my sweet puppy continues to save me without even knowing it.

That my husband still wants to be married to me...after this:

Acne from months of hormones plus valium = sexpot

That is the long story and this has been the longest story of my life.

Long story short, though:

My luck is terrible and my people are the best.

And, also, fuck this stupid-ass shit.