Miscarriage PTSD Strikes Again.

I noticed some blood when I wiped last night. It was faint and barely visible on the toilet paper. I saw more this morning, and it was enough to make it to my underwear. A quarter sized dollop of pink tinted vaginal/cervical fluid. Cue anxiety attack.

I called my doctor’s office right at 8:45 when they opened. The receptionist was very kind and gave me the rote response saved for panicky women who are barely spotting without any cramping. I heard none of it. I started crying. I told her that I was a infertility patient. I told her that I had two miscarriages in the past nine months. This got me a direct line with the nurse who was kind enough to schedule an ultrasound in just two short hours.

The ultrasound went well. The babe’s heart rate was at 166 BPM, and was measuring 49 mm well ahead of its 10 weeks and 6 days. The baby has fingers, toes, a heart, a spine. The baby even has a cute nose. It may be my nose, which is a bit of a tragedy, but I’ll love it and kiss it anyway. All parts are accounted for and trucking away. This did not stop the crying. The nurse was very, very nice, and it became clear that this was an effort to appease the hysterical infertile woman. I don’t care. It worked. I’m appeased.

So, what caused the spotting? I ran out of my progesterone in oil on Saturday. I had meant to call in a refill, but I didn’t catch them while they were open. So, I missed two doses. The medicine came this morning, and I promptly opened up the box and shot myself in the ass. I’m going to double dose on the PIO for today, and hope this light, light spotting goes away. It’s freaking me the fuck out!

Miscarriage PTSD* sucks.

*On the off chance that any of my readers are struggling with PTSD or know of individuals with PTSD, let me be clear that I do not think I have PTSD as defined by the DSM, nor do I want to make light of the condition. I do think that I have residual grief and trauma to work through regarding my two miscarriages, and I am easily triggered. However, I do believe this pales in comparison to what those with PTSD suffer through.

Phew.

Jesus H. Christ. That was the hardest one yet. Without further ado: Alive. Measuring 9 weeks and 2 days, a day ahead. Fetal heart rate ate 166 BPM.

I was convinced that it was over. You see, I’ve had diarrhea these past two days. I was sure that this signaled the demise of the baby. I conveniently ignored the fact that Big Guy also has some indigestion as well as the fact that we were around a woman this past weekend that was recovering

Ultrasound Parties.

Today, I find myself at nine weeks. That is one day longer that my first pregnancy which ended so abruptly and tragically on the table, with my feet in stirrups, and a wand in my vagina. I have my last ultrasound with my RE tomorrow at 3 pm, and I am hoping, praying, wishing, yearning, longing that everything will be okay. That the baby will measure at about an inch or so, the heartbeat will be in the upper 100’s, that the yolk sac will be small, small, small. These are the things I hope for before an ultrasound.

On the other hand, apparently, there is a movement afoot to celebrate the ultrasound. To treat it as a party centerpiece. I can’t even imagine. Have these people never faced tragedy? Grief? Pain? They must think that all pregnancies end in childbirth and a beautiful baby. I suppose that most do, really. Here on the other side of the statistic, where pain and grief are more common than parties and celebration, to think such a thing is outlandish. The hubris. The arrogance. Unbelievable, really.

Going in to this final ultrasound, I’m convinced that it will end poorly. I call this ultrasound PTSD. That damn wand rarely brings good news. Why would I be so lucky this time? The statistics tell me that the there is a good chance that I won’t be lucky. That this won’t be it. I guess I won’t know until tomorrow, and until tomorrow I will wait. I will wait to hear about our future, and about the life path we will be on.

Know this: I am not celebrating. I will not be Skyping the ultrasound with my nearest and dearest. I will not be wearing a party hat and singing with joy and exaltation. Instead, I will be shaking with fear and anxiety. I will be clutching Big Guy’s hand with trepidation and longing. This is the ultrasound of an infertile and a miscarrier. It isn’t a party.

We Saw a Heartbeat!

I’m six weeks today. The babe measured six weeks. And we saw a heartbeat. We heard the heartbeat! 115 beats per minute, which my doctor assures me is a fabulous rate for just six weeks. OMG. OMG. OMG.

So, two things. First, I want to apologize for my caterwauling and whining. Sorry to subject you to my baser qualities. It isn’t my rosier side, to say the least. Thank you for weathering my blustier posts. It is a bit of a storm.

Second, I have a confession. I broke my google ban. I know. I totally broke the ban. See, during my first pregnancy things were looking fabulous. Everything was on track, but the ultrasound at 7 weeks showed a yolk sac that seemed a bit too large. I mentioned it to Big Guy and he told me that I was not a trained professional and encouraged me to relax. They didn’t measure it, but they did measure the babe. From that I knew that it was too big. Too close to the dreaded 6 mm. At our next appointment, 8 weeks 6 days, the ultrasound revealed a missed miscarriage and a giant yolk sac that had ballooned out of control. It really was giant. She didn’t measure it then, either, because I was crying. Yes, please. Remove the probe from my vagina so my heart can break.

So, this morning I asked my RE how the yolk sac looked. He said it looked great. He measured it for me and said it was 4 mm. As soon as we walked out of the building the fear and anxiety started niggling at me. Big Guy and I had a conversation about how I should not use Google Scholar to research yolk sac diameters. Regardless of the size, we can’t change the outcome. We agreed. I agreed. I said NO.

And then I got home, promptly powered up my laptop, opened Google Scholar, and searched for articles concerning yolk sac diameters. It was a bit of a compulsion, I must admit. I was confident that I would only uncover bad news. I read two articles and then I made myself stop. One found the mean diameter to be 3.5 with a standard deviation of .5, and the other article found the mean to be 3.97 and the median to be 4.0. So, I am back on the google ban, but feeling infinitely relieved that the yolk sac is normal and not indicative of a chromosomal abnormality and impending miscarriage.

In this case, I am glad I looked it up because I would have spent three weeks freaking the fuck out. Not good. Of course, I also am extremely fortunate that the statistics were on my side this time. For that I am grateful.

Beta #2, Pregnancy #3

1,470. I’m really pregnant. That is a doubling time of 31.3 hours. I have an overachiever, it appears. The ultrasound is scheduled for December 18th. I will be 6 weeks 6 days. Deep, slow breaths. I’m going to make it. We are going to make it.