Tonight I read something that has moved me to write this post. I am absolutely fuming and I'll explain why in a bit. First, some background.
I've had a molar pregnancy (read back or google to find out what that is). I had believed myself, and wanted to be pregnant, experienced all the symptoms of a "normal" pregnancy and was devastated to find that I was not growing a baby but a pre-cancerous tumour.
For a very brief while I was quite upset at the idea of other women being pregnant with real babies and then choosing to terminate these pregnancies.
Like I say, it was a short while. Because whatever shit thing has happened to me, it has NOTHING to do with anyone else's choices. Any other women keeping or not keeping a pregnancy has no bearing on whether the baby I had planned for would be here or not. Their bodies, their choices.
The backdrop of my own personal fertility problems is the ongoing international (or is it just the US and UK?) backlash against abortion rights. It feels like every single day I read some ridiculous piece of news coming from Nadine Dorries, Personhood laws in Virginia and transvaginal probes in whatever bloody state has decided women need to be humiliated because they are pregnant and do not want to be. Or cannot be...
Yes, women will find themselves pregnant after having unprotected sex. So what? Isn't it better that a cluster of cells can be removed instead of coming into the world unwanted or into difficult circumstances? I don't know the "reasons" why most abortions take place and I don't care. But this section from this article in the Guardian today has brought me nearly to tears.
Here it is:
...the female representative of SPUC said: "The link with breast cancer is because if a woman has an abortion, particularly in her first pregnancy, changes have to take place in her breasts.
"If during that pregnancy she has an abortion … then it can leave those cells in the breasts in a kind of half-changed state and statistically, that increases her risk of developing breast cancer later on in life."
THIS IS NOT TRUE.
Part of the problem with my pregnancy, and this was my first pregnancy, was that the tumour produces huge levels of the pregnancy hormone human chorionic gonadatrophin (HCG). This is the hormone that makes you feel sick, tired and...makes your breasts bigger. Mine got pretty bloody big, let me tell you. I had an operation to remove the tumour (more of which later) and one of the signs my health was improving was that my breasts went down. I find it more than offensive that SPUC suggests that this procedure could cause me to get breast cancer. It could have saved my life. (Should the tumour have been untreated I may have miscarried it normally but that may not have happened potentially leading to an infection and you can do the rest).
That's just my personal situation.
Let's think about the wider picture. Did you know that one in four of every pregnancies end in miscarriage?
Some of these miscarriages will be the embryo/foetus spontaneously leaving the mother's body. But for many women, the foetus' death will only be discovered at an ultrasound scan (this is what happened to me). Not only do you have the horror of learning that the baby you have believed yourself to be growing, talking to and planning for has died, you now have to do something about it. There are two routes: medical management or surgical evacuation. And whatever the situation, these women will have had pregnancy symptoms and hormones which SPUC are suggesting gives you breast cancer.
Then there are the women who will learn at some point during their pregnancy that there is something wrong with the foetus, that it would never live outside their body, or the many other reasons why women end up having terminations of pregnancy.
What would SPUC have us do?
Not every single pregnancy is viable just as not every single pregnancy is wanted. SPUC and their compatriots would do well to remember that they are talking about ALL women when they make up these lies. There are many many of us out there who have had these procedures from medical necessity AND through choice. All are equally valid and none of us will accept the blame should we develop breast cancer later on in life.
Friday 23 March 2012
Thursday 9 February 2012
Being equal to something
A little while ago, well, probably 15 years or something, I read a Barbara Vine book called "The House of Stairs". I was probably too young to really understand it properly but there was a character called Bell in it and she was a bit of a funny one. When someone asked her to do something she didn't want to do she'd say, "I don't think I'd be equal to that". Other characters muse on what a funny expression it is but I think it makes perfect sense.
This probably won't be a nice post to read, nor to write, but I want to. Last night, after visiting the hospital I was very tired and scared and got very very upset. I had decided last week that I didn't think I'd be equal to having chemotherapy* and last night I talked about that with my partner. Well, I say "talked", it was more like bawling and wailing so hard I couldn't breathe. It was not the happiest hour of our relationship.
I felt that I simply couldn't face it. I'd had enough already. I was sick of having blood taken, and simply knowing about it all. I didn't ask for any of this. I just wanted what everyone else seems to have easily (and I know it's never that simple, but that's how it feels). It's terrifying to have the various chemotherapy drugs explained to you, terrifying to be told that if you need to be admitted you go in the very day they decide you should be. It feels that there should be another way - is there nothing *I* can do to help myself? Nothing herbal, holistic, meditative? It feels there should be an alternative.
There's so little choice too. It's just taken for granted that of course you'd be willing to go into hospital and endure the treatment. Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't you want to be well?
But it's not about that. It's about being equal to something. Being able to willingly submit yourself to the treatment regime. Willingly submit yourself to what someone else is telling you is good for you, when every part of you is screaming that it can't be. And again, the unfairness of it, that I just wanted what everyone else has comes back to taunt me.
So I decided I wouldn't. If they called me, I wouldn't go. I'd give it a week or two, more than is advised, then maybe I'd go in. Or I'd run away somewhere, to avoid the calls and letters, friends and family telling me, it's for your own good.
What about me? What about what I want? What about what I wanted? It's impossible not to keep coming back to this thing, to scream it, cry it out...All I wanted was a baby. Just one. I've never wanted three or four. Just one, to be my child, to raise, to love.
It was a hard night.
It was a night of processing all the information outside of myself, because to try to do it inside myself would be impossible. And I think, I hope, that perhaps now I might be equal to it. I am full of the most admiration for women that have gone through it. I can't imagine myself ever being so brave, so strong. And if I get that call, perhaps I will pack a bag and run away. I'm not saying I won't. But maybe it won't be the first thing I do.
*NB I am in the early stages of follow-up and so far the results do not suggest I will need to have further treatment. However, this is beyond my control and subject to the results of the fortnightly blood tests I will have until my HCG level reaches zero.
This probably won't be a nice post to read, nor to write, but I want to. Last night, after visiting the hospital I was very tired and scared and got very very upset. I had decided last week that I didn't think I'd be equal to having chemotherapy* and last night I talked about that with my partner. Well, I say "talked", it was more like bawling and wailing so hard I couldn't breathe. It was not the happiest hour of our relationship.
I felt that I simply couldn't face it. I'd had enough already. I was sick of having blood taken, and simply knowing about it all. I didn't ask for any of this. I just wanted what everyone else seems to have easily (and I know it's never that simple, but that's how it feels). It's terrifying to have the various chemotherapy drugs explained to you, terrifying to be told that if you need to be admitted you go in the very day they decide you should be. It feels that there should be another way - is there nothing *I* can do to help myself? Nothing herbal, holistic, meditative? It feels there should be an alternative.
There's so little choice too. It's just taken for granted that of course you'd be willing to go into hospital and endure the treatment. Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't you want to be well?
But it's not about that. It's about being equal to something. Being able to willingly submit yourself to the treatment regime. Willingly submit yourself to what someone else is telling you is good for you, when every part of you is screaming that it can't be. And again, the unfairness of it, that I just wanted what everyone else has comes back to taunt me.
So I decided I wouldn't. If they called me, I wouldn't go. I'd give it a week or two, more than is advised, then maybe I'd go in. Or I'd run away somewhere, to avoid the calls and letters, friends and family telling me, it's for your own good.
What about me? What about what I want? What about what I wanted? It's impossible not to keep coming back to this thing, to scream it, cry it out...All I wanted was a baby. Just one. I've never wanted three or four. Just one, to be my child, to raise, to love.
It was a hard night.
It was a night of processing all the information outside of myself, because to try to do it inside myself would be impossible. And I think, I hope, that perhaps now I might be equal to it. I am full of the most admiration for women that have gone through it. I can't imagine myself ever being so brave, so strong. And if I get that call, perhaps I will pack a bag and run away. I'm not saying I won't. But maybe it won't be the first thing I do.
*NB I am in the early stages of follow-up and so far the results do not suggest I will need to have further treatment. However, this is beyond my control and subject to the results of the fortnightly blood tests I will have until my HCG level reaches zero.
Sunday 29 January 2012
Kind Internet Peepul
This post is very nice. It's heart-warming and cheering.
It's about me, and my boyfriend. Nice, eh?
And I'd just like to say how lovely everyone I know on the internet has been since I was diagnosed. The support has meant so much.
I particularly like how traditional methods of communication - the post - and totally contemporary ones - Twitter, Facebook and Livejournal combine in such a way that most of my (handful) of cards are from friends I've made on the internet. There's lovely, non?
I think I'll leave it there. Maybe come back later when I'm not thinking about the Phish Food in my freezer.
It's about me, and my boyfriend. Nice, eh?
And I'd just like to say how lovely everyone I know on the internet has been since I was diagnosed. The support has meant so much.
I particularly like how traditional methods of communication - the post - and totally contemporary ones - Twitter, Facebook and Livejournal combine in such a way that most of my (handful) of cards are from friends I've made on the internet. There's lovely, non?
I think I'll leave it there. Maybe come back later when I'm not thinking about the Phish Food in my freezer.
Saturday 28 January 2012
Grief, loss, health and sadness
I'm not sure where this post is going to end up, but I want to write about what's in my head.
I am now two weeks post molar pregnancy diagnosis. This time two weeks ago, I think I was in bed, fully dressed under the covers, with my partner, crying my eyes out because I was terrified of having a general anaesthetic and an operation up my lady-bits.
Things have moved on since then and I've observed a few things about what has happened to me and the effect it has on other people.
When you lose something, when you are grieving, when you are ill people really *really* want you to be ok. To the extent that they don't really want what is happening, to be happening.
Those of you reading who have lost, been ill or been very sad will know that feeling when you realise "I have to experience Every. Single. Second. of this."
There's no running forward to the "nice bit" when you're "over it", or "better" or this is a "distant memory". This is happening to me, right now. It's difficult, painful, hard and there's no getting away from it. I wake up thinking about what happened, what is happening, and what may happen. That's a constant record playing in my head. I can't switch it off, sometimes I want to, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I can think "this has happened to me, I'm dealing with it, I'm ok." Other times I think, "THIS HAS HAPPENED TO ME! ME! Boring old me, who nothing of any consequence ever happens to! How did this happen? Why me?" And that goes on and on and on in my head for a long time.
No one can answer that question. No one can make it better, or take it away, or change it, or pull me through it so I don't notice it's happening. No one can do that. I just have to grind through every single second, of every single day until one day I wake up and can think about something else before I think about how I am going to get through the day dealing with the many things that are happening to me because I had a molar pregnancy.
But oh, people wish so hard they could make it better, take it away or change it. They wish so hard, and you have to be thankful that they're trying.
And yet, and yet. I don't want to be thankful. I don't want to be thankful to the GP telling me that this will be a distant memory in six months' time. Because she doesn't know, does she? She can't predict the future. No one can, and these circumstances are so awkward, so strange that no one knows what will happen. My levels may drop, drop, drop then plateau or even rise. And that means I will have to have chemotherapy. No one can give me a timescale, no one can tell me what will happen. No one can tell me what to do to make things go right. Because nothing can. I just have to sit it out and hope for the best. So trying to tell me that it's all going to be ok seems rather...ignorant. Unhelpful. Pointless. Insulting. Offensive.
Then there's the "it could be so much worse" camp. You know "At least you haven't lost a leg in a landmine!" "At least your partner doesn't beat you up!" "At least you have a house and a car and a job!" And you know what? I'm eternally grateful every single day of my life that I live where I live, that I'm from the cultural background I'm from, that I have the education I had, that my life is charmed, basically. I'm probably more grateful than most people because a large part of my life is dedicated to raising awareness of the people for whom struggle, abuse and brutality is daily business. But you know what? This is happening to me, right now. And I'm sorry that other people have harder lives, I am. But this is the hardest my life has ever been and I'm trying to deal with it, second by second. Making me feel guilty for finding it hard...doesn't help.
Finally, there's the "think positive" crowd. Don't think about the "bad" things that could happen. Focus on the good stuff! Keep smiling!
I don't much feel like smiling to order today. Strangely, I never did. And I really don't feel like smiling to make other people feel better about what is happening to me. It doesn't help, it just makes that shard of bitterness inside me get an inch bigger, every time.
Sometimes I don't feel like being brave, or strong. I don't feel either of those things right now. I wish this had never happened to me, and it has. I wish I could go away for a long time and come back and it was all over and my life was different and better. Or I wish I could swap with someone else for a day or two, then come back and get stuck in. But I can't, I just have to keep going.
I'll deal with this my way, and that's allowed. So if someone wants to tell me to "keep smiling" I'll have to point out, right now - I haven't got much I feel like smiling about. If I want to be scared about the possibilities of chemotherapy, or never being able to have children in the future, I'll be scared about that, thanks. And it's sad, but a fact, that nobody can do or say anything at all to make it go away.
I am now two weeks post molar pregnancy diagnosis. This time two weeks ago, I think I was in bed, fully dressed under the covers, with my partner, crying my eyes out because I was terrified of having a general anaesthetic and an operation up my lady-bits.
Things have moved on since then and I've observed a few things about what has happened to me and the effect it has on other people.
When you lose something, when you are grieving, when you are ill people really *really* want you to be ok. To the extent that they don't really want what is happening, to be happening.
Those of you reading who have lost, been ill or been very sad will know that feeling when you realise "I have to experience Every. Single. Second. of this."
There's no running forward to the "nice bit" when you're "over it", or "better" or this is a "distant memory". This is happening to me, right now. It's difficult, painful, hard and there's no getting away from it. I wake up thinking about what happened, what is happening, and what may happen. That's a constant record playing in my head. I can't switch it off, sometimes I want to, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I can think "this has happened to me, I'm dealing with it, I'm ok." Other times I think, "THIS HAS HAPPENED TO ME! ME! Boring old me, who nothing of any consequence ever happens to! How did this happen? Why me?" And that goes on and on and on in my head for a long time.
No one can answer that question. No one can make it better, or take it away, or change it, or pull me through it so I don't notice it's happening. No one can do that. I just have to grind through every single second, of every single day until one day I wake up and can think about something else before I think about how I am going to get through the day dealing with the many things that are happening to me because I had a molar pregnancy.
But oh, people wish so hard they could make it better, take it away or change it. They wish so hard, and you have to be thankful that they're trying.
And yet, and yet. I don't want to be thankful. I don't want to be thankful to the GP telling me that this will be a distant memory in six months' time. Because she doesn't know, does she? She can't predict the future. No one can, and these circumstances are so awkward, so strange that no one knows what will happen. My levels may drop, drop, drop then plateau or even rise. And that means I will have to have chemotherapy. No one can give me a timescale, no one can tell me what will happen. No one can tell me what to do to make things go right. Because nothing can. I just have to sit it out and hope for the best. So trying to tell me that it's all going to be ok seems rather...ignorant. Unhelpful. Pointless. Insulting. Offensive.
Then there's the "it could be so much worse" camp. You know "At least you haven't lost a leg in a landmine!" "At least your partner doesn't beat you up!" "At least you have a house and a car and a job!" And you know what? I'm eternally grateful every single day of my life that I live where I live, that I'm from the cultural background I'm from, that I have the education I had, that my life is charmed, basically. I'm probably more grateful than most people because a large part of my life is dedicated to raising awareness of the people for whom struggle, abuse and brutality is daily business. But you know what? This is happening to me, right now. And I'm sorry that other people have harder lives, I am. But this is the hardest my life has ever been and I'm trying to deal with it, second by second. Making me feel guilty for finding it hard...doesn't help.
Finally, there's the "think positive" crowd. Don't think about the "bad" things that could happen. Focus on the good stuff! Keep smiling!
I don't much feel like smiling to order today. Strangely, I never did. And I really don't feel like smiling to make other people feel better about what is happening to me. It doesn't help, it just makes that shard of bitterness inside me get an inch bigger, every time.
Sometimes I don't feel like being brave, or strong. I don't feel either of those things right now. I wish this had never happened to me, and it has. I wish I could go away for a long time and come back and it was all over and my life was different and better. Or I wish I could swap with someone else for a day or two, then come back and get stuck in. But I can't, I just have to keep going.
I'll deal with this my way, and that's allowed. So if someone wants to tell me to "keep smiling" I'll have to point out, right now - I haven't got much I feel like smiling about. If I want to be scared about the possibilities of chemotherapy, or never being able to have children in the future, I'll be scared about that, thanks. And it's sad, but a fact, that nobody can do or say anything at all to make it go away.
Thursday 26 January 2012
The to and the fro
After a molar pregnancy, you have to have your levels of HcG monitored to ensure that they fall to 0. If they don't fall to 0, this can mean there is tissue remaining in your body which is still producing the hormone and it shouldn't.
As this is such a rare condition there are only three centres in the country dealing with the monitoring. It's not done at your local hospital so the process is supposed to be that once your hospital thinks that's what you have, they check your histology/pathology, and then send the, er, samples, on to the centre for further checking, confirmation and follow up.
Charing Cross then take over your monitoring and post you out vials which you take to your GP who take your blood which you then post back to CX. They then analyse your blood for HCG and you can call and find out what you levels are. Your levels have to go down and if they don't, I believe you're then admitted to CX to start chemo.
As this is such a rare condition there are only three centres in the country dealing with the monitoring. It's not done at your local hospital so the process is supposed to be that once your hospital thinks that's what you have, they check your histology/pathology, and then send the, er, samples, on to the centre for further checking, confirmation and follow up.
Charing Cross then take over your monitoring and post you out vials which you take to your GP who take your blood which you then post back to CX. They then analyse your blood for HCG and you can call and find out what you levels are. Your levels have to go down and if they don't, I believe you're then admitted to CX to start chemo.
Wednesday 25 January 2012
Where I am today
Had follow-up with consultant/registrar today.
I'd called the office on Monday, as instructed when I left hospital last week to make sure I was in the system. The secretary was appallingly rude to me and made me cry A LOT. I was so distressed my partner (usually extremely mild-mannered) called her back to tell her off. She said that the consultant didn't deal with molar pregnancies and asked me where I got the number. I found this deeply offensive, as if I'd looked for gynaecologists in the Yellow Pages and decided to take a punt. She also took my phone number down wrong (only the first eight digits) and I had to force her to take it down properly. When she called me back she said, "Sorry we got off on the wrong foot" as if I'd started it, or been rude to her in any way. In reality, I just didn't want to be spoken to like I was a piece of shit on her shoe.
I don't like going to the doctor or having to deal with medical stuff at the best of time so I had a lot of concerns before the appointment. Waiting for an hour didn't help my nerves much either. In the event, I saw the registrar, who was actually very kind.
I've done a lot of research myself, so she didn't tell me much I didn't already know, although I did learn that my pre-op HCG levels were over 400,000 which is extremely high. No wonder I felt so incredibly ill all the time. I also told her that the secretary had been horrible to me and she apologised, and said it was my right to phone and ask questions.
Apparently, the referral to Charing Cross was made on the 19th, but CX hadn't heard of me on the 23rd so I've asked them if they've received the referral and hope to hear from them tomorrow. If not, it's back on the phone to Ms Stroppy-Pants. I hope the referral has arrived!
Am mainly hoping that my levels go down, down, down steadily as I obviously really don't want to end up having chemotherapy.
Yesterday was a pretty bad day. I went out for brunch with a friend which was lovely, but I felt so tired after. As I'd napped the day before, then slept badly at night, I didn't nap which meant I was so tired and feeling fragile. I was tired of it all, and just wanted to hide away somewhere until it went away. I still feel a bit like that, but I suppose it's not a realistic option. So just trying to stay calm and hoping so hard the levels go down quickly on their own. GP on Friday for the follow-up there as they're the ones that should be doing the blood tests. I've put together a "pack" of information for the GP, with a letter from me with the latest details, the discharge letter from the hospital and a leaflet from The Miscarriage Association about Molar Pregnancy as apparently lots of doctors have never heard of it. See? Tiring. Doing the thinking for everyone else.
I'd called the office on Monday, as instructed when I left hospital last week to make sure I was in the system. The secretary was appallingly rude to me and made me cry A LOT. I was so distressed my partner (usually extremely mild-mannered) called her back to tell her off. She said that the consultant didn't deal with molar pregnancies and asked me where I got the number. I found this deeply offensive, as if I'd looked for gynaecologists in the Yellow Pages and decided to take a punt. She also took my phone number down wrong (only the first eight digits) and I had to force her to take it down properly. When she called me back she said, "Sorry we got off on the wrong foot" as if I'd started it, or been rude to her in any way. In reality, I just didn't want to be spoken to like I was a piece of shit on her shoe.
I don't like going to the doctor or having to deal with medical stuff at the best of time so I had a lot of concerns before the appointment. Waiting for an hour didn't help my nerves much either. In the event, I saw the registrar, who was actually very kind.
I've done a lot of research myself, so she didn't tell me much I didn't already know, although I did learn that my pre-op HCG levels were over 400,000 which is extremely high. No wonder I felt so incredibly ill all the time. I also told her that the secretary had been horrible to me and she apologised, and said it was my right to phone and ask questions.
Apparently, the referral to Charing Cross was made on the 19th, but CX hadn't heard of me on the 23rd so I've asked them if they've received the referral and hope to hear from them tomorrow. If not, it's back on the phone to Ms Stroppy-Pants. I hope the referral has arrived!
Am mainly hoping that my levels go down, down, down steadily as I obviously really don't want to end up having chemotherapy.
Yesterday was a pretty bad day. I went out for brunch with a friend which was lovely, but I felt so tired after. As I'd napped the day before, then slept badly at night, I didn't nap which meant I was so tired and feeling fragile. I was tired of it all, and just wanted to hide away somewhere until it went away. I still feel a bit like that, but I suppose it's not a realistic option. So just trying to stay calm and hoping so hard the levels go down quickly on their own. GP on Friday for the follow-up there as they're the ones that should be doing the blood tests. I've put together a "pack" of information for the GP, with a letter from me with the latest details, the discharge letter from the hospital and a leaflet from The Miscarriage Association about Molar Pregnancy as apparently lots of doctors have never heard of it. See? Tiring. Doing the thinking for everyone else.
Sunday 22 January 2012
New Year
So far, 2012 has been pretty shit. I've felt so horribly ill with severe pregnancy symptoms (although not vomiting) and then we get to Saturday the 14th and the horrible news about having a molar pregnancy. And then going to hospital, starting a miscarriage, having the D&C operation, having tachycardia and a temperature after, staying in instead of going home. FINALLY getting home and all the things that have happened since then. This was a week ago.
Then there are the things I was expecting to happen in 2012. I was finally going to be a mummy, and have a little baby of my own to love and look after. At Christmas I hugged my secret to me and thought about having my baby to play with and entertain my family that time next year. Couldn't wait.
It didn't really matter that there was going to be huge upheaval at work, I wasn't going to be there for long and when I did come back, things would've settled down and hey, I was going to have a baby. That would be my main focus.
And tomorrow is Chinese New Year, and I think I'd like to start 2012 again. Well, not again, but necessarily with a completely different mindset. Lots of things aren't going to happen now, and lots of things are, which I will have to deal with properly.
What's on my mind today is that I will probably be going to hospital a lot and keeping my fingers tightly crossed that my levels of the pregnancy hormone drop through the floor. If they don't, I'll have to have chemotherapy. Which is really frightening, but I'll cross that bridge, if and when I come to it. I sincerely hope I fly down the motorway right past the chemotherapy bridge! But, if I have to do it, I'll have to do it. I've got to face it all and face it down.
It's the year of the dragon, which inspires me a lot. I'm glad it's not the year of the rooster which it was the year I was born!
I like dragons. I like them for lots of reasons. They breathe fire, they can spread their huge wings and fly away from danger and trouble. Or, they can fly towards it, knowing they have the tools to protect themselves and others. Strong women are often called dragons, for saying what they want, what they expect and for not being afraid to be their real, powerful selves.
It's not going to be an easy year, I have so much in front of me, but I'm going to do my best. And be a dragon.
Then there are the things I was expecting to happen in 2012. I was finally going to be a mummy, and have a little baby of my own to love and look after. At Christmas I hugged my secret to me and thought about having my baby to play with and entertain my family that time next year. Couldn't wait.
It didn't really matter that there was going to be huge upheaval at work, I wasn't going to be there for long and when I did come back, things would've settled down and hey, I was going to have a baby. That would be my main focus.
And tomorrow is Chinese New Year, and I think I'd like to start 2012 again. Well, not again, but necessarily with a completely different mindset. Lots of things aren't going to happen now, and lots of things are, which I will have to deal with properly.
What's on my mind today is that I will probably be going to hospital a lot and keeping my fingers tightly crossed that my levels of the pregnancy hormone drop through the floor. If they don't, I'll have to have chemotherapy. Which is really frightening, but I'll cross that bridge, if and when I come to it. I sincerely hope I fly down the motorway right past the chemotherapy bridge! But, if I have to do it, I'll have to do it. I've got to face it all and face it down.
It's the year of the dragon, which inspires me a lot. I'm glad it's not the year of the rooster which it was the year I was born!
I like dragons. I like them for lots of reasons. They breathe fire, they can spread their huge wings and fly away from danger and trouble. Or, they can fly towards it, knowing they have the tools to protect themselves and others. Strong women are often called dragons, for saying what they want, what they expect and for not being afraid to be their real, powerful selves.
It's not going to be an easy year, I have so much in front of me, but I'm going to do my best. And be a dragon.
Friday 20 January 2012
Recovery - Monday pm
I was aware of having vague dreams about people from work and then came too properly. It was 5.45 so I'd been under about half an hour, if that.
There was a nurse on either side of me and one was holding my hand. They were called Vicky and Amy. Now, I've never been to a spa, but I don't know why you'd pay lots of money for that when you can just have an operation and have a lovely time in recovery. It is AMAZING.
I think I said I'd been dreaming about work, and one of the nurses said something about having time off and I said "Too right, I'm going to sit on my fucking sofa" (when I told my mum this she told me off for swearing. But I was on drugs!!)
I probably dozed off for a bit as the anaesthetic man came and said hello and I said I was ok. Then the surgeon came and said it all went well and I said, "No holes or haemorrages?" and she said no. Wow, bad luck really does have a limit!
So I was just lying on my back, holding hands with the nurse with a blood pressure thing on my right arm going off every few minutes.
Then I said I was cold so they told me to put my hands inside the covers and I said, "But I won't be able to hold your hand then." and they said I'd be warmer, so I did.
My left hand was hurting with the canula so I was saying how much that was hurting, and probably because it was closer to my brain. I think I asked what painkillers I'd had and they said I'd had paracetamol, codeine, diclofenac and fentamil. Fentamil is synthetic morphine. I asked what morphine was made of and they said poppies which I did know. Duh.
I asked for more painkillers because I could feel my tummy and they put it in the back of my hand. I just chatted randomly with one of the nurses and complained about the canula and about being cold. I ended up with three blankets tucked up round my shoulder and I got them to rearrange the blood pressure cuff because it was pressing on the bruise from where I'd had the blood taken before. I also kept asking for water because I was bloody thirsty and knew I needed to wee before they'd let me go home. Always thinking ahead, me. ;)
So eventually, I went back to my bay.
There was a nurse on either side of me and one was holding my hand. They were called Vicky and Amy. Now, I've never been to a spa, but I don't know why you'd pay lots of money for that when you can just have an operation and have a lovely time in recovery. It is AMAZING.
I think I said I'd been dreaming about work, and one of the nurses said something about having time off and I said "Too right, I'm going to sit on my fucking sofa" (when I told my mum this she told me off for swearing. But I was on drugs!!)
I probably dozed off for a bit as the anaesthetic man came and said hello and I said I was ok. Then the surgeon came and said it all went well and I said, "No holes or haemorrages?" and she said no. Wow, bad luck really does have a limit!
So I was just lying on my back, holding hands with the nurse with a blood pressure thing on my right arm going off every few minutes.
Then I said I was cold so they told me to put my hands inside the covers and I said, "But I won't be able to hold your hand then." and they said I'd be warmer, so I did.
My left hand was hurting with the canula so I was saying how much that was hurting, and probably because it was closer to my brain. I think I asked what painkillers I'd had and they said I'd had paracetamol, codeine, diclofenac and fentamil. Fentamil is synthetic morphine. I asked what morphine was made of and they said poppies which I did know. Duh.
I asked for more painkillers because I could feel my tummy and they put it in the back of my hand. I just chatted randomly with one of the nurses and complained about the canula and about being cold. I ended up with three blankets tucked up round my shoulder and I got them to rearrange the blood pressure cuff because it was pressing on the bruise from where I'd had the blood taken before. I also kept asking for water because I was bloody thirsty and knew I needed to wee before they'd let me go home. Always thinking ahead, me. ;)
So eventually, I went back to my bay.
Monday - continued
After the blood tests the midwife said we should go home for a couple of hours and return to the ward at half twelve. Unfortunately the hospital and our house are on completely the opposite sides of the city with a lot of traffic inbetween. Fortunately, my lovely brother and his family live close to the hospital. I texted my brother asking if we'd be able to come round and he jumped straight in the car. I have a wonderful family. :)
So he picked us up and took us back to his for an hour and a half. I was in a lot of pain, but the paracetamol kicked in and I just lay on their sofa and chatted while Rob played with our nephew. It really really helped us both feel a lot better to get out of the hospital, see people who know and care about us and see the baby. I feel a bit strange about babies at the moment but I just don't think about it too much and it's ok.
At 12.10 my brother took us back to the ward. It's a big, separate unit so we walked down to the day case section. It's a bit of a funny set up really as there's a waiting area in the ward where we waited for an hour, with women coming back from surgery, going and coming back from meetings with the anaesthetists and all sorts. I had the most stuff! Haha.
I had a quick meeting with a nurse where she gave me my identity bracelets - I had my own barcode! - and took my blood pressure, heart rate and temperature. The machines kept breaking down so it took longer than it should and we had to go to the canteeny bit as there were no private meeting rooms. I felt quite calm at this point and the nurse was brisk but kind.
Back to waiting waiting waiting. We spoke briefly with a couple of the other women who explained that it was really busy, and a woman who'd had her operation came to sit with us as she was being discharged and they needed the bed so badly she had to finish recovering in the waiting area! I was partly horrified, but partly glad that you *could* recover like this, if you see what I mean. It was all a bit hectic.
Then I heard my name mentioned, probably about 2pm or half two, so we'd been waiting at least and hour and a half. A brisk HCA (old auxiliary nurse?) came and took me to a two-bed bay, made up a bed and told me to put a gown on. Things were happening. Then a surgeon came in, who I'm sure said she was called Dr Fookay. Anyway, she went through what was going to happen very quickly so we had to ask her to repeat herself and she slowed down. With the problem I had there was more of a chance of a haemorrage, so I was more likely to need a blood transfusion, and more liking to have a perforation requiring a laparascopy and laparotomy which would involve going through my bellybutton to stitch it, or through my stomach. So I could wake up with holes in me and a transfusion going through. I was feeling pretty unlucky so I said I supposed that would happen. So then I had to sign saying I understood what was happening. I was a bit disappointed that Mr Smith (the consultant we met briefly on Saturday) wouldn't be doing the operation as I'd been added to the list but at that point I didn't really care enough to say anything.
The surgeon left and the HCA returned, realised that the bed wasn't suitable for surgery so I was moved to the other one. I put my dressing gown over the hospital gown and kept my tracksuit bottoms and socks on. So we returned to waiting...
All day I was texting, tweeting and playing scrabble with people which really helped.
I think at about 3pm the pain started up again, really bad. I was crying and groaning and Rob was amazing, rubbing my back and helping me through it. My bed bay was opposite the front doors to the ward so we had pulled the curtain round. Rob went to find a nurse to give me some painkillers and I got two paracetamol which let me sleep for an hour. When I woke up Rob was asleep so I let him sleep but then accidentally kicked him. Oops. Then the pain started up AGAIN, even worse so I started crying and groaning again. It felt so unfair that I was in hospital, not pregnant at all, about to have an operation AND in pain. It was too much. The nurses heard me this time and they kept asking "Why are you crying?" (nicely) but it was like - wouldn't you be crying? It was amazing that I had moments when I wasn't crying, really! So they offered me codeine. I was a bit reluctant to take it as the last time I'd had it I vomited and that really was the last thing I needed. I think this was about 4.15pm. They gave me one which really helped calm me down and took the pain away. Then at 5pm the HCA came and said I was going down to theatre. Wow!
I had a quick wee and took off my clothes. I said I wanted to go down on the bed because I couldn't really walk so I had to lie flat on the bed with the gown undone and not lying on it at all. The HCA told me to keep my hand under the covers to keep my veins wide for the canula. Good tip.
So she took me down with a porter called James. She said she was taking me because she had the same birthday as me. Coincidence! And she and James nattered about how long they'd worked in the hospital. We went down towards the day case ward and right into the theatre and through what looked like a server room into a little ante room. Barely bigger than the bed.
There was a male anaethetist called Dr Wil-something, a brown anaethestist who I want to call Lola and a theatre nurse called something Spicer. They introduced themselves. The male one said he had to make sure I was fit and healthy so asked about implants, metal and what not which I don't have. Then he said he'd forget it all so nurse Spicer asked again.
While they were talking to me the HCA had a grip on my left arm and Lola was wiping the back of my hand to put the canula in so I braced my head on the bed. I think my eyes probably welled up as they asked if I was OK but I was losing my voice because I was scared so I could say was "frightened". Then they put a mask on me and told me to breathe deeply and I could tell the man was putting syringes of stuff into the back of my hand. My face started prickling so I think I lifted my right hand to touch it and then they said it was normal.
Then I started waking up...
So he picked us up and took us back to his for an hour and a half. I was in a lot of pain, but the paracetamol kicked in and I just lay on their sofa and chatted while Rob played with our nephew. It really really helped us both feel a lot better to get out of the hospital, see people who know and care about us and see the baby. I feel a bit strange about babies at the moment but I just don't think about it too much and it's ok.
At 12.10 my brother took us back to the ward. It's a big, separate unit so we walked down to the day case section. It's a bit of a funny set up really as there's a waiting area in the ward where we waited for an hour, with women coming back from surgery, going and coming back from meetings with the anaesthetists and all sorts. I had the most stuff! Haha.
I had a quick meeting with a nurse where she gave me my identity bracelets - I had my own barcode! - and took my blood pressure, heart rate and temperature. The machines kept breaking down so it took longer than it should and we had to go to the canteeny bit as there were no private meeting rooms. I felt quite calm at this point and the nurse was brisk but kind.
Back to waiting waiting waiting. We spoke briefly with a couple of the other women who explained that it was really busy, and a woman who'd had her operation came to sit with us as she was being discharged and they needed the bed so badly she had to finish recovering in the waiting area! I was partly horrified, but partly glad that you *could* recover like this, if you see what I mean. It was all a bit hectic.
Then I heard my name mentioned, probably about 2pm or half two, so we'd been waiting at least and hour and a half. A brisk HCA (old auxiliary nurse?) came and took me to a two-bed bay, made up a bed and told me to put a gown on. Things were happening. Then a surgeon came in, who I'm sure said she was called Dr Fookay. Anyway, she went through what was going to happen very quickly so we had to ask her to repeat herself and she slowed down. With the problem I had there was more of a chance of a haemorrage, so I was more likely to need a blood transfusion, and more liking to have a perforation requiring a laparascopy and laparotomy which would involve going through my bellybutton to stitch it, or through my stomach. So I could wake up with holes in me and a transfusion going through. I was feeling pretty unlucky so I said I supposed that would happen. So then I had to sign saying I understood what was happening. I was a bit disappointed that Mr Smith (the consultant we met briefly on Saturday) wouldn't be doing the operation as I'd been added to the list but at that point I didn't really care enough to say anything.
The surgeon left and the HCA returned, realised that the bed wasn't suitable for surgery so I was moved to the other one. I put my dressing gown over the hospital gown and kept my tracksuit bottoms and socks on. So we returned to waiting...
All day I was texting, tweeting and playing scrabble with people which really helped.
I think at about 3pm the pain started up again, really bad. I was crying and groaning and Rob was amazing, rubbing my back and helping me through it. My bed bay was opposite the front doors to the ward so we had pulled the curtain round. Rob went to find a nurse to give me some painkillers and I got two paracetamol which let me sleep for an hour. When I woke up Rob was asleep so I let him sleep but then accidentally kicked him. Oops. Then the pain started up AGAIN, even worse so I started crying and groaning again. It felt so unfair that I was in hospital, not pregnant at all, about to have an operation AND in pain. It was too much. The nurses heard me this time and they kept asking "Why are you crying?" (nicely) but it was like - wouldn't you be crying? It was amazing that I had moments when I wasn't crying, really! So they offered me codeine. I was a bit reluctant to take it as the last time I'd had it I vomited and that really was the last thing I needed. I think this was about 4.15pm. They gave me one which really helped calm me down and took the pain away. Then at 5pm the HCA came and said I was going down to theatre. Wow!
I had a quick wee and took off my clothes. I said I wanted to go down on the bed because I couldn't really walk so I had to lie flat on the bed with the gown undone and not lying on it at all. The HCA told me to keep my hand under the covers to keep my veins wide for the canula. Good tip.
So she took me down with a porter called James. She said she was taking me because she had the same birthday as me. Coincidence! And she and James nattered about how long they'd worked in the hospital. We went down towards the day case ward and right into the theatre and through what looked like a server room into a little ante room. Barely bigger than the bed.
There was a male anaethetist called Dr Wil-something, a brown anaethestist who I want to call Lola and a theatre nurse called something Spicer. They introduced themselves. The male one said he had to make sure I was fit and healthy so asked about implants, metal and what not which I don't have. Then he said he'd forget it all so nurse Spicer asked again.
While they were talking to me the HCA had a grip on my left arm and Lola was wiping the back of my hand to put the canula in so I braced my head on the bed. I think my eyes probably welled up as they asked if I was OK but I was losing my voice because I was scared so I could say was "frightened". Then they put a mask on me and told me to breathe deeply and I could tell the man was putting syringes of stuff into the back of my hand. My face started prickling so I think I lifted my right hand to touch it and then they said it was normal.
Then I started waking up...
Wednesday 18 January 2012
Monday - ERPC
Monday morning I had to report to the Early Pregnancy Unit at Southmead hospital with a view to being admitted to the ward for the operation.
We were taken by my lovely mum and had my many bags of dressing gown, pyjamas, food etc. When you get there you take a number and fill out a sheet and then the receptionist books you in. You sit on chairs in a corridor.
It's great that there is this clinic, but a corridor full of tense, sometimes crying women, isn't terribly marvellous. Particularly when like me I knew there was no hope but for some of them there may have been.
Anyway, waiting waiting waiting. Went and told the receptionist all the details that were on the form and then returned to waiting.
Finally called by the midwife to the scan room where she saw that I had a molar and had been referred by the consultant. She said I shouldn't have had to wait and as I already had my scan pictures I didn't need to be rescanned. I was glad I didn't have to have another scan. So we went to a little sitting room to wait for another midwife to come and talk to us.
She was called Cathy and really really amazingly lovely. I was drinking apple juice because I felt sick but she told me I wasn't supposed to and was a bit annoyed no one had told me to fast. All I'd had was some water and a frusli bar so it was ok.
At first she said about the internet sometimes giving you too much information, but she then also explained that the scan could've shown a missed miscarriage and all my fears about ongoing treatment and chemotherapy could be entirely unfounded. I don't know how long we were there. Then we had to go to a medical room so she could take some blood. It was probably about this point that I started getting quite bad pain in my back and stomach. She offered me some painkillers but I said I was ok. She had to take some blood to go to the ward. I think it was about this point that I started getting quite frightened and worried about the operation.
She went to take blood from my left arm which was really painful and I felt sick anyway and it just made me feel really disgusting and sick. And it didn't work. So I started crying really hard and feeling like I was going to lose control. So she gave us a few minutes and I asked for some painkillers. Rob gave me a lovely hug and a pep talk and she came back and said she had to do it but if she couldn't from the other arm she'd take me to the ward for the doctor to do it as I was getting distressed and the doctor would do it right. But she got there in the end, although I've now got a horrible bruise. I was upset because I'd thought the giving blood bit would be the easiest bit of it and it was horrible and difficult and upsetting. But in reality, it was the hardest bit!
We were taken by my lovely mum and had my many bags of dressing gown, pyjamas, food etc. When you get there you take a number and fill out a sheet and then the receptionist books you in. You sit on chairs in a corridor.
It's great that there is this clinic, but a corridor full of tense, sometimes crying women, isn't terribly marvellous. Particularly when like me I knew there was no hope but for some of them there may have been.
Anyway, waiting waiting waiting. Went and told the receptionist all the details that were on the form and then returned to waiting.
Finally called by the midwife to the scan room where she saw that I had a molar and had been referred by the consultant. She said I shouldn't have had to wait and as I already had my scan pictures I didn't need to be rescanned. I was glad I didn't have to have another scan. So we went to a little sitting room to wait for another midwife to come and talk to us.
She was called Cathy and really really amazingly lovely. I was drinking apple juice because I felt sick but she told me I wasn't supposed to and was a bit annoyed no one had told me to fast. All I'd had was some water and a frusli bar so it was ok.
At first she said about the internet sometimes giving you too much information, but she then also explained that the scan could've shown a missed miscarriage and all my fears about ongoing treatment and chemotherapy could be entirely unfounded. I don't know how long we were there. Then we had to go to a medical room so she could take some blood. It was probably about this point that I started getting quite bad pain in my back and stomach. She offered me some painkillers but I said I was ok. She had to take some blood to go to the ward. I think it was about this point that I started getting quite frightened and worried about the operation.
She went to take blood from my left arm which was really painful and I felt sick anyway and it just made me feel really disgusting and sick. And it didn't work. So I started crying really hard and feeling like I was going to lose control. So she gave us a few minutes and I asked for some painkillers. Rob gave me a lovely hug and a pep talk and she came back and said she had to do it but if she couldn't from the other arm she'd take me to the ward for the doctor to do it as I was getting distressed and the doctor would do it right. But she got there in the end, although I've now got a horrible bruise. I was upset because I'd thought the giving blood bit would be the easiest bit of it and it was horrible and difficult and upsetting. But in reality, it was the hardest bit!
Sunday 15 January 2012
How this feels
I've never had a "normal" pregnancy so I don't know if this is normal or not. Well, obviously it's not "normal".
My breasts are very very sore, which is supposed to be normal for early pregnancy.
My abdomen is swollen and tender. At points I've described it (before I knew it was gone wrong) as like having a brick in my stomach and a really strong dragging down sensation. It's not painful like period pains, but a lot of pressure which is very uncomfortable. My lower back also hurts. When I thought it was normal, I assumed it was stretching pain, or trapped wind (the glamours of pregnancy). I think it is stretching pain as the tissue in there is growing very fast, much faster than a normal pregnancy, and occupying all of the space in my uterus. It's measured on the scan as about 12cm by 6cm by 12cm I think. Not sure what that means in terms of the shape of it but it's taking up a fair amount of space.
For some reason, it is affecting my walking. For the last week I've found walking any distance challenging, getting in and out of the car and some of the pedal controls difficult. Not painful, just requiring some thought. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's pressing on some bits it shouldn't? Also, it's a lot bigger than a 10 week normal pregnancy would be, so if the equivalent was much further through perhaps it will feel like this. I've just got my dinner from the kitchen and each step back has been painful and difficult. I am looking forward to feeling like I can walk from my living room to my kitchen without thinking too hard about it!
I assume it's also pressing on my bladder and bowel as those functions have both gone a bit wonky.
And of course, in all the pregnancy books, websites, anything that goes remotely weird once you've had a positive test is ascribed to "just one of those things of early pregnancy" so you don't think to question it.
My breasts are very very sore, which is supposed to be normal for early pregnancy.
My abdomen is swollen and tender. At points I've described it (before I knew it was gone wrong) as like having a brick in my stomach and a really strong dragging down sensation. It's not painful like period pains, but a lot of pressure which is very uncomfortable. My lower back also hurts. When I thought it was normal, I assumed it was stretching pain, or trapped wind (the glamours of pregnancy). I think it is stretching pain as the tissue in there is growing very fast, much faster than a normal pregnancy, and occupying all of the space in my uterus. It's measured on the scan as about 12cm by 6cm by 12cm I think. Not sure what that means in terms of the shape of it but it's taking up a fair amount of space.
For some reason, it is affecting my walking. For the last week I've found walking any distance challenging, getting in and out of the car and some of the pedal controls difficult. Not painful, just requiring some thought. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's pressing on some bits it shouldn't? Also, it's a lot bigger than a 10 week normal pregnancy would be, so if the equivalent was much further through perhaps it will feel like this. I've just got my dinner from the kitchen and each step back has been painful and difficult. I am looking forward to feeling like I can walk from my living room to my kitchen without thinking too hard about it!
I assume it's also pressing on my bladder and bowel as those functions have both gone a bit wonky.
And of course, in all the pregnancy books, websites, anything that goes remotely weird once you've had a positive test is ascribed to "just one of those things of early pregnancy" so you don't think to question it.
The 0.15%
I'm not a brave person. I avoid anything that might bring even the most temporary of unpleasantnesses to my life, where I can. I've never been on a rollercoaster, I don't like horror films and I stopped drinking because I can't stand hangovers. Anything for an easy life, me.
So when we decided to try to have a baby, that was kind of a big deal. I know a few women who suffered very badly with morning sickness and feeling terrible. But hey, you get a baby at the end, so it's ALL WORTH IT. Right? Right.
Early December 2011 - positive pregnancy test! Happy days, happy days.
These are the questions that ran through my mind - when will it be born? Will it be a boy or a girl? Will it look like me or it's dad? How tired does *that* tired feel like?
But then...being as risk averse as I am, plenty of research had gone into this decision. So I knew that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage (or is it one in four women who get pregnant have a miscarriage? Unclear, but hey, it's LOTS). There are early miscarriages, missed miscarriages, late miscarriages and so on. I read up on what they feel like, how you know it is happening to you. I felt prepared. I'd been taking folic acid for weeks. I joined a "Due in August" ante-natal thread on Mumsnet. This was it.
I had symptoms that are those of early pregnancy and I did three tests in total all positive.
I was aware that you could get a private dating scan but I thought I'd wait a while, make sure things were settling down before splashing out on the fee. Money was tight just before Xmas and if things were going to go wrong, what was the point in paying at this early stage? So I sat tight, all seemed ok and so I decided to book an early scan for Saturday 14 January just to make sure everything was ok.
You say this, and you think about the possible bad outcomes of everything not being ok. But in reality, nothing can prepare you for it. Because deep down, you really really want everything to be ok. And I'd pretty much done everything "right". Don't smoke, don't drink, don't take drugs and eat well.
Get to the private hospital where an amusing incident proved that people are the same everywhere you go, money's got nothing to do with it. The appointment had been booked for the wrong time so we had to go and come back an hour later.
Return we do, after about two questions - name and date of birth, I hop up on the bed thing, roll up my top and we get scanning...
I look at the screen...is that a head?
The midwife asks if I've been feeling particularly sick. Nope, not really. And why are we having chitchat? I want to look at a spine and tiny limbs!
She said, "I'm very sorry, but this is a molar pregnancy".
And that's it. My life, my partner's life, my family's life, is changed forever.
Ten minutes later we're out of there but not before a fax and phonecall is made to Southmead hospital telling them I'll be in first thing on Monday to be booked in for a D&C. The consultant gynaecologist there came to see us. Fortunately he is on duty so he's met me, and added me to his list for Monday, or maybe first thing Tuesday. Consultants are good. The midwife explained I will be contacted by a clinic in London, printed off pictures of my insides with information to take to hospital and off we go.
Best £99 we ever spent.
At first I felt ok. Ok, this happens, I'll have an operation it'll be over and then we can think again.
My main fear, initially was the surgery. I've never had an operation before. I am scared of hospitals. I am scared of having surgery on my private parts. I am terrified of the pain I will experience afterwards.
Then I switched on the laptop.
A complete molar pregnancy, which is what I have, means there was never an embryo, just rapidly growing placental tissue and accompanying hormones mimicking pregnancy. Making a fool of me. Making a liar of me. And I don't tell lies.
And then, and then, there are the statistics. 0.15% of pregnancies will be molar (of women who get pregnant. Stupid statistics). And so, if I'm unlucky enough to be one of those women maybe I'll be unlucky enough to be one of the 15% who experience this:
After the D&C operation to clear out the uterus, you are contacted by your regional molar pregnancy centre who will monitor your levels of bHCG hormones. This has to drop to an acceptable level over six or so months. They send you sample kits and you have to post them your urine every fortnight. Sometimes blood tests at your Drs too. If the levels don't drop, it means they then have to make them drop. By giving you chemotherapy. Because the cells behave like cancer.
It's all a bit too much to take in really.
I feel angry, devastated, lost.
A while back, before I was even pregnant I read an article about people not wanting August babies because they don't cope as well at school. These people paused trying for a baby during November to assure any future offspring would have the best possible chances, academically. Even then that made me cry. How lovely it must be to be so assured of your fertility. I will not be having an academically sub-standard baby in August.
My mum also said "everything happens for a reason" but it doesn't, does it? What possible reason could there be for half the nasty, cruel, unpleasant things that happen to us? There's no reason for this. It's bad luck. The worst.
So when we decided to try to have a baby, that was kind of a big deal. I know a few women who suffered very badly with morning sickness and feeling terrible. But hey, you get a baby at the end, so it's ALL WORTH IT. Right? Right.
Early December 2011 - positive pregnancy test! Happy days, happy days.
These are the questions that ran through my mind - when will it be born? Will it be a boy or a girl? Will it look like me or it's dad? How tired does *that* tired feel like?
But then...being as risk averse as I am, plenty of research had gone into this decision. So I knew that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage (or is it one in four women who get pregnant have a miscarriage? Unclear, but hey, it's LOTS). There are early miscarriages, missed miscarriages, late miscarriages and so on. I read up on what they feel like, how you know it is happening to you. I felt prepared. I'd been taking folic acid for weeks. I joined a "Due in August" ante-natal thread on Mumsnet. This was it.
I had symptoms that are those of early pregnancy and I did three tests in total all positive.
I was aware that you could get a private dating scan but I thought I'd wait a while, make sure things were settling down before splashing out on the fee. Money was tight just before Xmas and if things were going to go wrong, what was the point in paying at this early stage? So I sat tight, all seemed ok and so I decided to book an early scan for Saturday 14 January just to make sure everything was ok.
You say this, and you think about the possible bad outcomes of everything not being ok. But in reality, nothing can prepare you for it. Because deep down, you really really want everything to be ok. And I'd pretty much done everything "right". Don't smoke, don't drink, don't take drugs and eat well.
Get to the private hospital where an amusing incident proved that people are the same everywhere you go, money's got nothing to do with it. The appointment had been booked for the wrong time so we had to go and come back an hour later.
Return we do, after about two questions - name and date of birth, I hop up on the bed thing, roll up my top and we get scanning...
I look at the screen...is that a head?
The midwife asks if I've been feeling particularly sick. Nope, not really. And why are we having chitchat? I want to look at a spine and tiny limbs!
She said, "I'm very sorry, but this is a molar pregnancy".
And that's it. My life, my partner's life, my family's life, is changed forever.
Ten minutes later we're out of there but not before a fax and phonecall is made to Southmead hospital telling them I'll be in first thing on Monday to be booked in for a D&C. The consultant gynaecologist there came to see us. Fortunately he is on duty so he's met me, and added me to his list for Monday, or maybe first thing Tuesday. Consultants are good. The midwife explained I will be contacted by a clinic in London, printed off pictures of my insides with information to take to hospital and off we go.
Best £99 we ever spent.
At first I felt ok. Ok, this happens, I'll have an operation it'll be over and then we can think again.
My main fear, initially was the surgery. I've never had an operation before. I am scared of hospitals. I am scared of having surgery on my private parts. I am terrified of the pain I will experience afterwards.
Then I switched on the laptop.
A complete molar pregnancy, which is what I have, means there was never an embryo, just rapidly growing placental tissue and accompanying hormones mimicking pregnancy. Making a fool of me. Making a liar of me. And I don't tell lies.
And then, and then, there are the statistics. 0.15% of pregnancies will be molar (of women who get pregnant. Stupid statistics). And so, if I'm unlucky enough to be one of those women maybe I'll be unlucky enough to be one of the 15% who experience this:
After the D&C operation to clear out the uterus, you are contacted by your regional molar pregnancy centre who will monitor your levels of bHCG hormones. This has to drop to an acceptable level over six or so months. They send you sample kits and you have to post them your urine every fortnight. Sometimes blood tests at your Drs too. If the levels don't drop, it means they then have to make them drop. By giving you chemotherapy. Because the cells behave like cancer.
It's all a bit too much to take in really.
I feel angry, devastated, lost.
A while back, before I was even pregnant I read an article about people not wanting August babies because they don't cope as well at school. These people paused trying for a baby during November to assure any future offspring would have the best possible chances, academically. Even then that made me cry. How lovely it must be to be so assured of your fertility. I will not be having an academically sub-standard baby in August.
My mum also said "everything happens for a reason" but it doesn't, does it? What possible reason could there be for half the nasty, cruel, unpleasant things that happen to us? There's no reason for this. It's bad luck. The worst.
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