Am Aschermittwoch...

[oloriel]

... ist alles vorbei.

Vielen Dank für deine lieben Gedanken, sermanya. Sie konnten zwar nichts ausrichten, aber sie haben trotzdem gut getan.

- - -


Our plan always was to have more than one child, and to have them not too far apart -- ideally, Felix should have been a big brother by now, by his second birthday at the latest. For a couple of reasons, some of them rational (such as "I do want to start a career at some point") and some of them less so ("It just feels right") and some just the fact that it's the mode we're familiar with (my own brother is only one and a half years younger than I am; Jörg's brother is two years younger than he is).
But then, it turned out that I'm one of those women who don't even have to nurse full-time in order to be temporarily infertile (something one shouldn't rely on, normally); only when Felix went down to breastfeeding just once per day, before going to bed, did I start ovulating again. That was in October.
When my newly regained period didn't come in December, I was feeling very hopeful, but tried not to get too excited - a home pregnancy test yielded a negative result, so I had to assume that Christmas and money stress might be the cause of the missing period, rather than a new pregnancy.
Then January came, and my breasts hurt. And I started to feel queasy - not to the point of actually being sick, but unpleasant enough, particularly as it wasn't limited to mornings only. And I started to crave absurd amounts of sleep. And I started to get really absurdly hungry, not in the "OK, it's around lunchtime, I should start thinking about what to eat" way that's normal, but in a "I AM STARVING IF I DO NOT GET FOOD NOW I WILL THROW UP" way.
So I thought, well, perhaps I just took that test a bit early while hCG levels were still too low to measure. Because I certainly felt pregnant. I even had the impression that my uterus was beginning to harden and grow.
And when the January period didn't happen, either, I got an appointment with my gynaecologist.

It already started slightly upsetting; they found protein in my urine, which is a sign of the kidneys hyperfunctioning, which may be caused by a couple of unpleasant conditions, such as pre-eclampsia. Which you don't want.
Then came the usual check-up, and then the gyn started the ultrasound, and said "Yup, pregnant", and I said "YAY!"
And then she said, "Wait a minute."

"Wait a minute", in general, isn't something you want to hear from a doctor.

And she said, "I can't see anything in there."
"Huh," says I, trying not to show my sudden terror.
"There's no embryo," says Dr. Kox. "There's a huge, magnificent trophoblast... but there's no-one inside. It's just a black hole. Look."
And that was indeed what there was to see.
"I'm afraid you should prepare for the possibility that something is wrong with your pregnancy," says Dr. Kox.
"Oooo...kay," says I, feeling kinda numb. Disappointed. It's not the end of the world, I know that, but right now it feels like it. "So what happens now?"
"I may be wrong and it might just be at a very early stage," says kindly Dr. Kox, "so we'll do a couple more check-ups. After all, it would be unfortunate to abort an intact planned pregnancy."
I nod.
"We'll do a bloodwork test and check your hCG levels. It's in the right place, so we have some time, but no too much because if it is what it looks like right now, it might turn into cancer if it's left too long. If it's just early days, something should be visible by the weekend. So come back on Monday and then we'll have another look."
I nod.
"I'm sorry," says Dr. Kox.

I knew, of course, that it wasn't just early days. My last period started on Nov. 25, so I should be 9+ weeks along. When I first saw Dr. Kox about my first pregnancy, I was also 9+ weeks along, and not only was the embryo clearly visible, it even was recogniseably humanoid at that point.
So right then, I was devastated.

The check-up on Monday showed that there was indeed nobody at home, so to say: A beautiful, huge, magnificent... empty trophoblast.
This apparently happens once in a thousand cases, which, of course, is worth shit when you're the one and not the 999.
And if you've been the one once, your odds of having this happen again apparently rise to one in a hundred? Oh joy.

Well.
There wasn't anything to do, really, except call the hospital and get an appointment for an abrasion. (The German word, Ausschabung, sounds even more horrid - like scraping the last bits of ketchup out of the bottle with a blunt knife. With the bottleneck being your vagina and the bottle your uterus.) I mean, it wasn't much of a decision. You can either leave it and hope that at some point, the body realises that something's gone wrong, and also hope that meanwhile you're not among the 20% with whom it turns into cancer (and if you just turned out to be One In A Thousand, are you really certain that you're not going to be Two In Ten?) -- or you abort. If you can even properly speak of abortion in this case - after all, there is only an empty eggshell. (But it's genetically huuuuuumaaaaaan! :P Which is, of course, precisely why it can so easily turn into cancer.)
And then I have to wait with the next pregnancy until the hCG-levels are down to 5 (they're currently at over 77.000) and until the doctors can be (reasonably) certain that there isn't some invasive rest of the trophoblast still in there; this can take half a year or even longer.
So much for "not too far apart".

On Tuesday I had to go to the hospital for preparation, i.e. endless talks to the responsible doctors, another gynaecological check-up which, alas, yielded no new result, and a pre-anaesthesia horror talk (a.k.a. "Everything that can go wrong and hopefully won't"). This took literally hours, in which I had to listen to the doctors, sign papers, amuse Felix (no babysitter on short notice) and not burst into tears. Got two pills to swallow in the evening, which were to already soften the tissue and make the operation easier. Went home, actually managed to sleep despite my anxiety. (This was my first surgery ever, and my first general anaesthesia, so I was terrified. Yes, even though it's technically a simple, straightforward procedure and they wouldn't even be cutting holes in me. Of course, questions like "Do you have a patient's provision?" don't exactly help. Yes, I know they're standard. They still don't help.)

On Wednesday morning, I went to the hospital for two more of those pills, and a suppository that's also used to induce labour to further ease things, and then waited for a couple of hours while the pills and suppository did their work. Then, another pill in preparation for anaesthesia, which promptly made me so tired that I slept for a couple more hours and only woke up when they carted me down to the theatre. If I hadn't been so nervous, being prepared for surgery would probably have been quite interesting. As it was, I tried to make gallows-humour conversation with the nurse who hooked me onto the life support and IV and whatnot. (I literally told her that, when I was heaved from my hospital bed onto the operating table via a heated conveyor, I felt like a Schnitzel on a hot plate. I did!) Then I raised my head to see what the nurse was doing and felt a sort of fuzzy pressure, like the moment you realise that you're going to be very drunk and should start drinking only water for the rest of the evening. "Wow," I said, "that kicks in quick."
"Doesn't it?" said the nurse. I saw the breathing mask descend on me, and then my memory literally cut to black.
When I woke up again, everything was over, of course. After the usual recovery time I was wheeled back to the gyn ward, talked to a couple of doctors, had another ultrasound check-up in which I could nicely see that the trophoblast-and-amniotic-liquid-filled uterus was now a flat empty sock again, and when everyone was satisfied that I appeared stable, I was allowed to go home.
...


As far as abnormal pregnancies/ miscarriages/ missed abortions go, I suppose this was the kindest version. I mean, there was no damn embryo. Never was, never would be. I don't have to feel like a nasty abilist for a second, because there wasn't even a malformed embryo, there was just nothing. I don't have to feel guilty about getting rid of an empty shell that might, given time, have turned into cancer and eaten my uterus. And I already have a healthy child: I know for certain that the problem isn't that my husband and I are genetically incompatible, or that I am unable to conceive, or anything of the sort. It was just bad luck, a fluke. Nature's way of telling me that I can get a job for the next year, because I'm not allowed to get pregnant during that time anyway for my own sake. Or something. Whatever. And it could be dealt with quickly, simply, and non-invasively (in surgical terms). And we found out reasonably early so there's likely going to be no lasting damage. And, and.
Reasonably.

Emotionally?
It still feels like the end of the world, for the time being.
See, I know that the first 12 weeks are never certain. And that therefore, you shouldn't get too attached to the contents of your uterus before you've reached the second trimester.
But I did. Even back in December. I talked to it - the empty eggshell. I had maternal feelings for it. I loved it before I should have. I was looking forward to September, I was happy that things had worked out. Except they hadn't. But I didn't know that then.
So now, even though there wasn't really anything but useless tissue... it certainly feels like I lost my child.
Which is why, when the doctor came with the form sheet you get to sign whether you want to be notified or not once your miscarriage has been, after autopsy, buried... I did not have the heart to say no. Even though there isn't really anything (if anything) to bury in this case, and the doctor probably thought me crazy. But I loved the nothing in my belly, talked to it before I went to sleep, so I suppose it's only right that I treat it like it was something? Look, I'm so confused and lost.


- - -

I'll cope somehow, of course. Time will pass, and I will get pregnant again, and I will not be one in a thousand (or even in a hundred) again. And there are worse issues that other people have to deal with, every day, all over the world. (While I was on the gyn ward, I was rooming with an elderly lady who'd had uterine cancer. Perspective...) And I already have one healthy child (and Felix really is a huge consolation.)
Given the medical treatment I could safely and easily access (and that my insurance will presumably cover in full), all this is, at the end of the day, entitled first-world whining.
But still... it's difficult, and I'll have to get over it. I don't quite know how soon I'll get over it.
So if you don't see much of me in the next days/weeks/months... you'll know I'm probably still licking my wounds.
And if instead I'm around all the time, posting inane memes or getting into pointless arguments... you'll know it's probably some form of therapy.

We'll see how it goes.