(`blit-ed): used as an adjective to describe something that has a condition that makes it weak or unable to grow
There is an old saying, “New house, new baby.” A coworker reminded me of this when we moved into This Old House at the end of May 2012. At the time, I thought perhaps she was crazy or, at the very least, oblivious to the absolute chaos surrounding our move. For a reminder, click here, but I will quickly summarize. In 4-6 weeks time:
- My parents came to visit, which prompted a lot of home projects as a precursor to their arrival.
- During their visit, nanny had to be terminated after she confessed to repeatedly stealing- get ready for it- vodka from our bar in order to self medicate. She claims she did this after hours, but this is clearly every parent’s worst nightmare.
- Impulsively purchased a new house and began the whirlwind of home inspections, appraisals and mortgage paperwork that followed during the ten day options period.
- Frantically prepared our beloved home to put on the market. Sold in less than 2 weeks time.
- Also frantically searched for a new nanny, a process which took over a month.
- Packed up entire house, mainly during nap time and the wee hours of the night and, often times, by myself as hubby was out of town on business three times during the month of our move.
- Moved into new house and promptly began pool/patio renovations. Oh, and it seemed like everything else started to unexpectedly fall apart!
At the end of all this, I collapsed into a heap and DH and I were lucky to still be on speaking terms. It was a VERY stressful time, and procreation was the furthest thing from my mind. That is until, at the end of July 2012, I began to wonder if I might actually be pregnant. I was spotting at the time and had been for several days before my expected period. This was not unusual for me. I have seen multiple doctors through the years for breakthrough bleeding. This spotting went on for five days without turning into a full-blown period and was accompanied by breast tenderness, extreme fatigue and a strange cramping in my uterus. In short, I felt exactly as I had when I was pregnant with J. I hunted through my medicine cabinets for a home pregnancy test, held my breath and peed on the stick. I was struck by the ridiculousness of it all and was about to shove it back in its wrapper when I noticed two pink lines indicating a BFP. At this point, I nearly fell off the toilet. I felt such a rush of emotions.
Oh yes, a baby!
Oh no, what terrible timing!
Oh no, I’m bleeding! I must be having an early miscarriage.
I picked up the phone, dialed the OB-GYN’s office, described my situation and they wanted to see me right away to draw blood for a quantitative HCG blood test. Meanwhile, I scrambled to draw a picture announcement for J to give to DH and cried as I delivered the good/terrifying news.
My blood work came back positive and my HCG doubled as expected in the first four weeks of pregnancy. However, my progesterone levels were lower than expected, and I was started on progesterone suppositories and scheduled for an ultrasound at week 8. In my case, the suppositories were inserted once daily at night. They were a bit messy and intensified pregnancy symptoms such as breast tenderness, nausea, bloating and night sweats. They did, however, stop the bleeding, and I began to feel more relaxed about this pregnancy. During this- the longest three weeks of my life- the pool/patio renovation continued, and I also flew to New England for my nephew’s first birthday party. I told very few people about my pregnancy due to the bleeding but broke the news to my sister ahead of time in case I needed to seek medical care while home. Unfortunately, the bleeding recurred during the plane ride over, and I spent several days on bed rest hoping for the best. My ultrasound was scheduled within a few days of arriving home, and I was realistic but hopeful.
I had a transvaginal ultrasound, and as soon as the results became visible on the screen, I knew the news was not good. My uterus looked like a big black abyss. There was no comforting heartbeat to be heard. My OB-Gyn politely searched my uterus while questioning me to see if I might be off on my dates. She knew I was not. There was a big black circle indicating a gestational sac, but no squirming bean inside. “I’m sorry,” she said, ” I don’t think it is going to work out this time. Looks like a blighted ovum.” She offered to recheck in a week and go over our other options once we had time to digest the news. I waited for her to leave the room and began to cry. Even though I knew this was wrong from the start, I could not stop the tears from falling. I sat in the back seat of the car with J while DH called person after person telling them our sad news. I may have managed to croak out a few sentences to my Mom, but didn’t feel like speaking to anyone else.
A blighted ovum, or anembryonic pregnancy, is when a fertilized egg attaches to the uterine wall but the embryo fails to develop. It’s kind of like a house with an open door and all the lights on. You keep ringing the doorbell, but no one is home. I went off my progesterone supplements and immediately started bleeding. I wish I could say I waited out miscarriage. I usually prefer to do things the natural way. But somehow, waiting felt morbid and disruptive. I had a D&C one week later. It was a relatively quick procedure. I had some minor pain for a few days, bloating that made me look at least 5 months pregnant and night sweats that forced me to sleep on a towel until my body rid itself of all the pregnancy hormones. Life went on. I continued to go to work. I chased after an active toddler. The only real change I had to make was that I could not go in a swimming pool. This may not seem very devastating except I spend 50% of my working hours as an aquatic therapist, was accompanying my daughter to water babies swim class 1x/wk, and we had just completed an 8 week pool-patio renovation. Bah humbug! The day after my D&C, we had friends over to swim (clearly DH’s idea), and I dipped my toes in the water while covering up my bloated belly the best I could.
I had two very sad days surrounding my miscarriage- the day of my ultrasound and the day of my surgery. I spent most of those two days sleeping. And then, to my surprise, time carried on. It did not have the decency to stand still for me and my tragedy. I was as busy as I ever was. And I coped a little too well. I did not give myself a whole lot of time to mourn, reflect or relax. I talked about it, of course, with a few trusted friends and family members, but the rest of the world was unaware of my pregnancy, and now did not seem the time to tell them about it and its demise. I discovered that the subject is awkward and people- including myself- are not sure how to react. There are those who know but choose not to say anything lest it upset you. There are others who check in too often – “How are you feeling?” “Do you need to talk?”- to the point that you want to remind them that you still have a life to live if only they would stop bothering you. Except you don’t because they are just showing concern the only way they know how. And then there are those who have been through it before. Those are the best kind of people. They need say no more than, “I know,” and give you a reassuring hug or glance. And you know that they do know and that is the most consoling of all.
Of course, I would be remiss if I forgot to mention the large category of people who say, “Well, at least you know you can get pregnant.” This includes just about everyone. And while extremely annoying and not the least bit comforting, it is the truth. I could get pregnant, and I began to want to try again…