First, the unwavering love and support that I've received from my husband has proved invaluable in this situation. I have generally felt upside down, but he's been solid as a rock. I know that he's been concerned about my mental condition as well as my physical health, but he's wisely held his tongue and only offered counsel when I've asked for his advice. He's held me when I've needed the comfort of his strong arms and he stays away when I need my solitude. This situation could have been completely intolerable with another man, but his steadiness has kept me from totally losing balance and perspective.
Secondly, having a warm and compassionate doctor has been a tremendous blessing to me. I went to the ER and received the news that my baby had died on a Saturday afternoon and by 5:00 that evening, my doctor had sent me a condolence message. He also explained what I could expect to occur by taking the "wait & see" approach. I don't get the impression that he tried to scare me into any other option, he just wanted me to be aware and prepared for the experience. Did I mention that he did this at 5:00 on a Saturday evening?!
My husband was not with me when I received the news that our baby had died. The ER doctor simply walked in and said, "Your baby doesn't have a heartbeat. I'm sending in a gynecologist to discuss how to remove it." IT! This baby was already named and, yet, he said "it." I was less than thrilled with his bedside manner, but I understand that it's probably all too easy to be calloused in that situation. Who can even guess how many women he's had to give the same bad news to or how much it pained him at one time.
I saw my doctor this afternoon. He said something about obstetrics being such an odd practice in that he sees people at their happiest and sometimes he sees them in the saddest circumstances. He made a point to say that there is absolutely no reason to blame myself for this loss and that there is absolutely no reason why we can't try to conceive another child in a month or two if we're ready to try again.
He conducted a brief pelvic exam and found that my cervix is still tightly shut. As if it's not awkward enough for my husband to watch another guy get to third base with me, I had on a dress and didn't bother with a gown so I basically let the doctor get a little upskirt action. That's a joke. Um, except not really. Yeah, this is why I don't do funny - no worries, I won't quit my day job!
Anyway, then he performed a trans-vag ultrasound. What can I say? Miracles can and do happen, but a miracle did not happen in this case. He looked and looked, but there was still no heartbeat.
My dumb-ass body apparently still hasn't got the message that my baby has died because my amniotic sac has grown quite large in the last two weeks. Super lame. I'm ashamed now that I had to look away from the screen and couldn't stand seeing my baby still in that sac.
I fixed my gaze on the ceiling because I couldn't possibly look at the heartbreak on that screen. My tears felt hot as they silently fell from my eyes and trickled into my ears. I clenched my hands tightly and my body shook a little as I struggled to not cry out when he confirmed that the baby was still there and that it was not living. Don't get me wrong, he was perfectly kind, but I hated what he had to say. Who wouldn't hate hearing it?
He helped me back into a sitting position, my foot slipped and I damn near kicked him in the junk. Yes, I'm the jerky kind of patient who laughed at the near-miss so I'm apparently the target demographic for, "Ow, My Balls." Who knew?
He gave me three options: Continue to let nature take it's course, take the pills (seems weird to say "take" since they get put up your vadge and not down your mouth, but whatever), or have the D & C. He laid out the pros and cons of each course of action, said it's my decision, and even said that I didn't have to decide anything right that moment.
I was not pressured in the least. He didn't heavily campaign for any option and remained impartial. This was entirely my decision. Even my husband didn't say a word one way or the other.
And I chose to have the D & C. I wasn't pressured at all and, dammitall, I chose the fucking D & C. I looked down and could meet neither my husband's eyes nor my physician's when I said that I just want it out as soon as possible. If my lips hadn't been moving, I wouldn't have believed it was my own voice saying such a thing.
Perhaps one day I will be able to articulate why I so do not want this procedure. I don't want it. I really don't. But I can not stand carrying this child any longer. The knowledge of what happens to living tissue once it is no longer living is making me crazy. I know that, little by little, this child of mine is deteriorating and breaking up inside of me. Mentally, I can not take that knowledge any longer. I wish I could, oh how I wish I could!, but I'm just not strong enough emotionally to take it.
So there you have it. This experience has forced me to voluntarily chose to undergo a procedure that I swore I would never, never, never experience again. I'm scheduled for Thursday. I know that it is an easy recovery from a physical standpoint, but I am concerned about the emotional toll. It appears that I'll be wounded no matter which course of action I chose to take.
Oddly enough, I feel more at peace now than I have been in the last two-weeks. I have accepted/acknowledged that this baby has died and I'm fairly certain, hopeful anyway, that I will be back to my old self in short order. How I'll feel about the D & C is another topic, but that's one that I'll hold close to my own heart.
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I have Wordless Wednesday coming up for tomorrow. . .I hope I can find some pervy-looking produce in our backyard. Perhaps I'll find a penis gourd?? Nah, I don't have a freaky harvest to reap. . .
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