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Aftereffects.
Feb. 5th, 2008 02:15 pmJust talked to my midwife's assistant. I was a little confused about my discharge instructions from the hospital, which said to follow up with my midwife in two weeks. Originally she had told me that I'd be following up with a perinatologist (an OB who specializes in high-risk pregnancies) to monitor my hormones, because if this is trophoblastic disease it will be vitally important to know whether my pregnancy-hormone level goes all the way down to zero and stays there. (If it doesn't, it means that tumor cells implanted somewhere else and are continuing to grow.)
At the hospital, apparently, someone told Michael that my hormone levels were lower than they'd expect to see with trophoblastic disease, and that they were leaning more towards thinking it was a "blighted ovum" - a fertilized egg so chromosomally damaged that it was able to produce a placenta (and therefore pregnancy hormones and symptoms) but not an actual embryo. But that's not something they can actually diagnose until the path report comes back - which won't be for two full weeks, because (among other things, apparently) they have to do a chromosomal analysis.
So it turns out that we're going to be following a middle path. I don't need to go straight to a perinatologist, but I also can't just coast until my two-week follow-up at the midwife's. Instead my midwife will be ordering weekly hormone-level tests until we figure out what the hell this was all about. That seems reasonable to me. It's somewhat of a relief that they're not just slapping me onto the full trophoblastic protocol, and yet I also really really want to know what my hormone levels are doing.
I am in a lot more pain today, although it's nothing 800mg of ibuprofen can't handle. I now admit that yesterday I was being a macho, irrational, self-denying idiot. So today I didn't just stay home in the morning - I stayed home, resisted the urge to do "just a little" packing or cleaning, and laid on the couch for two and a half hours watching West Wing reruns. And I asked Michael to arrange his schedule so that he could drive me to and from work.
Emotionally I am coming along. I am sad but not completely prostrate with grief. However, I notice that I am banking a lot on being able to get pregnant again almost immediately, and I suspect that if that doesn't, or can't, happen then I will probably fall apart in a big way. And that might well be a problem.
If this is trophoblastic, standard medical advice is that we not even try to get pregnant for a year. Which would realistically mean that we'd wind up with kids who are five years apart or more, which... feels like a family with a big hole in the middle of it, where another kid should've been. Honestly, even a four-year gap seems like too much to me, except that that ship has clearly already sailed.
It's also the case that I'm almost 35. Even if we can start trying again right away - if it's a blighted ovum, for example - there's no guarantee that it wouldn't take a year or more for me to get pregnant. And I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't handle that well.
I think I will be able to cope with a baby deferred. I don't think I'll be able to cope with maybe-not-another-baby. Or a family with a big aching hole in the middle, instead of kids close enough to play together.
I also notice that I am channeling a lot more emotionally energy than I normally would to planning and organizing things for Alex. This seems reasonably healthy as long as I keep things under control practically and financially. But boy, have I ever been doing a lot of shopping for the perfect big-girl bed with the perfect accessories. And the best presents for her birthday, two months away. It's nice to be able to divert my energy towards the kid I actually have. It's nice to have a kid to divert my energy to.
At the hospital, apparently, someone told Michael that my hormone levels were lower than they'd expect to see with trophoblastic disease, and that they were leaning more towards thinking it was a "blighted ovum" - a fertilized egg so chromosomally damaged that it was able to produce a placenta (and therefore pregnancy hormones and symptoms) but not an actual embryo. But that's not something they can actually diagnose until the path report comes back - which won't be for two full weeks, because (among other things, apparently) they have to do a chromosomal analysis.
So it turns out that we're going to be following a middle path. I don't need to go straight to a perinatologist, but I also can't just coast until my two-week follow-up at the midwife's. Instead my midwife will be ordering weekly hormone-level tests until we figure out what the hell this was all about. That seems reasonable to me. It's somewhat of a relief that they're not just slapping me onto the full trophoblastic protocol, and yet I also really really want to know what my hormone levels are doing.
I am in a lot more pain today, although it's nothing 800mg of ibuprofen can't handle. I now admit that yesterday I was being a macho, irrational, self-denying idiot. So today I didn't just stay home in the morning - I stayed home, resisted the urge to do "just a little" packing or cleaning, and laid on the couch for two and a half hours watching West Wing reruns. And I asked Michael to arrange his schedule so that he could drive me to and from work.
Emotionally I am coming along. I am sad but not completely prostrate with grief. However, I notice that I am banking a lot on being able to get pregnant again almost immediately, and I suspect that if that doesn't, or can't, happen then I will probably fall apart in a big way. And that might well be a problem.
If this is trophoblastic, standard medical advice is that we not even try to get pregnant for a year. Which would realistically mean that we'd wind up with kids who are five years apart or more, which... feels like a family with a big hole in the middle of it, where another kid should've been. Honestly, even a four-year gap seems like too much to me, except that that ship has clearly already sailed.
It's also the case that I'm almost 35. Even if we can start trying again right away - if it's a blighted ovum, for example - there's no guarantee that it wouldn't take a year or more for me to get pregnant. And I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't handle that well.
I think I will be able to cope with a baby deferred. I don't think I'll be able to cope with maybe-not-another-baby. Or a family with a big aching hole in the middle, instead of kids close enough to play together.
I also notice that I am channeling a lot more emotionally energy than I normally would to planning and organizing things for Alex. This seems reasonably healthy as long as I keep things under control practically and financially. But boy, have I ever been doing a lot of shopping for the perfect big-girl bed with the perfect accessories. And the best presents for her birthday, two months away. It's nice to be able to divert my energy towards the kid I actually have. It's nice to have a kid to divert my energy to.
