I found out I was five weeks pregnant 3 days after I defended my dissertation proposal in early November 2011. I was thrilled. I was one step (granted, a 300 page step) away from graduating with my Ph.D. and was starting my family. Due in July, I would be able to take maternity leave for fall semester, and then return to school with a six month old in time for me to defend my dissertation and graduate, ready for the next adventure my little family was going to have.
Less than three weeks later, after a small amount of bleeding and a ridiculously long E.R. visit and then a referral to an Early Pregnancy Clinic, I found out that I was in the process of miscarrying, and that there was no way for the pregnancy to be saved. Heartbroken and numb and crying one of those truly ugly cries, I listened as the doctor said that I would need a D&C surgery that Friday in order to complete the miscarriage. One painful surgery later (seriously, why did no one tell me that the little pills they give you before hand would cause my body to stage its own mini-revolution?), armed with a box of doughnuts and rice pudding, I was ready to move on from this depressing turn of events.
Christmas was enjoyable, as the Mr. and I were able to go to Utah for a couple of weeks and spend time with family and away from the hurt that permeated our lives back at home. I returned to Toronto, ready to teach and to rock and roll again with my life. I went to a follow-up doctor's appointment, just to make sure things were returning to normal as they should, because, you know. After the painful surgery, how could things NOT go back to normal?
Apparently, my body doesn't do normal.
At the first doctor's appointment, after peeing in the cup and doing the litmus paper preggers test thing they do, it showed that I was pregnant. Yay. Wait. No. Not yay. WHAT? This was not a possible result. So. The not-so-knowledgeable family doc sent me to get blood work and to have an ultrasound done. I returned armed with these results: my beta levels (HCG/preggers hormone) were at about 1100. Normal = 0. Preggers = doubling every day. Not Normal = Hovering around 1100.
The doc told me to get myself to an urgent care clinic/ER, in case this was a new pregnancy that was not going well, such as a molar pregnancy or an ectopic pregnancy. After another nastily long E.R. visit (8 hours +), we were told by the OBGYN on call that he had no idea what was wrong with me, but that it was probably one of three things, and that I should come to his personal office in three days time. Being the good girl that I am, I did. He did a biopsy (OWWW. Run if you ever hear an OBGYN say you are getting one) and then said that it was either a molar pregnancy, ectopic pregnancy, or tissue left over from the D&C that was causing trouble. In any case, I should not be pregnant and was not going to be delivering a kid any time soon. However, in order to get my body back to its regularly scheduled programming, I needed to get my beta level to 0 and get rid of said preggersness that was going on in my body. He referred me to the Early Pregnancy Clinic to get the necessary miracle drug that would do this. The same clinic where I found out that I was in the process of miscarrying. Delightful, really.
Apparently, my body doesn't do normal.
At the first doctor's appointment, after peeing in the cup and doing the litmus paper preggers test thing they do, it showed that I was pregnant. Yay. Wait. No. Not yay. WHAT? This was not a possible result. So. The not-so-knowledgeable family doc sent me to get blood work and to have an ultrasound done. I returned armed with these results: my beta levels (HCG/preggers hormone) were at about 1100. Normal = 0. Preggers = doubling every day. Not Normal = Hovering around 1100.
The doc told me to get myself to an urgent care clinic/ER, in case this was a new pregnancy that was not going well, such as a molar pregnancy or an ectopic pregnancy. After another nastily long E.R. visit (8 hours +), we were told by the OBGYN on call that he had no idea what was wrong with me, but that it was probably one of three things, and that I should come to his personal office in three days time. Being the good girl that I am, I did. He did a biopsy (OWWW. Run if you ever hear an OBGYN say you are getting one) and then said that it was either a molar pregnancy, ectopic pregnancy, or tissue left over from the D&C that was causing trouble. In any case, I should not be pregnant and was not going to be delivering a kid any time soon. However, in order to get my body back to its regularly scheduled programming, I needed to get my beta level to 0 and get rid of said preggersness that was going on in my body. He referred me to the Early Pregnancy Clinic to get the necessary miracle drug that would do this. The same clinic where I found out that I was in the process of miscarrying. Delightful, really.
I go there, and after talking with another OBGYN and the happy nurse, Heather, I was told that I needed to go for an ultrasound, just to make SURE that something else wasn't going on down there, other than the three options. Note: This was the 4th ultrasound (and not of the more pleasant variety) in a 4 day period. I had to return two days later to meet with ANOTHER OBGYN who finally had the guts to prescribe a form of chemotherapy (methotraxate) that kills preggers tissue and returns women's levels to 0 usually within about a month. Only hitch? I couldn't try to get pregnant again for 6 months. Color me sad. But, what was I supposed to do? I was and was not pregnant. Those two things do not go together. So I had to get un-pregnant. And that required the chemo shot. Three days later, after my beta testing I found out that the shot was working and my numbers were going down. YAY! There was hope on the horizon.
Remember: my body doesn't do normal.
It's now June. Almost July. My levels have gone down most weeks, but up others. Not to the point where I would be pregnant, but just enough to be a nuisance. And to require another methotraxate shot in April. (Yes, that meant that the six month clock for trying to get preggers again started over, which, for any of you keeping track of dates, would mean that I could start trying again ONE YEAR after first getting pregnant). My levels as of last week had gone from 45 to 47. I stayed to talk with the OBGYN at the Early Pregnancy Clinic (where, like "Cheers," everybody knows my name because I have been going there for 6 months straight, like clock-work, once a week). He said that I seem to have particularly aggressive and resistant placental tissue and that in order to eradicate the thing, he thinks I might need a new drug. Or something else surgery or otherwise related. It's like I have an alien down there, just kicking it in my body, who doesn't want to leave. Where's Will Smith to blow this alien right back to outer space when you need him? This whole new drug or treatment required going to another clinic in the Greater Toronto Area that specializes in molar pregnancies and what nots. My appointment is for tomorrow with the doctor that I was referred to. Upon Googling his name (like any internet savvy person would these days), I found out he specializes in gynecological cancer. Cancer.
I have had numerous breakdowns over the last six months. I haven't been myself. I haven't wanted to talk about it to anyone, really, because if I do, I just cry. And so I just don't talk to many people anymore. It's like a scab that I think gets healed over or at least is starting to heal, and then I get more news that my numbers are going up, or that I need a new drug, or that I have to go visit with a freaking cancer doctor, and the stupid scab just opens wide up again. (Irony of the whole thing: I wanted to be an oncologist when I was growing up. Maybe I should have, and then I wouldn't be so terrified to meet with one tomorrow). I have wondered why my body (on its first try at getting pregnant) had to fail so miserably as to have a miscarriage, and then to be so stubborn as to stay pregnant long after it was necessary to be so. Had I stayed pregnant, I would be due any time. And yet I am still not un-pregnant. It has been 9 months, people. And now I'm going to see a cancer doctor. I wish I knew what all this was supposed to teach me. I thought I was learning patience, humility, trusting in a plan that is greater than my own, learning to be happy for women who were normal and got and stayed pregnant, but at this point, I'm honestly feeling like this is bordering on the territory of cruel and unusual punishment. After staying up all night last night (all nighters are so not for those over the age of 25, let me tell you), crying on and off about everything (because, remember - I've been hormonal for 9 months...just with nothing to show for it...my poor husband deserves a medal of honor and long-suffering, I'm here to tell you. Or some lemon bars. He loves lemon bars.), I don't have any answers.
I always thought I was special. Don't we all? We're told from an early age that we're all special and unique and that we should celebrate our specialness. After meeting with so many doctors I honestly can't remember how many I've met with at this point, however, I have decided that being normal is not a bad thing. I would love "normal" right now. Or to just have one thing be normal in relation to this whole un-pregnancy fiasco. But there are other things in store for me, apparently. Cancer-doctor-requiring things. I think it's safe to say that my quest for normalcy has been a spectacular failure.
Remember: my body doesn't do normal.
It's now June. Almost July. My levels have gone down most weeks, but up others. Not to the point where I would be pregnant, but just enough to be a nuisance. And to require another methotraxate shot in April. (Yes, that meant that the six month clock for trying to get preggers again started over, which, for any of you keeping track of dates, would mean that I could start trying again ONE YEAR after first getting pregnant). My levels as of last week had gone from 45 to 47. I stayed to talk with the OBGYN at the Early Pregnancy Clinic (where, like "Cheers," everybody knows my name because I have been going there for 6 months straight, like clock-work, once a week). He said that I seem to have particularly aggressive and resistant placental tissue and that in order to eradicate the thing, he thinks I might need a new drug. Or something else surgery or otherwise related. It's like I have an alien down there, just kicking it in my body, who doesn't want to leave. Where's Will Smith to blow this alien right back to outer space when you need him? This whole new drug or treatment required going to another clinic in the Greater Toronto Area that specializes in molar pregnancies and what nots. My appointment is for tomorrow with the doctor that I was referred to. Upon Googling his name (like any internet savvy person would these days), I found out he specializes in gynecological cancer. Cancer.
I have had numerous breakdowns over the last six months. I haven't been myself. I haven't wanted to talk about it to anyone, really, because if I do, I just cry. And so I just don't talk to many people anymore. It's like a scab that I think gets healed over or at least is starting to heal, and then I get more news that my numbers are going up, or that I need a new drug, or that I have to go visit with a freaking cancer doctor, and the stupid scab just opens wide up again. (Irony of the whole thing: I wanted to be an oncologist when I was growing up. Maybe I should have, and then I wouldn't be so terrified to meet with one tomorrow). I have wondered why my body (on its first try at getting pregnant) had to fail so miserably as to have a miscarriage, and then to be so stubborn as to stay pregnant long after it was necessary to be so. Had I stayed pregnant, I would be due any time. And yet I am still not un-pregnant. It has been 9 months, people. And now I'm going to see a cancer doctor. I wish I knew what all this was supposed to teach me. I thought I was learning patience, humility, trusting in a plan that is greater than my own, learning to be happy for women who were normal and got and stayed pregnant, but at this point, I'm honestly feeling like this is bordering on the territory of cruel and unusual punishment. After staying up all night last night (all nighters are so not for those over the age of 25, let me tell you), crying on and off about everything (because, remember - I've been hormonal for 9 months...just with nothing to show for it...my poor husband deserves a medal of honor and long-suffering, I'm here to tell you. Or some lemon bars. He loves lemon bars.), I don't have any answers.
I always thought I was special. Don't we all? We're told from an early age that we're all special and unique and that we should celebrate our specialness. After meeting with so many doctors I honestly can't remember how many I've met with at this point, however, I have decided that being normal is not a bad thing. I would love "normal" right now. Or to just have one thing be normal in relation to this whole un-pregnancy fiasco. But there are other things in store for me, apparently. Cancer-doctor-requiring things. I think it's safe to say that my quest for normalcy has been a spectacular failure.
