Helpless

The nurse from the GI clinic called a little while ago with results from yesterday’s blood draw (which I had neglected to write about here).  She said that his AST and ALT levels are still elevated (145 and 40, respectively).  The AST does seem to be going up, but the ALT seems to be going down, according to the numbers she gave me yesterday when she said we had to go for another draw:  AST/ALT 101/81 on 8/24, and 116/64 on 9/6.  Not that this means anything to me, other than that we all still know nothing.  They are referring us to a liver specialist in Cincinnati (!!).  We have to do another bout with formula, 72 hours this time, and then redraw blood again.

I’m stumped.  Clearly, if he really has an issue that needs addressing, yes, by all means, let’s address it.  I don’t want to miss something that would lead to…what, liver failure?  Jesus.  But he’s still gaining weight and growing, generally happy, and does not seem ill to me.  The only thing that is not textbook normal is some green poop and maybe some excess gas (and these AST & ALT levels, I suppose).  I didn’t even think to ask while I had the nurse on the phone if I should bother continuing with the dairy and soy elimination or if these tests instead indicate something physiological that my diet won’t affect.  I called back and left a message, but I’m guessing I won’t hear until tomorrow or maybe even Friday.  They even said that the referrals aren’t quick, so it may be weeks before we see the specialist.  Does that speak to the assumed urgency?  If it’s not urgent, then what the fuck is the point of all this?  Mike asked an interesting question – how would all of this be handled if we were uninsured?  I hate to think they’re just bilking Anthem, but hell if I really know what’s going on.  It’s almost a moot point.  I can’t NOT continue on with their recommendations, right?  I want to say that I don’t know how many more times I can hold my squirming, screaming child as they draw blood, but if I decline….what, they call Children Services on me?  I think I will have to just feel like an asshole no matter what I do.

This is wearing on me.  I can’t concentrate here at work.  I just want to go pick him up and hold him.  I’m so afraid they will tell me I have to stop breastfeeding, but I can’t understand how that would help.  What the fucking fuck?!?!!

I think I’m going to take the following two citations when we go to see the specialist – I don’t know if they are completely applicable, but I can’t help but feel like they’re trying to compare his bloodwork to a standard set by formula-fed babies.  I want to call bullshit, but I don’t know if I ‘d sleep any easier if I did.

Does breast feeding influence liver biochemistry?
Differences in serum biochemistry between breast-fed and formula-fed infants.

Any medical-background geeks out there who feel comfortable either reassuring me or encouraging me to push for more urgent investigation?  I am still so torn between not-gonna-worry-about-it and OMGCAN’TSTOPWORRYING.

Seven Minutes of Terror

It feels like it’s been ages since I talked about anything but pregnancy and baby stuff (because it has). Surprisingly, I do remain at least somewhat aware of other things going on in the world (Olympics?  Good. Love me some gymnastics, especially), and my attention is especially drawn to the Curiosity landing tonight.  I’m geeking out on all the extra features available on XBOX live – if you have access, I highly recommend downloading the app and and nerding out.  I am not sure where else the videos are available, but I’d imagine that they are out there online somewhere.  Hmmm, let me google that for you:  7 Minutes of Terror.  That’s a good start.

The landing is supposed to happen at 1:30 AM Eastern time tonight.  I don’t foresee a problem staying up to watch it live – Ike slept basically through again last night after being up all day…but it seems like he’s slept almost all day today, so I assume tonight will be, um, fun.

All wand, no magic.

I may as well tell these stories now.  No point holding onto them.  I mean, really?  What am I saving it for, posterity?  HAH.  I still feel pretty stuck not knowing what the hell’s going to happen next, so why the hell not tell the embarrassing stories that, when they’re HAPPENING seem like positively the most mortifying thing ever to happen to anyone, but in all reality are probably kind of par for the course. This course apparently being that obstacle course of I guess what’s probably at this point more than fairly called recurrent miscarriage.  This is probably the best place for it anyway…not like people want to chat about this kind of stuff much in person, which obviously is understandable.


Aaaaand, my stomach ties itself in knots.  Harsh.  Anyway!  Moving on….


So, the day I went to the doctor this last time around, I as usual had taken the earliest appointment possible so as to not be too late getting into work.  Hah.  The IRONY.  Anyway, I don’t remember what day…yes, it was a Friday.  Jeans, sneakers, etc.  Casual.  But being a considerate little patient (ha), I had actually managed to shave my legs that morning before leaving the house, so when I got the call as I was driving back to work that the pee in a cup deal came back positive (that’s still a WTF moment if there ever was one, somehow…weirdness), and I drove home instead of going back into the office, I went ahead and changed clothes…something to do to kill time between arriving and having to leave again to go to this ultrasound they wanted me to have.  Here’s where I start to chuckle.  

Medical protocols can be an odd thing.  I’m sure they’re in place for perfectly good reasons, most of the time, obviously, but sometimes they don’t make a helluva lot of sense when one is fairly sure the problem is at least half obvious.  Cringe warning – just skip the rest of this paragraph if you’re squeamish, girly-wise.  At this point, I’d already been bleeding for longer than a normal period for me, for more than a week even if you don’t count the week of spotting that began this whole fiasco.  I’d taken TWO pregnancy tests earlier in the month, however, both very negative, so I frankly was fearing more of a bloodwork shows early menopause or some random unhelpful type thing along those lines.  I’ve always been like clockwork, so I knew something wasn’t right, but given TWO NEGATIVE POASings, I didn’t think it was a miscarriage until the doctor called.  Once she said it was positive, I kind of figured.  Yes, at various points over the coming weekend I more than managed to get my hopes up, but COME ON.  It just wasn’t looking like a third time’s the charm kind of deal.  Not at all.  So, as I’m flipping through my closet looking for distractions as well as something else to wear, I find the dress.  I think it was actually my sister’s dress in high school.  Cute, short, black, small plaid pattern, I think red.  Kind of cut that doesn’t absolutely require a bra.  I wore it under my college grad gown, actually, with the best pair of black wedges ever designed, now sadly gone.  And a bra.  I mean, all the rights and privileges and responsibilities sorta call for that.  Anyway, an ultrasound I knew couldn’t possibly provide good news (even it it was going to be a sticky pregnancy, I wouldn’t have even been late yet at this point, so I knew I wasn’t going to see shit other than hopefully nothing wildly abnormal for such a situation) wasn’t exactly at the top of my list of things to do, so…no bra.  Flip-flops, etc.  Basically, this dress is a little too short.  I think I also wore it for a bridal shower…yes, the one Mike’s family threw for me.  I remember going through the pictures later and going, oops.  So you could see my freaking panties while I sat and opened gifts all afternoon and not ONE BRIDESMAID OF FIVE SAID ANYTHING TO ME?  Nice, ladies, nice.  

So yes, the dress is short.  Mike met me at home, we killed a bit more time looking at each other like, WTF?  I dunno, your guess is as good as mine, then headed back over to the doctor’s office complex thing.  Registered, waited, blahblahblah paperwork.  Oh yes, the paperwork.  That must be the MOST fun thing about all of this.  I knew this from the first time, but the second you have both a positive hcg or urine test AND any type of bleeding, you’re a THREATENED ABORTION.  And because nothing, not even drawing blood, is done IN a doctor’s office anymore, it seems, you have to go to the lab for all these blood draws.  With the same “steady on your feet today, ma’am?” line of questioning every time.  I love it when they ask for my due date.  FUCK YOU.  I’ve never had a due date.  Starting to think I probably never will.  Anyway, so basically my role in this dramedy is to wander around like a disoriented pincushion and accept piteous or confused eye contact, friendly smiles, needles to the inner arm wielded by either incredibly skilled and concerned or mayhaps underaged and inept and possibly nearly illiterate phlebotomists.  This time was a little different, though.  No needles, just the wand.  No magic.

So, yes, it might be nice if I could start a paragraph with a word other than SO.  Maybe later.  So, we walk into the little room, meet the tech, blahblahblah Q&A, no due date, circumstances, LMP (hahahaa), blahblahblah.  The tech is a cute little Southern girl, very understanding and good at her job, I’m sure.  Now, the only other time I had an ultrasound actually WAS in the doctor’s office, so I partially knew the drill.  However, PROTOCOL.  I explained that my doctor wanted to make sure that this wasn’t ectopic, basically.  She said, okay, well that will be the transvaginal, blahblahblah, DILDO CAM!  Seriously.  There’s just no way to see ANYTHING via the external method when you’re talking about three weeks gestation or less, more than likely failing to boot, and I know this, man.  This is not squirting a pile of goo on a big fat pregnant belly and watching some creepy looking alien thing wave or show you its goods and then you start thinking pink or blue, no.  This is futile at best.  So, being already depleted of cash, dignity, and patience for this rigmarole, I…LOL.  Yes, I…respond logically yet grossly inappropriately, in hindsight, to her assessment of the period math that we won’t see what we need to see the easy way by starting to just go ahead and whip off the panties without removing the dress.  Standing up.  You know, quick-like.  LOL….ahhh, good times.  The tech gets all confused, WAIT A MINUTE!  LOLOLOL.  We have to do the over-the-belly way first.  Oh.  Really?  Uhm, mmmkay, if you say so.  Who needs an effing paper gown when you’re already dressed like a suburban streetwalker?  Meh.  So, yeah, she agrees I can just use the paper lap blanket or whatever you call it, let’s just get this creepy innards show on the road, shall we?

And yes, you might think that’s the funny embarrassing part, but no.  Hoh no.  This is a dildo cam – the fun and embarrassment NEVER ends.  So she does the over the bloat thing, nothing to see here, carry on.  Now, the tech is not a doctor, so this part goes differently than I’d had the pleasure of the first time around.  She explains how it all works, we laugh while she slides the condom on the, um, implement?  LOL.  I’m not looking up what that part of the instrument is called.  We’ll call it the giant deformed plastic penis with a big eyeball at the end.  Yes, that just rolls right off the tongue.  Fingers.  Whatever.  She says, okay, so I’m going to hand this to you and you get to insert it.  Mmmmkay, woohoo!  Tits.  Or something.  So, yeah, follow instructions..and she giggles.  I raise an eyebrow, full of poise and cryptic wondering.  “Sorry, I didn’t tell you.  It only goes in a little bit, actually, but you did a GOOD JOB.”  All but pat me on the head.

And here’s where I almost piss myself (oh yes, you must have a VERY FULL BLADDER for these good times medical diagnostic sessions, but noooooo, they won’t keep you waiting an extra thirty minutes before they’re ready for you, they promise!) and fall off the effing exam lounge table thing.  Mike is about to fall off his chair in the corner, we all have to literally laugh out loud, because, really?  What the fuck else can one do at this point?  There is NO DIGNITY allowed in the ultrasound room.  It’s just useless.    

Stories?  Yeah, I got stories.  No, you didn’t ask for them.  Sorry.  I tend to keep talking anyway.

Yeah, more of that, please. Sir.

Well I was sitting, waiting, wishing
You believed in superstitions
Then maybe you'd see the signs

The Lord knows that this world is cruel
I ain't the Lord, no I'm just a fool
Learning lovin' somebody don't make them love you

Must I always be waiting, waiting on you
Must I always be playing, playing your fool

I sang your songs, I danced your dance
I gave your friends all a chance
But putting up with them
Wasn't worth never having you

Maybe you've been through this before
But it's my first time so please ignore
The next few lines cause they're directed at you

I can't always be waiting, waiting on you
I can't always be playing, playing your fool

I keep playing your part
But it's not my scene
Want this plot to twist
I've had enough mystery
Keep building it up
Then shooting me down
But I'm already down

Just wait a minute
Just sitting, waiting
Just wait a minute
Just sitting, waiting

Well, if I was in your position
I'd put down all my ammunition
I'd wonder why'd it taken me so long

But Lord knows that I'm not you
And if I was, I wouldn't be so cruel
Cause waitin' on love aint so easy to do

Must I always be waiting, waiting on you
Must I always be playing, playing your fool

No, I can't I always be waiting, waiting on you
I can't always be playing, playing your fool
(lyrics via)

Off the table, for now.

I don’t think I can do today.  I really, really, really don’t want to.  Been living on adrenaline and restraint all weekend, for no goddamned good reason.  How am I supposed to muscle through on pure disappointment?  When did I forget to keep expectations at zero?  SHIT.  This blows.  That is all.

I swear to Thor if they keep me sitting in that little exam room for half an hour waiting for dude to read some shit off my chart I’m going to lost my ever loving fried egg mind.  Take an effing hammer to the pictures of babies and moms on the walls.  Dammit dammit dammit.  I just don’t wanna.  I can’t be officially that girl…yet…but…hi.  That’d be my chart, yes.  I don’t think it lies, unfortunately.  Sorry, but this is just the stupidest self-inflicted irony I’ve ever made myself suffer through.  I left that office with hormonal birth control ON MY PERSON on Friday.  I was ready to let this whole thing go for the summer, quit thinking about timing for a while.  Let it go, let it go, let it go.  I was frankly SHOCKED like an idiot that it was even positive.  Oh sex?  Yeah, I’ve heard that can lead to pregnancy.  The whole actual baby thing is just lost on me, though.  Lost.  Not sticky.  DUNZO.  It’s a rare man who can appreciate a good tale of vaginal bleeding so I’ll just gloss right over that whole thing (pretty, huh?) and just say that I’m a super idiot for even thinking for a second that a third time might be more charming than eye-stabbingly futile.  Kill me now.  I don’t wanna deal with this.  I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to deal with this.  I’m going to have to tell my mother and end up trying not to steal my sister’s wedding thunder with stupid non-baby drama.  Kill me again.  I guess if there’s any silver lining here I could still hope that I won’t need a D&C.  Because an abortion that’s not an abortion would just be the tongue-tied stem-knotted booze-soaked cherry on top.  Whatever.  Seriously.  Whatever.  Kill me later, too.

So, what I WILL get out of this are a bunch of numbers.  I may put them here to keep some sort of track of what they may mean, if anything, but I really, really, RILLY don’t want to turn this place into an infertility blog.  Puke.  I didn’t ever even really want this to turn into a mommy blog, but that I word’s even harder to write than I HAD A MISCARRIAGE.  Puke, puke, puke.  I may just.  PUKE.  But hey!  In three days I get to go on “vacation” to see my sibs-in-law again!  That’ll be awesome.  Riiigghttt.  Here’s to fresh starts.  Seriously.  Cheers.

Better than drunken facebooking. Good enough.

Memorable quotes from this accidental long weekend:

Can you come back to the office?
Ummm, no.  Why?

It’s positive.
Whaaaaattt?  Um, okay.  Wow.  Still, no.

Mkay, blood draw on Sunday.
Ummm.  Riiiighttt.  Sure.  I can do that.

Hi.  You are?
Name name name.
DOB?
BlahBlahBlah.
Pause.  Wow.  You do not look as old as this paper says.
Riiiight.  Well, thank you, I guess.

Wow.  Where are the bandaids?
Um.  I dunno.
Sorry, I don’t work here but on the weekends.  I know where some other ones are, though.  Be right back.
Mkay.
DAFFY OR BUGS?
Uhh, I really don’t care.  Rilly.
Mkay, here we go!
Do you have a preferred place for sticking?
Um.  No.  Wherever the vein looks good.  Or the artery, or whatever.
Mkay, some people say, STICK ME HERE.
Um, yeah.  If you see a good one, go for it.
Oooh, here we go!
Okay, go.
Are you okay?
Yup.  Way too used to this.
Dead silence.

Hi.  Name?
Ja.  Hi.
Dropping.
Boo.
Sorry.  Let’s do all this other expensive stuff, mkay?
Mkay.
Ja.
Ja.
KTHXBAI.

Ffffuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.