WARNING: I’m typing this from a hospital bed with an IV drip of fluids and morphine. So please don’t hold any of this against me.
Today my ovaries decided they were done being overshadowed by larger organs. It was time for them to rise up and out of the pelvic girdle! It was time they showed that little old bladder and that mile of intestine who was boss! It was time to deflate my lungs’ ego! It was time for my ovaries to reach their full, fruit-sized potential (and hyperstimulate).
I started thinking something might be wrong last night when my cramps turned into stabbing pains that would take my breath away. By bedtime the swelling had migrated to my back and was making it impossible to stand up straight.
At 5 a.m. I woke up to use the bathroom and all but fell off the commode from the pain. I swore. I shoved a towel in my mouth to keep from waking Mr. Husband and our house guests. My cat sat at my feet and looked up in alarm – why is mommy eating the towel? And where the hell is my kitty kibble??
By 8 a.m. I was having a hard time breathing. It was time to seek medical attention.
We drove 20 minutes out-of-town to go to the hospital where my RE works. It is out of network but at this point my well-being far outweighed the insurance nightmare we will face to get this trip covered.
The staff at St. Joseph Hospital is just wonderful and were genuinely concerned about my fears and pains. I had a regular on-the-belly ultrasound because my ovaries were SO HUGE that we didn’t even have to get at ’em with the dildo cam. The doctor took measurements and said that my left ovary had grown to the size of an orange and the right ovary was quickly approaching a grapefruit. Each ovary is covered in more cysts than the doctor could count, several of which have started to burst filling me with fluid.
I had a lung scan with contrast dye to make sure I did not have any blood clots. I’m happy to report that all is well in my lungs, although their feelings are hurt that the ovaries launched such a fierce attack – NOT NECESSARY! they fussed.
Unfortunately there is not a whole lot the doctors can do for me other than keep me here until the swelling subsides. They will visit me every two hours to take my vitals, make sure my bag of fluids is fresh, apply more morphine if necessary and measure my belly to see how much more I swell.
In case this is not fun enough, I get to measure my pee in this charming contraption called a “hat.” I have renamed this plastic bowl my “ass hat,” which I find much more appropriate for something that hovers below your nether region and collects the pathetic amount of urine your swollen and fluid filled body musters. The ass hat then taunts me when I try to read it and realize that there is not a measure for “three drops.”
So here I sit, alone, bored, in pain and loaded with morphine. I’m trying to stay sunny about this – thank God we went to the ER when we did. Thank God my sweet mother-in-law is visiting next week to help cheer me up. Thank God for my sweet husband who ran home to pick up my computer and Kindle so I would not go stark-raving mad while sitting here all night trying to conjure up a satisfactory piss.
Despite all this thankfulness, I can’t help but feel cheated out of what was supposed to be my first two-week wait. I wanted this to be my “time.” I wanted to be a success story. I wanted to be 12 weeks by Thanksgiving so I could tell my parents, brother and sister-in-law. I wanted my baby.
Based on the way my body feels right now and the amount of piss and shit that can’t exit thanks to being squished to one side by my ovaries, I would not blame my baby for passing this uterus by. “Later tater, I would rather land in the softness of an OB tampon than in your lining.”
And now I’m signing off to try for another pee. Wish me luck, fellow TTCers. I send you all baby dust and prayers that your ovaries don’t decide to stage a revolt.