Come on universe, how much more shit can you dump on me? The Misoprostol didn’t work. It is 6 a.m. and I still have a dead baby in me and I am not handling it with grace.
Back up to 9 a.m. yesterday:
After the ultrasound I went home, had my cry and packed up everything pregnancy/IVF related, put it in a box and shoved it the basement. This is how I coped with my sweet cat dying years ago. I still have the box. I still have not opened it. Unhealthy? Probably, but repression is my thing; the color suits me.
After the house was free of all things baby/pregnancy/infertility related, I fixed my makeup and walked out – determined to handle this with poise. I had to go to the hospital run by my university to make sure the lupus panel was covered. I don’t want another fucking bill on top of a dead baby, thank you. Up to the second floor, into the lab, hand my sheet to the intake person who had bleached blond hair and green eye shadow. After a few seconds she bats her tacky green eyes and tells me I have to go to registration and get a wristband. Why? They can do the thousands of dollars of lupus tests, but they need special documentation to do my blood type.
You are fucking kidding me? I stared at her and in my best big girl voice explained that I needed this blood type done stat so I could take the medication to finish this and nodded at the paper. It was then that she looked at my diagnosis and rolled her eyes. She snatched the phone and called someone, somewhere and spent 5 minutes trying to decide how I get a wrist band to have my blood typed. “Go downstairs and register and they will get you a wristband,” she said quickly and handed my form back not making any eye contact.
Downstairs I go, still dry eyes, stoic and a little proud of my ability to handle this so well. I wait in line and finally get called up to window No. 6. “I was at the lab and was instructed to come here to register and get a wrist band so I can have lab work and my blood typed,” I said. No. 6 smacked her gum, snatched my sheet and then told me that she had no idea what I was talking about, I needed to go the lab. I lost it.
I stood up, put my hands on the counter, leaned into her face and hissed that “I have a dead baby inside me and can’t get it out until I have my fucking blood type. I don’t have time for your rudeness or your failure to read the order – miscarriage.” And then No. 6 laughed at me. I guess it is ok to laugh about dead babies but not ok to talk about them. I snatched the paper and stormed to the front desk where I was FINALLY taken care of and treated like a human, not like another cog in the fucked up system that is my health insurance.
Back up to the lab where I waited 45 minutes and watched the room fill and empty three times before they finally got their shit together and called me back. My phlembotomist took one look at my paperwork and said, “Tisk tisk tisk, you did not get your wristband. You need to go downstairs and get this before I can draw your blood.” Cue instant tears. All my dignity and strength just evaporated. Three other women come up, scratch their heads and then finally see a note explaining my situation and authorizing the draw. Their faces soften and I am sat in a chair. The young guy, who either can’t read or never learned compassion, looked at me and laughed, “Come on now! It’s just a little stick! You won’t even feel it.”
“I’m fine with a blood draw. I have had a terrible day,” I said. He continued to chat like nothing was wrong. No one wants to talk about miscarriage.
Because of all of this, I didn’t get to start the medication until 3:45 p.m. when my doctor finally got my blood type and said I was good to go. With a deep breath I put the pills in and then waited. By 10:45 nothing had happened other than some light cramping, like the cramping following a case of the whiskey shits. Two pea-sized clots passed at 11 p.m. and I finally fell asleep, just to wake up every hour to use the bathroom and wonder, “Is this just a dream?”
6 a.m. – no, it’s not a dream. It’s a nightmare and there is still a dead baby inside me. I’m to call my doctor at 8 a.m., hoping and praying they can get me in for a D&C today. I’m avoiding eating and drinking just in case. Please, please just go away so I can forget you, Pip. Repression is such a lovely color on me.