In order for me to start to get over this miscarriage emotionally I’m going to need a little more cooperation from my body. We had to head to the ER at seven this morning due to heavy bleeding eight days after the D&C. Clearly my uterus sucks. It held on to a piece of the placenta after T’s birth, it held on to a dead embryo for 5 weeks until I got the D&C, and now it won’t stop bleeding. That is three strikes. Can I get a new one? One that won’t jerk me around and will let me get on with the business of healing?
While I am grateful that I have a lot of say over what happens with my body I was presented with a situation today where I just wanted the doctor to tell me what to do. My case was not cut and dry. Although I was diagnosed with “abnormal vaginal bleeding” (Seriously, that is what my discharge papers said along with a number of other hilarious things. I did a dramatic reading for Z on the way to the car.) the bleeding wasn’t heavy enough to clearly necessitate another D&C. The other option was a drug that would cause my uterus to contract and hopefully expel the pesky little thing (blood clot? “left behind material of conception”? who the hell knows!) seen in the ultrasound that is still hanging around in my uterus. So the doctor was in contact with my OB-GYN and told me that they were both comfortable with going either way, they would do what I want and I needed to make the call.
Yes, but you see I am not a doctor. I wanted them to tell me what would help me; I didn’t want to make the call myself. Don’t you need years of education to make decisions about treatment? I finally twisted the nice doctor’s arm enough for her to tell me what she would do in the same situation. And I just went with that.
Z came home with the prescription and there was a big orange sticker on it that said DON’T USE IF YOU ARE PREGNANT, MAY BE PREGNANT, OR ARE BREASTFEEDING. I have a thing with orange. I hate it. The color, the taste, everything. If it comes into contact with my skin I have to wipe it off. I threw an orange toy of T’s under his crib so he couldn’t play with it anymore because I hate it so much. Yes, I am a really selfish mom. In my defense he has a ton of toys and I’m sure he doesn’t miss it. But back to the prescription, if the sign was in orange it must really be serious.
Thankfully my dad-in-law is an ER doctor so I called him and told him about the sticker. Then I told him that I clearly told the doc today that I breastfed 4 times a day, and later she mentioned to me that even though the breastfeeding would help my uterus contract this drug would help even more. I asked if I had to call the afterhours OB-GYN number before I took the pill or if because she absolutely knew I was breastfeeding it was cool to go ahead. When he said go ahead I was so relieved.
I feel like a complete and total pain in the ass when I use that damn number. I’ve had to use it twice since the D&C, my doc was actually at the hospital delivering a baby when I was there and he was in contact with the doc who saw me the whole time so I was also bugging him then. The last thing I want to do is call and said “Hey, it’s Karen. AGAIN. Did you guys really know what you were doing when you prescribed this drug?” I have always felt like an inconvenience to doctors. Is that normal? Do you feel like you are wasting doctor’s time even when something is legitimately wrong? Do you dread having to call the afterhours number? Or am I being a paranoid crazy person yet again?
One last semi-amusing thing. I tried a joke with the ultrasound technician that I thought was pretty funny, but clearly made him uncomfortable. These situations do tend to bring out the inappropriate in me. I was asking a lot of questions about what he was seeing and he told me if he found anything he would immediately tell me. I replied, “It would really rock if you found a developing baby in there.” He knew I had recently miscarried. Long awkward silence. And I felt like a humongous dick.
And one last not at all amusing thing. If you are friends with me you run the risk of inappropriately early Saturday morning phone calls in which I ask you to watch my child so I can go to the hospital. Keep that in mind if we are friend dating, because when it bites you in the ass I don’t want it to be a surprise. I managed to not only inconvenience my friend, but her husband and soccer game bound children as well. While I don’t wish any of them ill, if they do need to make an ER trip I hope I’m the first phone call. I owe them.
Z has been doing this a lot at hospitals and doctor’s offices lately. I think he is ready to stop.
Unwashed Karen “Pain in the Ass” Cordano