Ticking Time Bomb

Interesting discovery yesterday: I’m still pregnant. Post-miscarriage I had to go for follow up blood work to see if the hormone levels were dropping like they should. They’d doubled.

It’s an ectopic pregnancy (and “demonstrating no cardiac activity”), hanging out in my right Fallopian tube. Even though the embryo is dead, it has a placenta which is still growing, and which is really dangerous (and kind of creepy, if we’re being honest.) – the Fallopian tubes are not stretchy enough to accommodate growth like the uterus, and they’re highly vascular, so if it breaks suddenly, I could loose a lot of blood.

I’d dragged myself to the doctors for follow up (“I feel fiiiine! I don’t wanna!”) and she checked me out to see how I was doing.

“Looks good!” she said. “You’re better!”

“Great! Only one question: when can I have sex FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I NEED TO GET LAID.”

“Tonight! Go for it!”

Bow-chica-bow-wow!

“Oh, just one more thing,” I was putting my shoes on at this point. “I thought I needed an ultrasound? Do I not any more?”

A whole lot of paper shuffling revealed there was a miscommunication, and I did need an ultrasound, very much so, it turns out, because there it was in my Fallopian tube, READY TO BURST AND KILL ME. Thus, being aware might have saved my life.

I needed a super-duper technical ultrasound just to be sure, so they sent me to “The Women’s Imaging Center” across the street. This meant I was in a waiting room with a wonderful cross-section of Brooklyn’s pregnant: tattooed hipsters, a young Puerto Rican couple, really young Hasidic Jews, a woman from the “Fuggedaboutit” part of Brooklyn (and her mustached husband), a black lesbian couple, and a Muslim in her maternity hijab. This was the best part of my day; seeing stuff like this is why I live here. All those different families, all about to get bigger and happier… all that LOVE! Love it.

The fancy ultrasound confirmed the pregnancy in my tube (and I got to see it, which was both awesome and sad – it looks like a coffee bean). They sent to the E.R. after making me swear I wouldn’t eat in case I needed emergent surgery, and I promised.

In the E.R., the O.B. doctor on call examined my images, examined me, and then scared the bejesus out of me by saying, “No sex! No jumping! Don’t even jump off this table! Don’t let anyone else examine you either! You could burst your tube at any second.”

Like, oh my god.

They discussed my options with me. I could have the surgery which would remove the pregnancy and my tube, or I could get an injection of Methotrexate, an option that they said required heavy monitoring and follow up.

“Injection.” I said.

“Do you want to think about it? Discuss it with your family?”

“No.”

“You HAVE to follow up with us. It’s vital. You could die otherwise.”

“Got it. I promise. I am very uninterested in dying.”

It took hours to actually get the shot. Because Methotrexate is technically an abortifacient used on early, viable pregnancies when it is the women’s choice to terminate, its use is controversial, thus, hospital policy dictated that it couldn’t be administered in the E.R. (Hospital policy is stupid.)

Eventually a spunky doctor took pity on me waiting around, slipped into my room, and locked the exam room door behind her.

“We’re doing this. This is ridiculous.”

“Are you going rouge?!” I asked, grinning.

“I’m going to stop torturing you so you can go home.”

I love her.

The delay had a fantastic silver lining, though: Rob showed up in time to cuddle me and have his shoulder dug into while she administered the injection. (He also showed up with a cheeseburger – I had been with doctors since 9 in the morning and hadn’t eaten breakfast, thinking I’d just be in and out – and this was around 5:30 pm. It was almost as good as the sex I couldn’t have.)

So now, I wait. No one knows what will happen. I might start passing stuff (bleh.), or bleeding, or cramping, or my body could just absorb everything. It could ignore the medication completely and I’ll need another shot, and if that doesn’t work either, I’ll have the surgery. My tube could burst anyway, and I could die, in which case one of you better call dibs on who gets my fancy camera equipment.

“Please don’t go home and wait for your tube to burst.” said the spunky doctor, putting on a bandaid. “Live your life.”

Right. Ok.

tick-tick-tick-tick-tick…