I force myself to get up and go to the doctor for more blood work. My Beta count drops to 55, but two days later it is up to 95. Two days after that it climbs to 200. Finally, my HCG is doubling as it should. It makes no sense, but we begin to allow ourselves to hope.
Driving home from the doctor's office, I receive a phone call from our nurse that knocks the wind out of me. Everything she says is matter-of-fact, but I can hear the concern in her voice. "Sarah, you need to go to the hospital. I am emailing you the paperwork to take with you. We are not sure why your HCG is climbing and have concerns about what this could mean." I make it to my mom's house before I break down. She calls Richie who rushes home from work.
"You have a pregnancy of unknown location. There is fetal tissue growing, but we cannot see it," the ultrasound technician says after a thorough examination. Our reply is a textbook example of the denial phase: "Wouldn't it be too small to see at this point? If there's tissue growing, then a baby could be there." We are told that, at 6 weeks, there should be a visible fetal sac. With development occurring outside the uterus and erratic HCG counts, it is obvious that this is not a viable pregnancy.
Over the next few hours there are examinations by more doctors and nurses, phone calls back and forth between the hospital and our reproductive endocrinologist, and decisions about our situation that do not seem to include us. Finally, a doctor comes in and says, "Your R.E. and I have agreed on a course of action. We think it best to give you two injections of Methotrexate to break down the tissue that is continuing to grow. This is a chemotherapy drug that helps rid the body of unwanted cells."
Unwanted? We want these cells more than anything. We just need them to continue growing in a different place. What if there is still a baby there and the shot destroys it? The doctor allows me to cry and shout and then tells us, "You can wait and hope that things will change, but I know that the outcome will be the same. You will eventually need the shots. The situation will become more dangerous the longer you put this off."
With a compounded sense of loss, I get the injections. This hurts more, physically and emotionally, than the presumed miscarriage. We are told to follow up with the doctor for more blood work. I feel sick and worn out as we walk out of the hospital, thinking that the worst is now behind us.
"You have a pregnancy of unknown location. There is fetal tissue growing, but we cannot see it," the ultrasound technician says after a thorough examination. Our reply is a textbook example of the denial phase: "Wouldn't it be too small to see at this point? If there's tissue growing, then a baby could be there." We are told that, at 6 weeks, there should be a visible fetal sac. With development occurring outside the uterus and erratic HCG counts, it is obvious that this is not a viable pregnancy.
Over the next few hours there are examinations by more doctors and nurses, phone calls back and forth between the hospital and our reproductive endocrinologist, and decisions about our situation that do not seem to include us. Finally, a doctor comes in and says, "Your R.E. and I have agreed on a course of action. We think it best to give you two injections of Methotrexate to break down the tissue that is continuing to grow. This is a chemotherapy drug that helps rid the body of unwanted cells."
Unwanted? We want these cells more than anything. We just need them to continue growing in a different place. What if there is still a baby there and the shot destroys it? The doctor allows me to cry and shout and then tells us, "You can wait and hope that things will change, but I know that the outcome will be the same. You will eventually need the shots. The situation will become more dangerous the longer you put this off."
With a compounded sense of loss, I get the injections. This hurts more, physically and emotionally, than the presumed miscarriage. We are told to follow up with the doctor for more blood work. I feel sick and worn out as we walk out of the hospital, thinking that the worst is now behind us.
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