Welp. I’m getting less pregnant by the day. As ever-more insightful people have said before me, it turns out that you can, in fact, be a little bit pregnant. And I am. Just the tiniest little bit. In fact, in a cruel twist of waning pregnancy symptoms, my boobs and lower back are prepared to deliver twins. But the rest of me is quickly losing interest. From a not-so-high-high of 69 point something on Friday, my HCG levels have dropped to a respectably-less-pregnant 22.
In some ways, it creates an oddly liberating sense of relief – it means this particular cycle of hell is almost over. And it also (probably) means I don’t have a dangerous ectopic pregnancy moments away from rupturing, landing me in the intensive care unit in need of an emergency blood transfusion. Not that I spent the entire weekend transfixed by bulletin board trolls and web “doctors” who suggested my death by ectopic was imminent. Because umm,
I was plastered to the couch, paralyzed by panic I didn’t?
The less pregnant I got, the more I began to wonder when, in fact, I would suffer the physical manifestation of the lost pregnancy. It’s funny to think of now, but I was actually worried, even wanting to just, you know, get my period and get it over with. Oh, what a crazy feeling that was. It all seems so downright hysterical now...
At the risk of getting just a bit too real, I will say only this: if anyone (like, I don’t know, the entire internet) ever tells you that a chemical pregnancy results in “only light bleeding” well, consider yourself warned – on this (and, it turns out, many other matters) the internet is a bunch of lying liars –
my pelvis is like a crime scene. I alternate between feeling like I need to vomit or pass out. I spent the night in a pool of my own sweat and woke up at 5:30, wild eyed, jonesing for about 26 ibuprofen and a fifth of vodka. To say that the last 24 hours have been, ahem, unpleasant, would be a fairly accurate, though extraordinarily understated, description (and I'm not even telling you the good stuff). So there you have it. The over-share that is the aftermath of a chemical pregnancy. You may now return to watching assorted cat videos and reading US Weekly online doing your taxes.
(As an uncharacteristically sentimental aside, I just want to thank all of you guys – the people I know in real life and the ones I don’t – for your kind words, cheerleading, virtual hugs, comments, emails and, of course, your wit. It’s been a tough few days, but the support has meant a lot. Oh, and a very belated thanks to JustMe for nominating me for the mysterious "Liebster award"!)
 Do you know your blood type? Because readers, I did not. C was appalled and, after
shock and awe gentle urging, I shyly called the fertility clinic nurse to inquire. (O positive for the voyeurs out there).
 When I asked the nurse about this
totally rational fear yesterday morning, she reassured me that unless I had “rectal pain” *shudder* or shoulder pain (never saw that one coming), then I was probably fine. Thankfully, over dinner, C explained that the former occurs with some ominous complication called “bleeding into the pouch of Douglas.” Because I’m not interested in hearing about an area of my body named "Douglas" and because hello, dinner, when he tried to explain this in greater, more graphic detail, I covered my ears and sang la, la, la, la in the most infantile manner possible.