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[1]. 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?[2]
