False Hope

Well, once again I’ve learned a little lesson. I’ve learned another new term; ‘decidual bleeding’.

For those of you out there who have never been pregnant, take it from me – pregnant women are lunatics. Over the past 10 years I have teased countless friends and enemies alike who were once rational, logical, smart people, until they had a puppy on the grill. I don’t know if there is any research to support my theory, but I firmly believe that there is a process whereby brain cells are transmitted to the fetus, resulting in a nice smart baby but a slow dim-witted mom-to-be.

How cruel is it to be on the other side, looking out?

My irrationality and hormonal mood swings hit an all-time low this weekend. There isn’t really any one incident I can pin down or use as an example because, well, I’m not smart enough to do so any more. But I have been, plain and simply, crazy. I cry if Quiet wants to watch a show I don’t want to watch yet, when asked, I can’t decide on anything except ‘Bridezillas’, truly the most loathsome show on television. I had watermelon and lemon meringue pie for dinner, despite the fact my fridge is brimming with delicious leftovers like pesto pasta salad and potstickers and Italian subs; it all sounds disgusting to me, even though those were the only things I could possibly eat only days earlier. Right now the thought of lemon pie gives me heartburn and makes me want to hurl, and what I would really like for dinner is miniature marshmallows or anything purple. What I ended up eating was plain angel hair pasta with a tablespoon of peanut butter in it. It doesn’t help that it’s 104 degrees out. I feel especially bad for Quiet, who has resorted to eating nasty little power bars at lunch to try to cut down on the calories I’m stuffing into him with my constant bake-and-don’t-eat-anything-but-force-you-to-eat routine.

So I finally broke down and went to see my doctor. As you all know, the only thing I hate more than going to the doctor or having to call and make an appointment and then go out in the heat and drive in a hot car to get to the doctor is getting a needle at the doctor’s, which is what I had to do. I had to have the stupid blood test because I’ve been going positively crazy; the nausea hasn’t gone away, the occasional odd cramp has continued, I will soon have to go to some PTA (Pregnancy Testing Anonymous) support group, and I’m definitely not ovulating. Either I incorrectly self-diagnosed the miscarriage (damn the internets!), or these are the miserable after-affects that I am still experiencing. Either way, I need to know before I start throwing random objects out my window just to hear the satisfying tinkle of glass before bursting into tears because I can’t find my blue t-shirt. I’m like a cry-baby special needs 6-year old. I hate being this way.

My doctor told me I shouldn't jump to conclusions (or miscarriages, as the case may be), which only made me mad at myself for not seeing her sooner and for already going through all the phases of grieving, but mostly for then laying in bed that night and playing, 'What if?', as in, what if everything is really, despite everything, still ok?