Ok. I am a somewhat reasonable person. Sure, I have a panic disorder and I tend to blow things out of proportion, but rarely does it ever affect anyone else. My depression sometimes affects others, I will give you that. My social phobia definitely affects others, but I think people are getting used to the fact that I will never know when I will want to go somewhere and when I will panic my way out of it. Whatever. All of these things may seem *unreasonable* to some people. I, however, try not to let my mental instabilities affect others. I always apologize when they DO affect others. I feel guilty for having mental issues … really? Why should I? I didn’t ask for this!
That having been said, I have come to the conclusion that my ass is, IN FACT, a target for the big booted foot of the universe.
Let’s recap.
A few weeks ago, my grandfather winds up in the ER. Now, for those who don’t know this about me, one of my phobias involves getting lost inside unfamiliar buildings. I become very claustrophobic and I panic. So, now, not only is my Pappaps sick, I have to navigate a hospital BY MYSELF. It may sound stupid to you, but please try to imagine the intense fear that washed over me. SCARY. Walking around Hillcrest Hospital was my equivalent of a normal person walking around in a haunted house, with the fun factor removed. Get it? Ok. Now, that was bad. The only thing that got me to the room was the fact that my grandfather needed me to be there, and if the roles were reversed, come hell or high water he would have done the same for me. I made it. I survived it. When I was done surviving it, I had a panic attack over it, felt foolish because of it, but eventually I moved on. Thankfully, my grandfather came out of the hospital and all is currently well. I am still, however, completely embarrassed to speak to my two aunts who had to calm me down via text messages while I cried like a bitch in my car. Yes, I have become THAT weak.
Shortly after the incident with my grandfather, Patches, the family cat, jumps down off the couch and tears ass down the hallway, dragging her back leg behind her. She falls to the ground and just lays and pants, her tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth. My mother and I are panicked, and we grab her and take her to the emergency vet, all the while I am reassuring Patches (and my mom) that the vet would get her fixed up and we would be taking her home. I was convinced that our beloved, albeit slightly overweight, little girl took a hard fall on her hind leg and hurt herself and in a panic couldn’t catch her little breath. I had myself CONVINCED of this. The vet comes in and tells us of the possible diagnosis, and says an X Ray will confirm. Didn’t sound too awful, the original diagnosis … well, in a shock and surprise twist of fate, it turns out our little girl had cancer. So, her fall, completely unrelated to the final outcome of the examination, was the least of our little girl’s problems. I called my little sister, who was the actual owner of P-Kitty (as I lovingly called her), and she came to the vet. In a family decision, we decided that we couldn’t allow P-Kitty to suffer the horrors of basically suffocating to death and we put her to sleep. In comes my panic, in comes my WEAK and STUPID FEARS, in comes my HUMILIATION for not being able to SIT IN THE ROOM WHEN PATCHES DIED. In comes another nervous breakdown.
Lo and behold, dear reader, my story is not through, for during these two episodes, there is an underlying incident that is erupting in my psyche in the background. The fight that I had with my former best friend (yes, it is indeed time I got the fuck over that, right?) in which he basically made me feel like a worthless piece of garbage (again). So, while I am terrified of losing Pappaps, and terrified of navigating the hospital, and terrified of the panic that came after, and then mourning the loss of Patches, and the ensuing panic after that, I have this festering, puss filled, pimple growing under the surface. That pimple’s name? Ex best friend. Why can’t I just walk the fuck away from that pain?
Just when I think it might be safe to leave my house again, I go to work and accidentally splash photo processing chemicals in my eye. AWESOME. Later that same day, a customer shit all over the bathroom floor. DOUBLE FUCKING AWESOME. Let’s send in the girl with the phobias to clean up the disease filled feces all over the floor!
Well, you’d think that would be the end of the story, but it REALLY ISN’T.
I start getting this pain in my face. The pain in my face turns to pain in my throat. The pain in my throat later turns to pain in my chest. YOU HEARD IT, LADIES AND GERMS, bronchitis AND a sinus infection. The third time this year. So, now I am infested with disease (once again) and the doctor wants to put me on drugs. Well, dear readers, you know how much I love drugs. So, let’s tantalize another of Melissa’s phobias with some medicines.
Oh, no, reader. You aren’t done yet. Oh no. The best is yet to come.
Thanksgiving night, I was just leaving work and I started developing this gnawing pain in my lower abdomen. It was getting more intense by the minute, actually, and I started getting pretty scared. I was thinking appendicitis, actually, but the only thing that kept me guessing about my self-diagnosis was the bleeding.
I called my OBGYN on Friday. She scheduled me for an appointment in one week where we will “check on these symptoms”. In the meantime, she says to take a pregnancy test “to rule it out”.
Rule it out she did not. Family, friends, I hereby make the announcement to the public that I am, no, pardon me, I WAS, pregnant.
Friday night, doubting the findings of the home pregnancy test, I stop at a drug store and buy the digital test. I couldn’t possibly be pregnant, after all, because I had just finished my monthly on November 13. That was only 10 days prior. You can’t get pregnant if you don’t ovulate, and I hadn’t ovulated yet. Yes, I know that sperm stay in your body for a couple of days, but I was 5 days away from ovulation. That pregnancy test shouldn’t have even picked up the hcg hormone in my urine for another WEEK (at least!).
I was still in pain on Friday and I was still bleeding. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, so I carted my ass to the ER to make sure I wasn’t ectopic.
The nurse and the attending tell me that 50 percent of pregnancies continue after a threatened miscarriage. The five hours in the ER gave me time to think about all this. Would having a kid be so bad? And what if this is the last chance I get? Would it be so bad to finally give mom the grandbaby she wants? Would it be so terrible to not have my life end with me? Would it be so bad to look down at a little face and know that I helped create it? I am always creating something, would this not be the ultimate creation of mine?
I didn’t want you. I never wanted you. But then I HAD you. Then I wanted you.
I spend Saturday in a nervous fervor. I debated it. I made jokes about not wanting it, all the while knowing that I had convinced myself that I DID want it.
Sunday morning I woke up to more spotting. I was told on Friday to watch for fresh blood. If I found fresh blood, I was to return to the ER.
I returned to the ER Sunday afternoon. My release documents state:
Diagnosis: MISCARRIAGE, COMPLETED.
Needless to say, the universe isn’t done with me yet. I can’t return to the doctor until Friday where the blood work will determine if the pregnancy hormone has left my body. Friday night I measured 296.2 hcg. By Sunday, I should have almost doubled that amount. I measured 334.6 hcg on Sunday. The doctor said that even though I would be 2.5 weeks pregnant, my numbers are more like 3 days pregnant. Knowing this, knowing that I had been bleeding, knowing that I am in horrible pain, the doctor can’t tell me “Yes, Melissa, this is definite. It is over.” until FRIDAY. In the meantime, I have a daily reminder of the emotional pain masquerading as physical pain. How can one begin to move on when the physical pain reminds them? There is a voice in the back of my mind that keeps saying, “Well, Melissa, technically speaking, you had sex on Sunday and did the pregnancy test on Friday, so TECHNICALLY, you were ONLY A COUPLE DAYS PREGNANT. Maybe the test was correct, maybe this little guy is holding on! Maybe he (or she) is a fighter! Maybe it isn’t over yet!” and then I have more pain, and all that is washed away.
All right. I guess there is nothing more to say. I won’t know anything more until Friday at 11:15 am. I can’t make that day or that time come any sooner, wishful thinking or not. The fact of the matter is that if it turns out that I am still pregnant, this little fighter will be loved more than ANY other kid on this planet simply for the tortures that it had to endure to get here. The odds, however, are slim.
phuktneurotic 