I have a new title: Human Pin-Cushion. My old title (Queen of the World) was disputed at length by husband and cats, and really was more befitting the Peanut than me. Thus, I was dethroned.
Why HP-C? Because if I was to drop dead in the street half an hour from now, the medical examiner would assume I am a heroin addict (although would likely be confused by my obvious excess of nourishment). My arms are all bruised, bloody, and have teeny tiny little holes in them. Both arms. Numerous holes.
Why the little holes? Because in order to find out exactly when I begin the upcoming (we know it's coming - at least we're all pretty sure) miscarriage, my blood hormone levels are being taken every 2nd weekday. I get poked on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. That way, the doctor can figure out when the miscarriage starts, and hopefully attach possible causes. Which may then be tested with other, future miscarriages. Such fun.
It's a good thing I no longer consider the state of pregnancy (for me) as anything other than a minor illness, kind of like having a head cold or the flu. Otherwise this would be rather depressing.
But, on the up side, nobody expects anything of me any more - they're all waiting for the inevitable, and want to analyze my every move, so have basically stepped up and are allowing me to spend most of the day, every day, sitting on my arse and knitting. Or surfing the web. Or napping (I do lots of napping).
Except for being stuck with needles all the time, it's kind of like a holiday. No litter box to clean, no heavy lifting, no exposure to harsh chemicals like bathroom cleansers, etc. I can sit around drinking milk, popping vitamins, and watching new bruises form on my arms. The multiple layers of bruising on my left arm, currently in various stages of fading, kind of look a little like Kermit the Frog, but more colourful.
Oh, and for anyone getting all depressed my this post, please don't. This is the first time in years I actually feel that something positive is being done in the quest to find out why I keep spontaneously rejecting fetal tissue. And, under Murphy's Law, because we finally have proper medical care and are being observed closer than we ever have been before, this will most likely be a pregnancy that sticks. Because that would be kind of ironic. Kharmic justice. Almost funny. And probably loud. For the next 18 years or so. Yup. Uh-huh.
Now, if you'll be kind enough to excuse me, I have to pack a knitting project. We leave at 5:00am tomorrow to drive 5 hours to the clinic for an ultrasound. So, of course, I have to drink 4 8-ounce glasses of water, while on the road, and then hold it. While bouncing in DH's work truck, on crappy roads. Then drive back home the next morning, so I can be here for the Wednesday blood test. The fun never stops.