herveryown

Nurse GateKeeper

As much of a joke as we consider Nurse GateKeeper, Sam and I also take her very seriously.  Her consistant level of incompetence has always had the potential to endanger not only my health, but Fitz-Hume and Millbarge's as well, and neither of us find that remotely amusing.

On Friday we printed out the emails that best illustrated her incompetance, highlighted the relevant passages, made notations where applicable and took a trip to see Nurse GateKeeper's boss.  We pointed out advice that she had given that clearly showed a lack of familiarity with my medical history, instances where she incorrectly told me that Dr. DoesNotSuck was in or out of the office, and went over the times she had ignored requests for assistance or missed significant symptoms.

As you can imagine, this took quite a while. 

Sam was the Bad Cop to my Good Cop, asking questions like "Does this degree of incompetance represent Evil Insurance Company, Inc. policy, or can we expect better from this office in the future?" while I emphasized the level of stress that dealing with Nurse GateKeeper was placing upon me and the precious delicate flower of my womanly gestational whatever.  I refrained from saying things like "The only way Nurse GateKeeper could be described as being good at her job is if her job description included Being A Total Jackass," because I'm ladylike and shit.

Next week we'll be talking to the office manager and determining who else at Evil Insurance Company, Inc. needs to be notified of this in writing.

The good news is that ever since the Eat Your Way Through A Cow plan has been instituted, my hematocrit (still low) has stabilized and my hemoglobin (ditto) has risen, lowering my dose of levothroid has shaved about ten beats per minute off my tachycardia, and my blood pressure has slowly backed away from the scary numbers.

Things are clearly looking up, but that doesn't get Nurse GateKeeper off the hook.  If I were a less aggressive patient, I never would have seen the inside of The Big Fancy Perinatologist Place.  I'd still be following Nurse GateKeeper's terrible advice in the dark.  Fitz-Hume and Millbarge deserve better than that, and so do Evil Insurance Company, Inc.'s other clients.

Drinking From The Firehose

Well, yesterday was not so great.  The shortness of breath was worse than ever before, so I decided to suck it up and go to Urgent Care.  Remind me to never do that again.  Seriously, if I fall out of a tree and break my arm, I would rather set it myself using old gift wrap spools and popsicle sticks than go back to that roiling den of idiots.

After being told that the anemia wasn't bad enough to be causing the shortness of breath and tachycardia I was experiencing, I was given four diagnoses:

1. OMG, you're dying (of asthma)!  Oh, wait.  No, you're not.
2. OMG, you're dying (of heart failure)!  Oh, wait.  No, you're not.
3. OMG, you're dying (of a pulmonary embolism)!  Oh, wait.  No, you're not.
4. Fuck if I know.  You should just relax.

The good news is that my asthma is under control, my heart is just fine, and I do not have a pulmonary embolism.  The bad news is that after running bloodwork and doing an ultrasound of my legs (which would probably tickle if I were ticklish), the only way to rule out a pulmonary embolism was to do a CT scan of my chest.  CT scans = radiation = hello, isn't radiation a superbad idea when you're pregnant?

I did not want to do it.  I left the hospital AMA, went to my OB/GYN's office and demanded to see a real doctor for a second opinion.  Nurse GateKeeper (of course) tried to deflect me, but I just sat patiently, huffing and puffing, until she trotted me in to see Dr. Eyelashes.  Dr. Eyelashes said (nutshell) "Look, I know the whole x-rays-during-pregnancy thing is less than ideal, but if you have a pulmonary embolism and die, that's a whole lot worse for the fetuses in the long run than a small amount of radiation.  Go back and do the CT."

So I did.  It sucked.  When it came back negative, I was so angry at myself for consenting to the goddamned test that I could not even speak for a while.  Then I opened my mouth and said "So, now what?"  The doctor said "Well, you're fine.  You can go home." 

(My discharge instructions said "Come back if you have any further problems with shortness of breath."  Yeeeah.  On what planet do they think they've competantly resolved the problems I already have?) 

Not thrilled with this answer, I said "And how am I supposed to function?  How am I supposed to work?  How am I supposed to go grocery shopping when I can't walk across the parking lot?  I can't even get up to pee without feeling like I'm suffocating.  What is the plan?"

"Um.  We don't have one.  Anyway, your blood oxygen is fine."

"Yeah, I know it's fine, but isn't the degree of effort it takes my body to achieve 'fine' kind of troublesome?"

"Um.  Follow up with the OB/GYNs.  Soon."

Sam said "So, that's it?  You're just giving up?"

"Um.  Nooooo, I'm not giving up.  Would you like some anxiety medication?"

"This is not related to anxiety.  My heart rate is elevated when I'm perfectly relaxed.  I gasp for air in my sleep." 

Isn't it amazing that my symptoms are verifiable, measurable, completely abnormal and alarming enough to warrant a motherfucking CT scan and yet able to be passed off as 'all in my head' when it turns out that the doctor isn't smart enough to figure out the cause?

Since we had clearly reached the end of this buffoon's competance, we left.

Sam took me out for pizza and then I cried for hours and hours about what a shitty mother I'm already turning out to be, how I endangered Fitz-Hume and Millbarge's health on some idiot's say so, how much I suck at being pregnant, OMG, what if they're born with horns and a tail or something?  (Inappropriate internal monologue: "Like Hellboy?  That would actually be kind of cool."  Me: "Shut up, you!  Can't you see I'm wallowing in self hatred, here?"), etc.  It was not a high point.  The high point was probably when the doctor was trying to locate Fitz-Hume and Millbarge's hearts via doppler and I very politely pointed out that he was totally aiming the wand at the wrong place.

I felt somewhat better upon consulting Dr. Google about x-rays during pregnancy.  If I'm reading that chart correctly, I would have to do a metric buttload of chest CTs in a row to actually harm Fitz-Hume and Millbarge.

Of course, I felt somewhat worse upon noticing that during the course of my day long stay, the wiz kids at Urgent Care had managed to expose me to a known (and well documented) allergen and caused a 2"x4" spot of really nasty contact dermatitis.  I guess that's Evil Insurance Company, Inc.'s version of a parting gift. 

I think I'd rather have Rice-A-Roni.

Oh, and a treatment plan.

Lies, Damn Lies, And What Nurse Gatekeeper Said

Oh, that woman.

Somehow, her endless bullshit has tipped past annoying and gone straight into entertaining.

While attempting to reach Dr. DoesNotSuck about the anemia and related complications, I ran afoul of Nurse Gatekeeper, instead.  Our email volleys became increasingly ridiculous as the week wore on.  Let me nutshell it for you.

Akeeyu: Still breathless and exhausted, unable to walk any distance, heart pounding, concerned about long term success of this pregnancy due to complications, bla bla bla, end of rope, please advise.

Nurse Gatekeeper: Are you taking iron supplements?

Akeeyu: Why yes, and let me outline my exciting regimen of Massive Iron Overdose in great detail.

Nurse Gatekeeper: You're doing it wrong.

Akeeyu: See, that's interesting, because your email gives me Iron Supplement Blackout Bingo, in that I have now been told (by Evil Insurance Company's doctors, nurses and midwives) to take iron with or without this, that, and the other.  I have jumped through every hoop, tried every combination of foods, supplements, and holding my mouth like this, and I'm still anemic.

Nurse Gatekeeper: You're still doing it wrong.  Try leafy green vegetables.

Akeeyu: Leafy green...what?  Do you mean like spinach or broccoli?  I know that both of those have iron, but they also contain calcium, which blocks iron absorption, so I haven't been relying on them as iron sources.

Nurse Gatekeeper: Does not compute!  Iron!  Spinach!  You should see a GP!

Akeeyu: I already asked my GP about this issue.  She referred me back to Dr. DoesNotSuck. Is there some other doctor I should be seeing?

Some Other Random Nurse, apparently stepping in for Nurse Gatekeeper, whose circuits I am thrilled to have overloaded: No, there is no other doctor you should be seeing.  Iron supplements should fix the anemia right up.  Please contact us if you have any further problems with exhaustion or dizziness.

Yes, because y'all have done such a goddamned bang up job addressing THIS problem.  Good God.  Can you imagine being an LPN and actually telling a pregnant woman that a GP and an OB/GYN are the last and final words on all things pregnancy related?  With a straight face, I mean.

I remember telling Sam that I would do anything necessary to secure proper care for Fitz-Hume and Millbarge.  I would do whatever it took, up to and including walking through fire.  When I said this, I wasn't expecting the outright stupidity of trying to wring an answer out of Nurse GateKeeper and her ilk.  Given a choice, I'd pick the fire.

The upside is that I have managed to secure a referral for a Perinatologist.  Getting an appointment before the earth crashes into the sun, well, that's the next step, but luckily Dr. BrightEyes has offered his assistance in the matter.  The downside, of course, is that the anemia has progressed (or failed to progress, I suppose) well past the point of absurdity.  From what I understand, it is not normal for a woman who is four months pregnant (even with two) to be unable to walk through a grocery store unaided.  It is not normal to be breathless while driving.  It is not normal for my heart to beat so rapidly that it keeps me up at night.

I feel an odd mixture of gratitude and concern for my heart.   It's desperately pinballing an inadequate (and dwindling) supply of hemoglobin around my body in order to keep me, Fitz-Hume and Millbarge sufficiently oxygenated.  I am impressed at the lengths my heart is currently going to, but sometimes I worry about how long it can keep working at this pace.

I worry about the possibility of a previa-related bleed, given my already ridiculous lack of blood.  I worry about surviving birth, either natural or medically assisted, with no stamina and no reserves.  I worry that my body will decide to offload Fitz-Hume and/or Millbarge in some misguided attempt to prioritize resources.  I worry that the only plan Evil Insurance Company, Inc. has put forth so far seems to consist of "Well, when you're on death's door, then we'll probably do...I don't know, something."

Mostly I worry because my medical Spidey Sense only goes off when something is wrong, and damned if the thing doesn't curently sound like a Hurricane Siren.

Good Doctor/Bad Nurse

I adore Dr. DoesNotSuck and worship the ground she rests her cute little hippy clogs upon, but her nurse is a total twit.  Remember her?  Fear not, the long months apart have not dulled her razor sharp wit, but only because she never actually had one of those.

Soap Opera Announcer: The psuedonym of Nurse Well Meaning has now been changed to Nurse Gatekeeper, due to her irksome habit of intercepting emails to Dr. DoesNotSuck and then attempting to answer them.  Is it even necessary to mention that she does this extremely poorly?

While trying to get comfortable a few weeks ago, I started wondering about sleeping on my back.  There is this thing about sleeping on your back during pregnancy, and I was having a hard time finding straight answers.  The twin pregnancy books were rather alarmist about it (and everything else) and sometimes the Internet just has too damned much information.  If you Google 'sleeping on your back during pregnancy', you'll come up with almost 2.5 million results, many of them conflicting, most of them vague and very few of them discussing multiple gestation specifically.  At this point, I figured I could do one of two things.  I could either go on IVFC and post a question that, had I read it, would make me think "Jeez, lady, shouldn't you be asking your doctor about this, not the Internet?" or just suck it up and ask my doctor.

I dashed off an email to Dr. DoesNotSuck...and promptly got a response from Nurse Gatekeeper.  "Oh, you're only ten weeks, it's nothing to worry about.  That happens later.  Just listen to your body."

I was not pleased with this answer for several reasons.  First of all, at ten weeks with two, a uterus is the size of fourteen weeks with one.  She hadn't mentioned the multiple issue, so was she giving me advice for a ten or fourteen week gestation?  Obviously, 'later' was not exactly my idea of a solid cutoff date, and furthermore 'listen to your body'?  Was she on glue?

'Listen to your body' is theoretically empowering and as useless platitudes go, it's a nifty one, but it's not exactly the kind of prenatal advice I expect from a doctor's office.  It's certainly not consistant with anything else they've ever told me.  Actually, most of their advice has gone directly against my body's urges.  'Snorfing up iron supplements while avoiding dairy', 'not eating deli meat' and 'putting up with Nurse GateKeeper' are certainly not impulses that my body would come up with on its own.  Come to think of it, if I listened to my body during this pregnancy, I would be consuming nothing but frosty cold glasses of milk, potatoes fried in butter and virtually snowed in with sour cream and salt, and a big glass of wine.  For every meal.

Furthermore, my body and I haven't been on speaking terms since the second FET.  The last I heard from my body was the week before BE's transfer, when it asked "Are you still mad because I didn't tell you GE was dead?"  "Take a wild guess," I said.  "Here, have some more Lupron."  "But I hate Lupron."  "Ha ha, I know."

Since it was useless to ask my body about this, I emailed Nurse Gatekeeper with the polite version of "Yeah, that 'listen to your body' theory is interesting, but I need a REAL answer."  Dr. DoesNotSuck promptly emailed me and said "Twentytwo weeks for singletons, but for you, let's say eighteen," and gave me some tips about getting comfortable.

Fastforward to this week, when I've been dizzy and panting like a dog almost constantly.  I knew I wasn't dehydrated, my blood pressure was normal, and since I eat every two hours, I was pretty sure it wasn't a blood sugar issue.  I found this kind of weird. 

I emailed Dr. DoesNotSuck asking if this sounded normal, if it might be an issue with anemia, or if I should be worried.  I got an email from Nurse Gatekeeper (sigh) saying she'd ordered a CBC.  Well, it was a good start.  I trotted down, donated a small amount of blood to The Cause, and waited to see what was up.

Yesterday, not only was I super duper dizzy, I was starting to have some nasty cramps (the first real cramping episode of this pregnancy), setting off my trusty "AWOOOOGA, AWOOOOGA, FREAK RIGHT THE FUCK OUT, WOMEN AND FETUSES FIRST, SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY, GO TO THE DOCTOR AND DON'T FORGET YOUR TOOTHBRUSH" alarm.  Because I'm laid back like that.

I left work and headed home to collect my free pass for the carpool lane beloved husband, calling Dr. DoesNotSuck's office en route.  I got Nurse GateKeeper (of course), who said "Hmm, come on in.  We'll check your blood pressure."  At least she didn't tell me I was probably having a miscarriage.  Sam was alarmed, but valiantly trying to hide it.  I was alarmed, but lying about it.  If this was a sitcom, it would be a setup for A Hilarious Misunderstanding, but since it's real life, it was just a really tense 45 minute drive to the hospital, followed by a 30 minute wait for Nurse GateKeeper. 

Since I hate Nurse GateKeeper anyway and am really not the most patient person in the world when panicking about all things uterine, I returned to the receptionist's desk at the 31 minute mark and said (politely) "Look, bag this nurse bullshit.  How about the doctor on call?"

I was abruptly whisked away to an exam room, where Nurse GateKeeper magically appeared and started asking all kinds of stupid questions.  No, I should clarify.  They weren't stupid questions per se, but since the answers to all of them (and many more) could be found in my chart, I just had no idea why she was asking them.  My personal favorite was "Oh, you're anemic?  Are you on iron supplements?"  I almost did a spit take.  Really, what's the point of having a medical record thicker than War and Peace if nobody ever reads it, hmm?  Also, I really had to pee, so I abandoned Sam to answer Nurse GateKeeper's questions and went on a bathroom quest.

When I returned to the exam room, the doctor on call showed up.  Dr. Eyelashes was perfectly nice and unintentionally hilarious.  "Well, you're very anemic," he said.  "Your hematocrit is 30--"  "Hey, really?  30 is pretty good, considering.  It used to be 25."  "Really?  Well, you're still very anemic.  How you feel right now is about what we'd expect with that degree of anemia and multiple gestation."  "Oh.  Okay.  Well, if this is the expected level of misery, I'm totally fine with that," I said between deep breaths. "I just wanted to make sure." 

"You seem very...worried," Dr. Eyelashes said hesitantly.  "Is there something specific you're worried about?"  "Just that they're dead," I said breezily.  Dr. Eyelashes did a pelvic, declaring my cervix long and closed, and found Fitz-Hume and Millbarge with the doppler.  "Everything seems fine," he said.  "There's really not a whole lot that can go wrong at this point--" (Sam and I started laughing hysterically) "--but maybe you have a bladder infection.  We'll check."  And then he moved up my next appointment by a few weeks.

Considering that I basically went in complaining about symptoms that turned out to be totally normal pregnancy crap, Dr. Eyelashes was a very good sport.  Sam and I also noticed that he did not seem to be a big fan of Nurse GateKeeper, repeatedly kicked her out of the exam room on errands and said "Hey, nice block" after Sam slammed the door with his foot when she tried to barge in while I was in the stirrups, flippyflaps waving in the breeze.  This boosted Dr. Eyelashes' standing in our book considerably, along with the complete lack of handpatting and therethere-ing.

So, the downside is that apparently I'm a nervous idiot, but the upside is that hey, they're still alive.

That's always nice.

By the way, I was all excited about Reaching!  Twelve!  Weeks! and then I read that the first trimester actually ends at thirteen weeks and got slightly less excited.  On the other hand, twelve weeks is the pregnant-est that I've ever been, so that's still pretty cool.

Dr. LovelySurprise

Dear Dr. LovelySurprise,

Thank you for not being a tool.  With the caliber of doctors I've seen lately, you were quite a breath of fresh air, and cute as a bug, besides.  I wish I could have bronzed the look on your face when you pulled my labs up on your computer and murmured "A hematocrit of twentyfive is NOT NORMAL."

Thank you for not asking if the conception was 'natural,' instead opting to ask if the multiples were 'spontaneous.'  In that we hadn't really decided how many to put back until the morning of the transfer, I guess it was kind of spontaneous, but not in the way you meant, so I said no.

Thank you for agreeing that my crit and iron levels are alarming.  Thank you for being alarmed.

Thank you for agreeing to rerun my TSH and crit and iron.  I know it's only been a week since my last CBC and iron panel, but thank you for listening to me when I pointed out that my crit dropped five points in three weeks before.  Thank you for throwing a retic count in for good measure.  At least now we know that I am, in fact, currently capable of generating new red blood cells.  With so little iron present, I have no idea what my body is making these cells out of (I suspect papier mache and very tiny chicken wire is involved), but I suppose we can at least award it an E for Effort.

Thank you for not doing a pelvic.  I realize that pelvics are the french fries of the OB/GYN world, and after IVF and OHSS, it's not like my Vicuna has any lingering shreds of dignity, but I'm still not a fan of having my cervix poked by a stranger, and I do appreciate keeping my pants on whenever possible.

Thank you for making a plan (involving needles and iron) in case my crit and/or iron levels drop any further.  It's not that I think your plan sounds like a ton of fun, but I like that you have a plan.

Thank you for knowing what OHSS is, and not acting weird when I mentioned that I am still under an RE's care.

Thank you for not making me beg or argue or yell in order to get good medical care.

Thank you for making me feel like I'm in good hands.

Sincerely,
Akeeyu

No Place Like Home

I am so glad to be home.  I have no complaints about the staff who took care of me after I was admitted to the hospital, but it sure is nice to be out of there.  Well, okay, fine, I'm still harboring some minor irritation with Dr. Charming, the one who repeatedly tried to convince me that 25 was a perfectly normal hematocrit (which probably would have worked out better for him if I hadn't heard him in the hall with one of his colleagues, the one who said "Oh, we're not going to transfuse her?"), but I'll get over it.

There's nothing like that first shower after you've been in the hospital for about 40 hours, and the cat agrees.  Upon my triumphant return to the Buttmansion Abode, T'lgo sought me out, saying "Oh, where have you been?  I missed you, I missed...um.  What the hell is that smell?" and then decided to avoid me until I'd showered properly, or at least licked myself a couple of times.  A cat's got to have standards.

So here's the deal.  Nobody knows why I was having such severe intestinal grossness, although most of them agree that it had nothing to do with pregnancy and probably wasn't food poisoning.  There are a couple of cultures still pending.  My intestines have not settled down entirely.

Sam stayed with me the entire time I was in the hospital, leaving only to eat, take the laptop to an area with Wi-Fi to upload my last post at my request, and run errands for me.  He slept beside me in chairs, on uncomfortable loveseats and finally on a little hide-a-bed that Evil Insurance Company provided for him (in a fit of uncharacteristic non-evilness).  He signed paperwork for me, argued with doctors, held my hand, crumbled crackers into bite sized pieces, spoonfed me Jello and poured me endless cups of Gatorade. 

By the way, when Gatorade starts tasting pretty good, that's when you know you're really unwell.

I kept my appointment with Dr. BrightEyes on Friday, partly because I wanted to score some more pictures of Fitz-Hume and Millbarge and partly because I wanted to discuss my hematocrit with a doctor who hadn't found his degree in the bottom of a cereal box.  Is it odd that I found his ultrasound wanding and subsequent stamp of approval on Fitz-Hume and Millbarge much more valid than EIC, Inc.'s?

Dr. BrightEyes' opinion of my anemia is not as cavalier as Dr. Charming's, although he is not as freaked out about it as I am.  He said it's not dangerous or truly alarming at this point, but that it definitely should not be allowed to drop any further.  He said it's not endangering Fitz-Hume or Millbarge, and that's pretty much all I care about right now.  Also, when I relayed The Asshole King's remark, Dr. BrightEyes blinked his pretty little peepers several times and muttered "Well, it certainly makes a difference to you."  I think he was a smidgen surprised to hear that The Asshole King hadn't been checked into the ER on his own ticket after pulling that crap.  He did not concur with EIC, Inc.'s wandmonkey's measurements of my ovaries, rating them similar to their previous (freakish) size, and therefore not terribly remarkable (for me)

He took some lovely pictures of Fitz-Hume and Millbarge, with little limb buds and umbilical cords and all that fancy stuff.  Fitz-Hume is currently measuring one day ahead of Millbarge, but judging by the embryo pictures, I think he always has.

I still feel like utter ass.  I have no idea when I'll be able to go back to work, and I just can't afford this kind of time off right now.  I am so anemic at the moment that my skin has taken on the same bizarre pallor that my father's did just before he died.  I have stopped looking in mirrors, as my appearance frightens me. 

Just for fun, I would like to point out that when my father's crit was two points below what mine currently is, they called and told him he needed an emergency blood transfusion.  From what I understand, I am on the bleeding edge (pardon the expression) of severe anemia.  Sometimes I catch myself wishing for the continued success of this pregnancy for reasons other than the obvious ones: At this point, I don't even know what another miscarriage would do to me, but I'm pretty sure it would involve multiple transfusions and prolonged hospitalization.

I have an appointment with a yet-to-be-nicknamed Mystery OB/GYN next week.

I have an appointment with Dr. DoesNotSuck the week after next.

I have an appointment with Dr. BrightEyes the week after that.

I have a lot of doctors looking out for me.  I just wish some of them had better answers.

For now, all I can tell you is what I kept telling Fitz-Hume and Millbarge when I was in the hospital: "I'm taking care of you, and people are taking care of me, so everything's okay."

"What Difference Does That Make?"

I've dealt with a lot of assholes in the past 36 hours, but I am finding it easy to crown one of them their king.

That would be the guy who, after repeatedly promising me an OB/GYN consult over the course of about eight hours, went back on his word.

Akeeyu: "Then I'd like an ultrasound."
King of the Assholes: "What for?"
Akeeyu: "Because I'd like to know if they're dead."
King of the Assholes: "Well, why would we think that?"
Akeeyu: "BECAUSE I'VE HAD THREE MISCARRIAGES.  I would like to know if they're dead."
King of the Assholes: "What difference does that make?"

Yeah, he actually looked me right in the face and said that.

Akeeyu: "It would make a difference in the way you are able to treat me."
King of the Assholes: "Well, right now, we're treating you as if you're pregnant."
Akeeyu: "I understand that.  I'm just saying, if they're dead, that's a waste of time.  I want an ultrasound."

But let me backtrack just a bit.

After having superbad diarrhea for several hours (and consulting Dr. Google, who said I should call my doctor), I emailed Dr. DoesNotSuck and called the consulting nurse to see what they thought I should do.  They felt I should be seen in Urgent Care, so after a thrilling dash through rush hour traffic, I showed up at Evil Insurance Company, Inc.'s door.

My blood pressure was 130/80, my pulse was 133, and my hematocrit was 27.

They felt confident that I was just a smidgen dehydrated, and that a bag of fluids would perk me right up.

After three bags of fluids, my blood pressure was 99/47, my pulse was 114, and they were no longer able to locate a vein for any further testing.  I kept muttering calm, rational things like "I feel like I'm floating...I'm not sure I exist anymore."  They sent other (disgusting) fluids out for culture, then tried to get rid of me.

The first doctor I saw felt that I might have ruptured a cyst or have an unidentified source of bleeding.  She stuck her finger up my ass and ordered an ultrasound.  The second doctor cancelled the ultrasound, cheerfully saying that I was probably just (just?) septic from an infection, and decided it was time for me to go to a different hospital, since her shift was apparently just about up.  She was the Queen of the Assholes.

Sam drove me to Evil Insurance Company, Inc.'s second facility, where I was given a shitload of phenergan and dilaudid and repeatedly told by Asshole King that all of my symptoms (blood pressure in the toilet, rapidly sinking hematocrit, debilitating pain, nausea, fever, flaming craps) were perfectly normal in pregnancy. 

Look, clearly I'm not very good at being pregnant, but if everyone who was eight weeks pregnant was as sick as I've been for the past day and a half, the human race would have died out long ago. Not only would nobody be willing to undertake a second pregnancy, I doubt that many women would have survived the first one, having crapped themselves to death.

So here's the good news:

I did not crap Fitz-Hume and/or Millbarge to death.

After arguing myself into an ultrasound, the wandmonkey smashed one of those external dealies all over my already agonized abdomen and located "two sacs."

"But are they alive?"

"And two embryos."

"Are they alive?"

"And two heartbeats."

"They're alive?"

"There are two heartbeats.  See?"

"So that means they're alive?"

Poor woman.  She must have thought I was out of my damned mind.

Fitz-Hume and Millbarge are both measuring exactly 8 weeks, 0 days, which is handy, since that's what they are.  They have matching heartbeats of 167.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that I'm still in the hospital, my hematocrit is down to 25, one of my ovaries (the left one, naturally) is enormous and bursting with cysty goodness, and my intestines have not yet decided to be team players.

But they're alive.

How cool is that?

I Can Always Count On My Body To Let Me Down

In the past year and change, I haven't had a single CBC come back even one tick above the barest minimum that Evil Insurance Company, Inc. considers to be marginally acceptable.  Truth be told, I am usually slightly below their anemia cutoff, despite being on prenatal vitamins for the past three years, frequently flirting with iron supplementation, rarely getting periods, eating a varied diet and having a rather unnatural fondness for liver.

Two weeks ago, Nurse Sweetie called me and said "You're anemic.  You need to take an iron supplement."  Upon purchasing the supplement that she recommended, I noticed that she had suggested one of the higher potency varieties, but didn't think much of it.

Today my prenatal pre-screening bloodwork came back from Evil Insurance Company, Inc. and arrived in the form of an email from one of the midwives.  It had a markedly urgent and alarmist tone, which didn't initially bother me.  These are the same people who panic over soft cheese and hot dogs, after all.  How seriously was I supposed to take them?

I emailed them back, politely reminding them that I'd been anemic for years and wondering if they honestly believed further iron supplementation would drastically improve the situation, or if there was something else going on?  Also, exactly how anemic was I, anyway?

The midwives responded with disturbing promptness, and the answer turned out to be very.  My blood is currently only 30% er, actual blood, when the numbers should be running between 36 and 46% according to Evil Insurance Company Inc. (or between 37 and 48% according to the entire rest of the Internet).

I believe the technical term for this is "Well, crap." 

I'm completely mystified.  After comparing the numbers from GE's pre-natal prescreening to this round, I think we can rule out the idea that this is a normal early pregnancy thing. I know that sufficient iron is entering my body and that blood isn't leaving, which leaves what, Vampires?  Would I even be able to differentiate a Vampire from a  typical pasty-ass Seattleite, anyway? 

I'm also completely pissed off at my body.  Way to go, Asshole Body.  I waste perfectly wholesome food on you, even buy you organic, and this is how you repay me?  By crapping out when I really need you to perform within normal human parameters?  You're supposed to be blood-having-for-three, here, and instead you pull this shit?  Do I look like I need something else to worry about?  Hmm?

Jerk.

Come To Where The CoPay Is

Evil Insurance Company, Inc. loves to send its patients home with neatly colated and stapled handouts on whatever the suspected diagnosis of the day is.  If one were feeling cynical, one would say they effectively minimize the amount of time doctors have to spend interacting with actual patients.  If one were feeling charitable, one would say they are an excellent tool for increased patient education. 

I haven't decided how I feel about them beyond 'generally amused.'

Most of them are pretty generic and include cutting edge medical advice like "You should lose weight," "Don't drink an entire fifth of vodka at one sitting," and "If you smoke, consider quitting."  Good advice, to be sure, but not entirely helpful when none of it applies to you.

At one of my last appointments, I scanned the sheet quickly as the doctor scurried down the hall.  Sure enough, the helpful handout was advising me to stop smoking.  "If you smoke, consider quitting."  I'm starting to wonder if they put that line on the tip sheet they hand out to people who want to quit smoking. 

I put on my best straight face and scurried right down the hall after the retreating doctor.  When he paused at the nurse's station, I tugged at his sleeve and said "Doctor, it says here it might help if I quit smoking, but I don't smoke.  Do you think it would help if I started and then stopped?" 

He cracked a small smile and said "No, I don't think it works that way."

Medical Care By Acme

I like to throw out a little public service announcement every so often.  Independently research medication interactions.  Always get a second opinion.  Don't freak out too much if you find a bump on your cervix (but do get it checked out).

Well, here comes another one: Always check your test results, exam notes, and surgery reports.  Always.

If your doctor or nurse says things are 'normal,' ask what they mean by normal, exactly.  Ask for numbers.  Ask for reports.  Ask for things in writing.

While in pursuit of a second opinion on my 'normal' knee, I had a doctor read the notes of my knee surgery to me.  Yes, my knee was mostly normal, but the surgeon neglected to mention a couple of abnormal findings to me.  I also found out there were several specific post-operative instructions, arguably important ones, that I was never given in the first place, and oh my, how we all did laugh!

It's a good thing my medical care brings me so much amusement, because I'm rapidly coming to realize that it serves very little, if any, other purpose.