"One percent. One percent. One percent."
One last test showed another abnormally rising beta number yesterday, so I've officially been diagnosed with an ectopic pregnancy. I had a conference with the doctor today, and she typed it out in my chart:
"Empty uterus. Abnormally rising betas. Presumed ectopic."
"This happens rarely, right?" I asked the doctor. "Yes," she said ruefully, "in one percent of IVF patients."
One percent. One percent. One percent. It's like a freaking broken record in my head.
The treatment at this stage is a shot of methot.rexate, which is a drug used for chemotherapy. It kills "rapidly developing cells," such as those in the placenta my badly-placed embryo is trying to create. "Probably," I won't require surgery. "Probably," there won't be too many side effects. "Probably," I will need only one dose.
Yeah. Forgive me if I'm not big on "probably" right now.
The idea of a miscarriage was bad enough. This - this one percent anomaly - makes me bitter. One lousy, crummy, god-damned (I mean that literally) percent. I am very, very tired of being on the wrong end of statistics.
I was more comfortable feeling sad. Sad felt right. It was okay to be sad, because sad goes away after awhile; sad is how you should feel when you have a miscarriage.
But this wave of bitterness swallowing me right now scares me more than any reaction I have ever had. I am really, really fucking pissed off. A LOT. The intensity of it freaks me out. I hate the world right now. I hate my doctor. I hate that we built up our hopes only to have them slowly killed over a god-damned two week period. I hate people who are pregnant. (Don't take this personally if you are.) I hate everything.
I also hate feeling this way.
I'm sure the intensity of this will die down over time. But it's going to take awhile. At this point, if my bitterness decreases one percent each day, I'll be lucky.