A week after the miscarriage, everything seemed to be better. The bleeding had tailed off, and I was feeling much like my old badass self.
I say this to explain why I was moving heavy rocks from one side of the yard to the other in an effort to deal with the erosion all this rain has caused.
That night, I started to bleed again, just as heavy as the previous week but a lot more painful.
I wonder whether this was the day I finally ejected the Embryo That Just Wouldn't Let Go, but it's hard to say. It's difficult to separate all that gunk from all that other gunk when you're flushing it down the toilet like a goldfish.
Anyway, I was supremely glad I hadn't traded that Percocet prescription for cash when I experienced two hours of contractions and bled like a geyser.
If geysers fired off blood instead of hot water and steam.
You know what I mean.
Devon wanted to go back to the ER, especially after I passed out again.
Shut up. Brushing your teeth is hard work.
But the nurse-midwife we called suggested I put some ice packs on my abdomen and stay home if everything else was generally OK. Devon woke up every half hour to make sure I wasn't dead because he was sleep deprived already and sort of crazy.
I think he likes me.
I was better again the next day, and we tentatively looked forward to a weekend in which I didn't ruin all the towels.
Six weeks later I felt fine, but I was still bleeding. Turns out the Embryo That Just Wouldn't Let Go still wasn't done. I scheduled the D&C (a minor surgery where they go in and remove all the dead-baby bits) for this past week, and everything seems to have gone fine.
Twilight anesthesia is the weirdest thing. I was in the operating room for about 40 minutes, during which I was placed in stirrups, probably had conversations and might have even made cocktails. I have no idea because I remember none of it.
I'm not complaining.
I feel good and am hopeful that this miscarriage is finally over. I'll go back in two weeks for a follow-up to make sure. We're both ready to be done with this.