is scheduled for tomorrow morning . . . at 9 am, when I am exactly 9 weeks pregnant. I am strangely relieved to have an end in sight. It has been a long, drawn-out week and a half waiting to see what is happening.
My doctor did a repeat quantitative beta blood test last week, expecting it to have leveled out, or even dropped. Nope. Not me. It rose 6 times. Which, I guess, helps to explain why I still feel like crap.
What does this mean? Apparently my body is too stupid to realize that I'm pregnant with a non-viable blob without a heartbeat. There is no sign of a spontaneous miscarriage in sight. Again.
But I am feisty this time around, or some might call it "non-compliant". The nurse immediately demanded a urine sample when I arrived at my doctor appointment this morning. I refused, since there isn't a test in the world that they could do that would change anything. A little while later she wheeled in the ultrasound machine and told me to get ready. Again, I refused. And reminded her that I just had a comprehensive, and definitive, ultrasound two days ago at the place with the awesome, high-tech equipment. She left the room, and I never saw her again. But the doctor came in immediately, I suppose to see who was causing the ruckus.
By this time tomorrow I will hopefully be resting comfortably, getting caught up on Grey's Anatomy, and putting this all behind me.