Now the after

Back from the hospital, up from my really kind of glorious, faintly-medicated nap, since I barely slept last night. The whole thing was sad and unpleasant in a low-key kind of way, but it wasn’t totally without merit to get to spend hours reading beside Husband on a rainy day while Little Girl got spoiled silly by my mom at home. The multiple attempts to get a line in me I could have predicted; I knew I cry coming out of anesthesia even with no special reason so I was totally prepared for sobbing under the care of efficiently compassionate blurry women in recovery; it doesn’t even really hurt, physically, and almost no blood so far.

The worst part, besides the fact that my main OB nurse was insanely pregnant (she sort of kept trying to angle her clipboard in front of her belly to hide it quite unsuccessfully), was actually in admissions, when the billing lady, with an odd mixture of insouciance and confrontation in her voice, announced, “and the cost of this procedure is $10,000 [big pause; you should have seen our faces]…your insurance plan [blah blah blah] so we need you to pay $3,000 today we will send you a bill for more if necessary. Would you like a payment plan?”

Since I haven’t even paid the OB, maternal-fetal specialist, or bloodwork bills, it looks like care for this first-trimester failed pregnancy will end up costing us thousands more than my entire pregnancy with Little Girl, even with its twelve ultrasounds, multi-day preeclampsia hospital stay, and c-section. To which I say: fuck you, crappy insurance company, and especially fuck you, Husband’s job, for buying the worst plan ever. If I’d have known it would cost so much I would have at least been able to consider shopping around and going to Planned Parenthood or something, which offers the same service for a few hundred bucks. For that matter, I could have theoretically done it for free at home.

I’m still not done being shocked and pissed about the cost, but I am very glad I got it done. The staff and doctor were all, to a one, wonderful and professional and, best of all, made eye contact. The tear-inducingly sweet OB (the one we saw when we thought Little Girl had died, as it happens) said it was extremely rare–with a less than 2% chance–to miscarry after seeing a heartbeat at 8 weeks. Also, he said the chances were very good it was some kind of middle-of-the-road type of genetic defect, not affecting the heart or other big organs but serious enough for life not to go on. He made efforts to convince me it was unlikely to have been something my body did and I guess I’ll try to go ahead and believe him. He also said the placenta is (oh, it’s gone now: was) apparently just overeager and doing such a great job that I’d likely not have miscarried on my own for another month or so, and said it was a good choice to have the D & E. And I agree.

My mom and husband are taking good care of me (actually they’re off at the store for fancy dinner ingredients that, sadly, do not end up in the form of a pizza, but it’s the thought that counts). A friend dropped off a care package today, and others have asked to come by (of those who know–it’ll take weeks to tell everyone and I don’t look forward to those conversations one bit or, really, seeing my friends who have two kids). I feel grateful and loved and your comments, too, have been a real comfort. Thank you.