I should have been 10 weeks today. Instead, I am having a miscarriage. The Misoprostol finally kicked in last night — some 43 hours after I took the second dose — and it has been wave after wave of cramping ever since.
Actually, cramping isn’t the word. (There’s a reason I was prescribed Vicodin.) More like the sensation that my uterus is going to explode, that my organs are being sucked out of me. A searing pain, measuring 8/10, that traces the outline of my entire reproductive system and colours it in, accompanied by nausea and a headache.
Nineteen years go today I accidentally put my hand through a pane of glass and needed 23 stitches in my wrist. That was pretty painful. This is worse. So painful that it’s put my grief on hold. So intense sometimes that I forget to breathe.
The physical pain, even with the prescribed Vicodin and mega dose of ibuprofen, is still enough to render me immobile. If it catches me on the way to the bathroom, I double over. I have a high pain threshold and wonder how a normal person would cope.
And, I’m slowly bleeding. First the blood was dark, and today it is crimson. I don’t know if I will recognise the little bean when it passes, so I acknowledge him/her before I flush. Just in case.
To read about delivery the placenta (not for the squeamish!) read Miscarriage of Justice.