Guys, the HCG went down by 62%!
Sixty. Two. Percent.
Given that the hospital are mostly looking for a 15% drop at this stage, and would consider that to be a decent result, I think I just might be the happiest woman in the UK right now. I’m definitely one of the most relieved, because… well, you’ve read my last few posts on this (er, unless you’re the person who keeps commenting asking me to measure my Ikea dressing table, obviously, in which case you probably didn’t…): you know how off-the-scale-anxious I’ve been about this, don’t you?
Anyway. I’m not going to say I’m out of the woods quite yet, because I said that before, and we all know how THAT ended up, don’t we? I will, however, say, that I’m currently feeling better than I have in weeks, and that things are looking very, very positive – much more so than I had even dared hope.
Although my health anxiety likes to try to convince me otherwise, I know I am NOT in fact a medical miracle, so while I’m not counting my chickens (I mean, where would I even GET chickens to count at this time on a Tuesday?), it’s looking good. I’m feeling good. And I know there will likely be some tough times ahead when I start to really process what’s happened, and address the anxiety issue, but for now I’m just trying to enjoy the return to sanity I’ve been experiencing since we got the results back this morning, and to focus on the positives, of which there are many.
On that subject, today was actually easier than expected. Not only did the blood draw go without a hitch (“Yes,” said Terry, as the nurse took out her kit, “The butterfly needles are my preference, too: I always find them more reliable…” “Er, my husband did two years of dialysis,” I felt I had to point out, “That’s how he knows this stuff. He’s not a nurse. Or, you know, a junkie…”), they got the results back to us within a couple of hours, during which I managed to remain almost as calm as, well, a normal person would be. I even managed to drink a cup of coffee, although I will admit to being a little bit perturbed when Terry ate the gingerbread man shown in the photo. I mean, he had a FACE, people! A face!
Anyway. I just wanted to update those of you who’ve been kind enough to show an interest in this whole saga (Again, if you’re just here for the dimensions of the Ikea dressing table, THEY HAVE THAT INFORMATION ON THEIR OWN WEBSITE. Seriously, CONTACT IKEA: I’m sure they’ll be more accurate than I would be, anyway!). I can’t promise an instant return to normal content (and if you’ve emailed me, please don’t be offended if it takes me a while to get back to you: I have read and appreciated every single message so, SO much, but my inbox is currently looking almost as intimidating as the hospital itself right now…), but then again, I’ve just this second remembered that unopened ASOS parcel waiting downstairs for me, so you never really know, do you?
Thanks again to everyone who’s commented/emailed/messaged/just spared me a kind thought over the last few days: if this whole, horrendous experience has taught me anything, it’s that there are some amazing people out there, and if that’s not a good note to end on, I don’t know what is.