Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
And the entire time, I’m bleeding. Not heavily, about the same as when my period first arrives, but there’s definitely blood where there’s supposed to be none.
I’m also cramping. That’s what alerted me to look at my underwear in the bathroom. A sudden dull, pulsing ache low in my belly, one that’s steadily worsening as the minutes tick by.
“It’ll be all right,” Alexei says for the tenth time, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it any more than I do as we sit in the exam room with our hands joined, waiting for the lab results to confirm what I already know in my heart.
Finally, Dr. Fasseau walks in. Judging by the guarded expression on his face, he doesn’t have good news.
“Mrs. Leonov,” he says quietly, looking at me. “We’ve run your blood results, and your HCG levels are below the threshold that would indicate a pregnancy.”
“What does that mean?” Alexei’s tone is sharp as his hand tightens on mine. “Was there an error before? Was she never pregnant?”
“That’s one possibility,” Fasseau says. “But I’ve spoken to Dr. Bureva and a couple of my other Ob-Gyn colleagues, and they think your wife experienced what’s known as a chemical pregnancy—a very early type of miscarriage. It’s thought that up to fifty percent of all conceptions end this way, before a woman even knows she’s pregnant. The only sign might be a delayed period.”
I stare at him numbly. “Mine wasn’t delayed.” In fact, given today’s date that I glimpsed on Alexei’s phone, it’s right on time.
“Right.” Fasseau nods sympathetically. “Your pregnancy ended particularly early, which is a good thing, all things considered. Dr. Bureva said to expect slightly heavier-than-usual bleeding and cramping, but otherwise, it should be just like a regular period for you.”
“I want to speak to Bureva,” Alexei says, his tone brooking no argument. “Get her on the phone for us, now.”
Fasseau must’ve expected the demand because he’s already swiping across his screen. A moment later, he hands us the phone, which Alexei puts on speaker as soon as he hears the Ob-Gyn’s voice. He fires off a bunch of questions at her, most of them having to do with how I’ll be feeling and whether it’s safe to proceed with the surgery and the cancer treatment. I only half listen to the answers, too numb to process more than a few words here and there.
My baby girl.
She’s gone.
She never truly existed.
“—the most likely explanation is a chromosomal abnormality,” Bureva is saying when I finally manage to tune back in. “The blastocyst was unable to develop normally, and the implantation did not progress—hence only a brief elevation in your HCG levels. If not for the blood test, you probably would’ve never known you’d conceived, as your wife would’ve gotten her period on time.”
A brief elevation.
I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears burning them from escaping. My baby girl never got to the size of the speck of lint I had imagined. She never progressed beyond a few cells, her very existence a blip, a “brief elevation” I wouldn’t have known about if not for the tumor growing in my brain, mimicking pregnancy symptoms.
There’s no decision to be made now. There never was, as it turns out.
I should be glad. Relieved. If I proceed with the treatment, I won’t be ending my baby girl’s life. If I understand what Bureva is saying, she never stood a chance. So why does this feel like I’ve lost something real and precious?
“Is it because I’m sick?” I swallow the burning knot in my throat and open my eyes. “Is that why the chromosomes were abnormal?”
“Not necessarily,” Bureva replies. “Nobody knows why this happens, though certain medical conditions, like thyroid disorders and diabetes, do make it more likely, as does conception past the age of thirty-five. But perfectly healthy young women experience chemical pregnancies as well. It’s incredibly common, and most women go on to carry healthy babies in the future.” She pauses. “In your case, I would suggest harvesting your eggs prior to embarking on more aggressive forms of treatment—that is, if the timeline Dr. Fasseau and his colleagues have in mind allows it.”
“We will have a better idea about that after the surgery,” Fasseau says. “So far, the MRI scan you’ve just undergone confirms the findings of the portable MRI used by Dr. Kressler.”
Of course it does. A violent swell of nausea makes me pull my hand out of Alexei’s grip and bring it to my mouth.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, shakily getting up. “I need a minute.”
Alexei is already on his feet. “Let’s go.”
He comes with me to the bathroom, and I’m too sick and miserable to force him out. It’s all I can do to make it to the toilet bowl in time to empty my stomach contents into it instead of onto the floor. By the time I stop heaving, I’m sweating and shaking, and he’s right there beside me, holding my hair, helping me to my feet, guiding me to the sink to wash my face and rinse out my mouth.