This morning I was okay. I really was. But I think that was because I mentally prepared for every situation except one.
If the beta would have flatlined, I would have expected it, and I would have been okay.
If the beta would have decreased, I would have expected that outcome also, and I would have been okay.
The bitch increased, but not enough for us to start breathing tentative sighs of relief. Not enough to buy us more time.
Just enough to fuck with us. Just enough for us to question whether it's wise to stop meds as instructed.
Damned the stories of flunky betas that turned into bouncing babies. Damned those scraps of hope that I senselessly, reluctantly, and compulsively can't seem to let go of, no matter how much I want to. Damn my heart, which can't seem to listen to reason as easy as my mind.
239. Two fucking thirty-nine. Nevermind the fact that even if the number had doubled appropriately through the weekend, the 470-ish range it should have been still would have been a bit on the low side for 14dp5dt. Nevermind the fact that the doubling rate of 122 hours is way above the acceptable 48-75 hour rate. Nevermind the fact that our doubling rate is, in fact, slowing down and will probably come to a screeching halt somewhere in the next few days.
The beta went up, and up in terms of betas is usually a good thing. The fact that I've been instructed to stop meds seems contradictory to this, no matter if our "up" wasn't good enough. Fuck the statistics.
It seems like anything going up needs to be given a chance to stop on its own before I speed up the process. It just feels wrong to assume that I know what God chooses to do with this and act on it as if I do.
It's fucked up to feel that something is trying and that I have to give up on it before it gives up on me.