I have started this post so many times over the last six months. The words never feel right, and if I have to force myself to tell this story I want to be fully invested. Here we are. I think I’m ready. If you are triggered by pregnancy/pregnancy loss related stories, there is a lot of that in this post. Unfortunately there isn’t really a way around it. Before I dive in, I want you to know that this post is in no way a means of a pity summons. Believe me, if I could take myself out of the equation I would. But this is my story, and maybe by putting it out there we can bring a little more awareness and empathy to the world and those similarly affected.
Let’s get this ball on the roll.
September 13th, 2019 I found out I was pregnant with my second baby. We were over the moon! My mind automatically wandered to nursery plans, baby clothes, that newborn baby smell, and the overwhelming joy of knowing our son was going to be a big brother. That joy lasted all of two days for me. I started bleeding, nothing that a panty liner wouldn’t cover, but it worried me. To be fair, I had bleeding with my first pregnancy, but this bleeding started to change. That should have been my first clue.
For two weeks I bled and cramped. Something felt wrong. This impending sense of doom sat over my head like a storm cloud. My right pelvic area was always cramping, and it constantly felt like someone was pinching me. Since we had moved to a new city and I had to find a new OBGYN, I called to voice my concerns. They told me unless I filled a pad in under and hour with blood, I was fine. It will pass. Looking back now I should have spoken up more. I should have insisted instead of backing down out of shame. Everyone made me feel like I was losing my mind. “You bled last time. You’re fine.” How could I articulate this deep knowledge in my core that things weren’t ok? No one listened to me.
September 30th, 2019 was a normal day. I went through the motions of my daily life, trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head. That night as I was rocking my son to sleep, the pinch in my right side felt like it was set on fire; ripped open and burned from the inside out. My body broke out in hot flashes, and I doubled over in pain. There are no words to express to you how incredibly painful this was. My stomach started to bloat. Everything felt tight. Any movement doubled me over. I could barely walk, let alone hold my son who was trying to get me to pick him back up. Eventually I made it upstairs to get my Mom from her room. She came to watch my son so I could try to alleviate the pain by going to the bathroom. Maybe it was gas? Maybe I was constipated? I had no clue. When I went to the bathroom, there was much more blood than I’d been experiencing the last two weeks.
I called my husband to come get me from his night classes 45 min away, and had my mom sit with my son so I could lay down. I sobbed the whole time. Labor was a walk in the park compared this. Not only was I in physical pain, but in my mind I just assumed I was having a miscarriage and that my bad feelings were finally vindicated. I wasn’t crazy, and having the weight of that lifted from me was not nearly as relieving as I expected.
Finally my husband arrived and we were off to the ER. Talk about the world’s most unbearable car ride. I felt every bump, shift, swerve, sudden stop, etc. The pain was getting worse and worse as the time passed. At this point it had been almost 2.5 hours since the pain started. I was desperate to get help. When we arrived, I needed a wheelchair. Walking had become an impossible task.
The next little bit is a blur. I remember being admitted, getting my blood drawn, and having so many people try to get an IV started. Time went so slow. The worst part was the ultrasound. An abdominal ultrasound shouldn’t hurt as much as it did this time. When the tech started looking around, she didn’t see anything so we had a vaginal ultrasound, which would prove to be the hardest physical part of the entire process. Anytime she moved the probe to my right side, I screamed, tensed up, and tried to pull away from her. In my head I knew the more I fought the longer this would take. So I bit my lip, gripped the railing for dear life, and prayed that this would be over soon. The techs aren’t supposed to tell you anything, which I knew. So I looked at the screen as much as I could. There was no sac in my uterus. A part of me died right there looking at the screen. I knew I’d lost my baby, and it was out of my hands. After an eternity, she finished and took me back to the first room where my husband was.
Quickly after that the OBGYN on call came in to talk with us. She voiced her concerns over the findings from the radiologist, and asked to perform one more quick test that would confirm her suspicions. At this point I felt so numb, I told her she could do whatever the heck she wanted. So she pressed on my right side, with barely any force. But to me, it was excruciating. That’s when she said it out loud.
Ruptured tubular ectopic pregnancy. Emergency surgery. The pregnancy can’t be saved.
Within 20 min I was taken into the OR and the next thing I knew the world went black. I woke up on October 1st, 2019 with three new incision scars, one less Fallopian tube, and a very heavy heart. They so kindly(sarcasm) showed us the photos they took during my surgery. They gave us details about what each picture was, and to this day I hate that I know the things I know. I hate that those images are burned into my brain. I hate knowing how much blood they found in my pelvic area. I hate knowing how scary ectopic pregnancies can be. I hate that I feel a sense of survivors guilt, because my little baby isn’t here and I am. I know that’s impossible, but it kills me. I hate that have a 15-25% chance of having another ectopic pregnancy. I hate that getting pregnant is now so much harder than before. I hate that I couldn’t lift or hold my son for 4 weeks while I was healing.
People announcing pregnancies kills me, especially anyone due in May when our little baby would have been due. Don’t get me wrong, I am so happy for them, but I’m so envious at the same time. Each month that passes I grow angrier and angrier that this happened to me. But at the same time, it has taught me so much about life, love, and forgiveness. I wouldn’t wish this experience on my worst enemy.
Now here we are, just shy of 6 months later and what do I have to show for it? Two purple scars on my belly that I have grown to love and cherish. They are proof that my baby existed and that I wasn’t crazy. They remind me to trust my gut and fight for myself and my health. They remind me to love as much as I can, as hard as I can, because what is here today can always be gone tomorrow. I have a tattoo that symbolizes my babies and what a gift they are to us. I wear it with pride, and show it off whenever I can because I don’t want that baby to be forgotten. In my mind and my heart, it will live forever. I carry it’s name with me, and wonder what they would have been like.
I don’t know how the future will pan out. We desperately want more babies, but with one Fallopian tube, things aren’t impossible, just much harder. We look forward to the day when we can bring another beautiful soul into the world, like a gift from our little angel baby.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you know someone who has gone through this, remember to tell them you love them, because no matter how long their road is, they need to hear it. Be a listener. Do research to understand if you have to, but be a support. Life for the rest of the world moves on while we are trying to pick our pieces back up and move forward. Like my sister in law told me, “Find your new normal.” Healing has been difficult. Just when I think I’ve moved past it, something triggers those feelings and memories and I crumble under the pressure. I’ve found writing music to be especially healing. So many songs I have composed lately are about my sweet baby. It brings me tremendous comfort to sing them, especially while my son is sitting next to me listening. Overall my good days outweigh my bad. The love outweighs the bitterness. And hope outweighs every ounce of despair.
I love you, little bird.
I love you, little bird.
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