As the weeks passed, it was hard not to be excited despite our fears. We started to look up how big the baby was each week, and when we got to blueberry size, we decided to use that as a nickname. Our little blueberry. I wasn't feeling sick at all, and I don't remember being as tired as the first time. We were still really nervous, especially because I kept spotting on and off. The OB's office said it was normal, and as long as it was only spotting to not worry and just wait for the first appointment.
The day of the appointment I remember being so anxious. It was now the end of November. I wanted so badly to see something on that little screen. Our new OB's office was only a few blocks from Brian's office in Manhattan. It made it very convenient for him to meet me for the appointment. Once again we found ourselves in the waiting room filling out paperwork. We were taken back to the examination room and everyone was much nicer and accommodating than those at the previous place. That was a relief in and of itself. We really liked the doctor--he took time to visit with us both before and after the ultrasound, and wasn't rushed at all. It was a nice change. Finally it was time for the ultrasound. My heart was beating so fast because I was so nervous. Brian sat by me and we held hands as the doctor searched for a baby. Our hearts dropped as the seconds ticked by in heavy silence and nothing appeared on the screen. We didn't even see an amniotic sac this time. Just emptiness. Again. We just looked at each other once we were alone and I'd gotten dressed. What was there to say. We were all at once feeling that same combination of numbness and pain that comes while watching your dream crumble. A feeling that was all too familiar from the previous year.
The doctor suspected an ectopic pregnancy. He wrote out a prescription slip for me to see a radiologist as soon as possible to confirm his suspicions. We left the office feeling very dejected and even more nervous. We knew how dangerous an ectopic pregnancy could be. We stopped at a nearby Chipotle to grab an early dinner. We sat by the windows, watching people walk by as we ate. It seems like the day was overcast, but that may be just how I remember it because I felt cloudy inside. The world didn't seem very colorful that afternoon.
That appointment was on a Friday, and I couldn't get in to see the radiologist until Monday. Brian couldn't get work off, so I went by myself. The receptionist was kind as she checked me in. I was led back through a maze of narrow hallways to a small examination room. The radiologist was an older, small man of Middle Eastern descent. His last name was 14 letters long, and I couldn't pronounce it. He barely talked to me at all, and turned the lights out during the sonogram. The room was completely dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was a weird experience. He faxed the results to my doctor. I had an ectopic pregnancy. The embryo was stuck in my left fallopian tube.
I walked over to my OB's office afterwards. It was six blocks or so away. It wasn't really convenient to take the subway between the two buildings, and the distance was close enough not to justify a cab. So I walked. When I got to the OB's office, we met and he said that I could just have surgery right away or could try some shots of a drug called methotrexate. It's a drug used to treat certain types of cancer because it stops the cells from dividing. When administered for an ectopic pregnancy, it stops the embryo from developing and growing bigger, and will cause it to abort. We decided to go with the shots, in hopes of saving my fallopian tube. The OB sent me to small pharmacy a few blocks away to pick up the drug. I walked over to the pharmacy, a small little family run business. They were very kind when talking to me about the side effects/risks of the drug, and were sympathetic about my condition. I bought the medicine, thanked them, and then walked the few blocks back to my OB's office. He gave me the first shot of the drug, and sent me home.
It was now December, and the next couple of weeks were a blur filled with doctor's appointments. I had to go into the Manhattan office every other day to get my blood drawn. They were testing various hormone levels, watching for them to drop, which was a sign that the methotrexate was working. My levels did not drop during the first week, but instead continued to climb. I received a second dose in shot form the next week, followed by more blood tests. I began to look like a drug addict with all the holes and faint bruising on the inside of my elbows from all of the needle pokes. I was glad it was winter so I could wear long sleeves. The levels still weren't dropping--it looked like the medicine wasn't working.
The Friday of my second week of tests, I started to feel some pain in my abdomen. It wasn't even quite pain, at least not a sharp pain but a very dull sensation--I don't know how to describe it. It felt kind of like I was really full or bloated, but it was pretty intense, so I called Brian and he left work to come home. I called my mom while I was waiting for him, and started crying because I was scared. She was really worried about me and told me to call the doctor and get in immediately. By the time Brian got home, 20-30 minutes later I was feeling better, and the pain/sensation had passed. I probably should have called the doctor, but since I was feeling better, I didn't. The next day, Saturday, was our ward Christmas party. We went and had fun, but I just wasn't feeling like myself. We skipped church the next day, and asked our home teachers, Marcus and Matt, to come over and help Brian give me a blessing. I think that helped save my life. I know I was being watched over for sure.
The next day I was scheduled to go in for another blood draw. I had a dull pain on my left side all that morning. When I got to the doctor in Manhattan, I immediately told them about the pain. He was concerned but not alarmed, and sent me back to the radiologist to get a sonogram to see what exactly was going on--he wanted to make sure that my fallopian tube wasn't bursting. So I walked the six or so blocks over to the radiologist, all the while experiencing this pain. I ended up waiting in their waiting room for more than an hour. Finally, I was taken back for the sonogram, where he found blood in the fallopian tube. He really didn't say much, and sent me back to the OB's office while he faxed the results over. So I trekked back the six blocks to the OB's office. No one seemed overly alarmed, so I didn't even think that maybe I shouldn't be traipsing around the city with a fallopian tube close to bursting. I was still in pain, but it wasn't getting any worse.
At the time, I was serving as assistant cub scout leader in our ward. That night, we had planned to have a small awards banquet for the boys. I was supposed to bring ice-cream for dessert. I called Julie, the other leader, and told her what was going on, and that I probably wasn't going to make it. At this time it was around 4 pm. She was so great and told me to not even worry about missing it, and to let her know if she could do anything for us.
By this point I was back to my OB's office. When I walked in the waiting room on the 11th floor, I was greeted by the doctor. He was wondering why it had taken me so long to get back. He didn't let me explain that I had walked over and back, and that in between my travelling had waited for two hours for the sonogram. He said that he was sending me to the hospital for surgery. He assured me that it was going to be okay, but that the methotrexate hadn't worked and because of the pain and presence of blood I needed to have surgery right away. It scared me a bit, and I think I was in shock. I know I was tired from walking around the city in pain. He printed off some paperwork and his notes in my file, put them in an envelop with the name of the doctor I was to ask for when I got to the hospital and sent me on my way.
Side note. Thanks to Hurricane Sandy a month and a half before, the NYU Langone Hospital was flooded and closed for repairs. This wouldn't have been a problem in any other circumstance, except it was the hospital that my OBGYN's practice was affiliated with, and therefore the only hospital that he had operating privileges with. He couldn't operate on me. He had to send me to another hospital, to another doctor.
He sent me to Mount Sinai Hospital. My OB's office was on 32nd St and Mount Sinai was on 101st street. I left the office, calling Brian as soon as I got off the elevator. I told him that I had to have surgery and he needed to leave and meet me so we could go to the hospital. I walked over to the corner of 32nd St and Park Ave and stood there waiting for him. It was probably around 4:30 pm at this point.
Brian of course rushed out of work to come and find me, so I didn't have to wait too long. Our friend Matt, who worked with Brian was accompanying him. He had seen Brian leave really fast, and caught up to find out what was going on. We told him and he promised to notify our Bishop of what was going on. We tried to hail a cab but it was taking too long. So we got on the subway and rode up to 103rd Street. It was dark by this time, and we had to walk three or so blocks to the hospital. Part of that was up a very steep hill...and yes I was still in pain. Mount Sinai hospital is also just south of East Harlem FYI.
We finally made it to the hospital and walked into the ER a little after 5 pm. We checked in at the desk and told them what was going on and that my OB should have called. We tried to give them the envelope of paperwork. I also asked for the doctor that I was told to ask for. They didn't know what was going on and sent us to sit and wait. Soon they called us back and we had to go through the whole admitting process. It took forever. We had to fill out so much paperwork, and were passed from one person to the next. We explained everything over and over again, but no one seemed to know the doctor I was asking for, and they all refused to read my envelope of paperwork. I explained that I had an ectopic pregnancy that was rupturing and I was sent here for surgery, again and again.
After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, we were shepherded into a private examination room and I changed into a hospital gown. I was examined by two different gynecologists, and had to explain to them that I knew what was going on. I had an ectopic pregnancy, it wasn't suspected but confirmed, etc. It was horrible, and all the while, I'm still in pain. After more waiting, the right doctor, the one I had been asking for the entire time showed up. Someone must have finally called for her. She knew what was going on, and instructed them to get me ready for surgery. Finally, we were being taken care of, and I started to relax for the first time all day.
They moved me to a bed out among all the other ER patients. I was separated from the beds on either side of me only by curtains. A nurse came and put an IV cannula in the elbow of my left arm. She was not gentle and it really hurt. Then we had to wait some more. Then more waiting. During our wait, we listened to the family of African Americans in the bed next to us. The patient was an older lady and she was loudly complaining about someone (maybe her son) who had conned her or something. The place was loud, chaotic, and exhausting. Brian and I just looked at each other and laughed.
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| Smiling because we'd finally found the right doctor. |
Another nurse came and put in a second IV cannula, this time in the elbow of my right arm. I couldn't bend either of my arms.
Finally they came an got me and wheeled me up to the gynecological floor. I was the only patient in a room full of empty beds. It was so quiet--a nice change. We met with the anesthesiologist, and a few other nurses. They prepped me for surgery, and we were about to go in, when an emergency patient came in that needed to go into the operating room before me. At this point it was 11:00 pm. I had been in pain for 12 hours. We had been at the hospital for 6 hours. I thought that a rupturing fallopian tube was a high risk emergency and something that should be taken care of asap, but no one was acting alarmed about my situation.
At this point the pain was getting worse. They kept asking me if I wanted pain medication, but I turned them down each time. No one seemed to be in any rush about my situation. I was thinking that if I could feel the pain, I could monitor how bad my situation was. I think I felt that if the pain got unbearable, then I would know if my situation was getting more serious and I could alert them, whereas if I couldn't gauge the pain--i.e. the seriousness of my situation-- then nobody would know about it. With the six hours of waiting, I didn't want to leave any of that up to those who didn't seemed to alarmed about my bursting fallopian tube.
At that point I was sick of feeling in pain, and feeling pretty weary. I was also worried about Brian. My hypoglycemic husband had been by my side for the last 7 hours, and hadn't eaten anything since lunch. I was worried that his blood sugar was going to crash if he didn't find something to eat. The anesthesiologist found a small can of soda for him, which he drank. Of course Brian said that he was fine, and to not worry about him. But I was. He was so worried about me, that I think his adrenaline and nervous (terrified) energy was keeping him from crashing. Whatever it was, I was grateful that he was feeling fine. I told him to leave me and go find some food, but he wouldn't. I was secretly grateful that he didn't leave me, because I was pretty scared myself. While I was in surgery I think he was able to find a candy bar or something from a vending machine. But that's all he ate. The Lord was definitely watching over both of us that night.
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| Finally all prepped and just about to go in. At this point I was exhausted and scared and don't know how I managed a smile. Brian probably made a joke about my hat to help keep me calm. |
At around 11:30 pm, they finally wheeled me back to the operating room. I had never had surgery before, so it was all new to me. I had put on my hospital gown backwards (I had no idea which way it was supposed to go!) so the opening was in the front. I had to try to hold it together with my straight arms while climbing out of my hospital bed and onto the operating table. Once on the table, I started shivering. It was so cold in that room. They came and placed warm, heavy, white blankets on top of me. That felt so nice. They asked me to just take my hospital gown off once I was under the blankets. It would have been too much trouble to try to turn it around, what with an IV in each arm.
The anesthesiologist talked to me as he put me under, and that's the last thing I remember. I recall slightly waking up as I was being wheeled in a bed down a hallway. Brian was with me and one of the gynecological residents was walking with us and telling us that everything went great. I fell back asleep for awhile. It took me some time to come out of the anesthesia, and Brian sat by my bedside the whole time. Apparently I drifted in and out a bit, and kept saying that I didn't want it to hurt anymore. I vaguely remember saying that once, and then a nurse came over and added something to my IV before I drifted off again.
Finally, I woke up enough to understand where I was. Brian told me that everything had gone great, but that they had had to remove my left fallopian tube. They couldn't save it. A nurse came by and gave me some juice to try to drink. I sipped on that as I continued to wake up. My throat was sore because they intubated me during surgery. The juice I was sipping on felt good on my throat.
I was awake enough to sip my juice, and sit up, but wasn't 100 percent coherent yet. It was around 3 am at this point. Once the nurse saw that I was awake and somewhat alert, she pretty much kicked us out of the place. I realized in the back of my mind at the time that I was naked under the blankets, but didn't care because I was so out of it. Brian helped me get dressed, and helped me over into the wheelchair. We had to sign the discharge papers and she gave us a bottle of pain medication and some papers with post-op instructions, and then wheeled us out. I was still pretty out of it as they wheeled me down to the entrance of the hospital. The orderly helped me from the wheelchair into a nearby chair in the foyer, then turned around with the wheelchair and left. We were on our own.
It was the middle of the night, and we didn't have a car. The surgery wasn't planned for, so we hadn't set up a ride home. I was in no position to walk to the subway or take a bus. The street was pretty empty of cars. We sat in the foyer of the hospital trying to figure out how we were going to get home. I was no help because I was still pretty sleepy. Brian called around to a few cab companies, who either didn't answer, or refused to send a car. He went outside, and was finally able to hail down a passing cab. It was one of the more expensive car services, not just a yellow cab. He came back in for me and helped me walk outside and climb into the car. Then we had a crazy cab ride home. I'm glad I was still drugged up and the pain medication hadn't worn off, or I wouldn't have survived the bumpy ride. The cab driver was nice enough to pull over somewhere so Brian could get some cash out of an ATM in order to pay for our ride. We didn't have any cash on hand.
Finally we pulled up in front of our apartment building. Brian paid the driver--I think the fair ended up being $60. A pretty spendy ride considering our apartment was only five-ish miles away from the hospital. He helped me out of the car and to the building's entrance. Then we had to climb all those stairs to the fourth floor. Again, I'm glad I was still loopy from the anesthesia and numb from the meds. I vaguely remember climbing all those stairs. It was slow going. We got home probably around 4 am, and both went straight to bed.
The next few days were a blur to me. I mostly spent them in bed, sleeping. I was grateful for the prescription of pain meds that the hospital had sent home with us. I was pretty sore from the whole ordeal, and getting in and out of bed to use the bathroom was not pleasant. We were very grateful for the meals brought over from friends in our ward. It was so nice to not to have to worry about food, and we felt comfort in knowing that we had people who cared about us nearby even while our family was all on the other side of the country.
The next few weeks were busy as well. My surgery happened on December 11th, and we were scheduled to fly to Oregon on Christmas Eve to be with Brian's family for Christmas. I recovered pretty quickly. We met with my OB for a follow up, and after checking me out and ensuring that everything looked great, cleared us to travel. We went on the trip and had a lovely time with family. I was doing really well, and other than still having stitches in my incisions and feeling a little tired, was able to forget about the surgery during the holiday.
We returned to NYC from Oregon, and jumped right back into life. Having the surgery, recovering, and then immediately going on our trip helped distract me from all that I was feeling emotionally. I don't know if that was a good thing or not. Even though I was feeling all of the sadness of another pregnancy ending, this time it was overshadowed by the physical trauma that I'd experienced. After my miscarriage, my thoughts and feelings centered on inadequacy and questioning God and grief for losing a chance at parenthood. There was all of that too after my surgery, but to a lesser degree. I feel like my mind was more focused on the physical experience.
The doctor had told Brian after the surgery that they had operated on me just in time. That when they got in there, they found blood in my abdomen, and if they had operated even an hour later, that I could have bled to death. Isn't that a nice thing to hear. It's not like I was dilly-dallying around town all day. I was waiting in the hospital for six hours! If they had made me wait even one more hour, I might have died. Brian didn't tell me that until a few weeks after the surgery. I don't like to think about it. Brian doesn't either. I didn't realize just how terrified he was of losing me until he told me that, and he broke down crying. I almost wished he wouldn't have told me that, but I'm glad he did. I didn't want him to have to handle that alone. I hate that he had to experience all of that fear alone in the hospital while I was in surgery.
I know that I developed some degree of PTSD, because I became terrified to try for a baby again. I couldn't even think about it without feeling panic rise up inside of me. I felt very broken for a long time. My desired to be a mother was still there, but it was diminished almost completely by fear. My first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, my second ended in an ectopic pregnancy that threatened my life. With our track record, I was worried what the next pregnancy would bring. I didn't cry for a long time. When I did, I felt all of my pain, fear, and despair. It was a lot, and happened many times. I didn't know what I was going to do. I wanted to want a baby again. I wanted to to not associate terror with pregnancy and motherhood. I prayed a lot, asking for stronger faith, a return of my hope, a lessening of my fear--help with this burden.
The answer didn't come right away. God didn't wipe away my pain and calm my fears immediately. Instead, slowly over time, he helped me see the tender mercies and small miracles that we'd received through this experience. One and a half years after my surgery, we started trying for a baby again. I was still fearful, but not full of terror. I still was nervous each month, and I can't say that at the beginning I didn't feel relief each month that I wasn't pregnant. But it got easier. The fear continued to subside, until finally my hope and faith became enough once more to outweigh its darkness.
To this day, Brian doesn't like to think about or talk about this experience. I don't either. This has been hard going back and reliving the experience as I've written it all down. Although, not quite as hard as it once was to think about. Time has helped. Moving has helped. I still hate that we had to go through this. I still don't understand why we had to experience a miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy. I try not to focus on wondering why anymore. I try to instead focus on the future. To focus on hope. I'm alive. I'm healthy. I'm happy. We are having a baby.
Oh sweetie.... Walking around NYC with that going on. And Hurricane Sandy. It sounds like the hospital needs some help. But I'm so glad your surgery was really good (and in time, yikes). These things are so difficult, and they build "couplehood" (thankfully -- something good can come of it), but man oh man. So difficult.
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