On July
27th I got the faintest positive ever. Over the next few days, the positives
got darker and darker. I couldn't believe it had worked on only our first try!
On August 1st, I got a positive digital! I was elated. It was finally
"real" to both me and my Husband, Barry. And I think it was more
believable for my parents too. My first appointment and ultrasound were
scheduled for August 29th. By then I would have been 8 weeks along. My
Mom was flying down to attend that appointment with Barry and I. Aside from
daily headaches, I had no symptoms whatsoever. On Thursday, August 9th, at 5
weeks, I had bad cramping. I was scheduled for an emergency ultrasound the next
morning. At that appointment, they found nothing in my uterus, but told me not
be upset, and that they rarely ever find anything that early. They told me that
as long as I had no bleeding, I probably had nothing to worry about. They then
scheduled me for another ultrasound a week later, on Thursday the 16th, because
by then, I would be 6 weeks along, and we should be able to see the embryo and
heartbeat.
On
Wednesday, August 15th, a week later, and the day before I was suppose to see
my little one's heartbeat, I arrived at work on time and as usual. I set my
things down in my office and used the restroom. While I was finishing up, I
noticed bright red blood on the tissue and in the toilet. I jumped up, ran to
my office to grab my things, and bolted to my car. I was shaking so bad that I
could barely put the key in the ignition. I called Barry to meet me at the ER.
To my surprise, he told me he couldn't make it because he was about to leave
the shop to go on an install. So I called my Dad who told me he'd meet
me there in just a few minutes. As soon as I hung up the phone, Barry
called me back and told me that he'd be there shortly as well. Thank
God. I guess emergency situations do alter a person's ability to think
clearly. Luckily he came to his senses before I had truly grasped that he had
just told me he couldn't come because of work. I also called my Mom. Of
course as soon as she answered the phone, I was hardly able to tell her what
was happening amidst the tears and heavy sobbing. Once she was able to calm me
down a little, I told her that I was bleeding and going to the ER. She assured
me everything would be fine and that I would be okay. She told me to stay calm
and not get overwhelmed over this. Everything would work out. I talked to her
from half way there, to my arrival at the sliding glass doors of the entry. I
told her I'd keep her posted, thanked her for her support, and hung up the
phone.
As I
walked in and looked around, I was shocked to see I was the only one in there.
I was admitted immediately. They took me to a room to get my blood pressure and
temp. As I sat there, I looked beyond the glass window to the entry doors.
Finally, I saw Barry! "Honey! I'm in here." I was so relieved to see
him and to hold his hand. I will never forget how scared he looked when he
first saw me. I wanted him to feel the relief I had felt upon seeing him. I
felt so helpless, as I'm sure he did as well.
After
checking my vitals, Barry and I were sent back to a private room. They told me
to change into the gown they had laid across the bed for me, and then walk down
the hall to the restroom so I could give them a urine sample. I did as I was
told, however when I got down to the restroom, my mind went totally blank. I
used the bathroom and as soon as I went to flush, I realized that I hadn't gone
in the cup, but in the toilet. "shit!" I thought to myself. I started
to panic. The thought even crossed my mind to hold the cup in the toilet water
to collect some urine that way. "No! That won't work, idiot." Too embarrassed
to admit the mistake I'd just made, I made my way back to the room and told
them I couldn't "go" and asked if the urine sample could wait. Of
course they said yes.
They took
blood to see where my betas where at and compare them to the previous weeks'
betas that my OB had ordered due to my episode of cramping. I laid there on the
bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping and praying everything would be fine. Just
as I began to wonder, my Dad poked his head around the curtain. “You made it!”
I was so happy in that fraction of a moment to see another familiar face.
Just a couple minutes after his arrival, they sent me down the hall to do an
internal pelvic exam. The doctor told me that my cervix was closed and I wasn't
actively bleeding and told me that, that was a good sign. "yay!" Then
they sent me back to my room where I met back up with Barry and my Dad. We sat
waiting and waiting. My Dad and I joked and laughed and talked as if we weren't
really sitting in the ER. In the middle of a conversation, I dropped my head and
began to sob. I heard my Dad ask if I was okay and I shook my head “no.”
Barry and he were both asking me what was wrong over and over but I
couldn’t answer them. It was all I could do just to breath in between the sobs.
I was unable to talk. With a tinge of panic in his voice, my Dad asked if I was
in pain. Again, I nodded my head “no,” and immediately felt a sense of
panic leave the room. I guess the reality of where I was and what was happening
had hit me and I wanted so badly for everything to be okay. I was so scared
that this would be the last day I was able to tell myself I was pregnant.
Finally I regained composure. I lifted my head and dried my eyes. I looked at
my Dad and said, "Sorry Dad. Whew! I just cry a lot these days. I'm
sorry." With a half-stunned, and a half-wanting-to-laugh look
on his face, he said, "its okay,” followed with a hesitant, but
uncontrollable chuckle. I was consoled at the fact that I had both of them
there with me at that time.
A few
minutes after, the nurse came in and told me it was time for the ultrasound.
They wheeled me into another room in a different part of the hospital. The room
was dark and I was cautiously excited they were going to show me the
gestational sac when they found it, or better yet, the embryo and heartbeat. I
asked the girl, who appeared younger than me, if she was allowed to show me the
screen and she said no. I would have to wait for the doctor to discuss with me
what he sees in the images from the ultrasound. Bummer.
After the
procedure, I was wheeled back into my "holding tank." When I arrived,
I noticed Barry was there, but my Dad was gone. Barry said that my Dad had a
meeting to attend. I suddenly felt a little less strong with him not there
anymore.
Barry and
I waited for what seemed like forever. Finally the doctor came in and sat
across from us. He looked at each of us and said, "So let me tell you what
I saw from the ultrasound. It's not good. We couldn't find anything in the
uterus and your betas are only at 134 when they should be in the 20-30
thousands. I'm so sorry for your loss." blah blah blah... I pretty much
stopped listening after that point.
I felt
like I had so many things to say and questions to ask but I couldn't say
anything at all. I just wanted him to leave so I could cry. That's all I
wanted. And he just kept talking. Barry was asking why it happened, and what
happens now, and what about our chances next time… It's like he was reading my
mind. I didn't have to say a word. For a split second, I thought about my Dad
and how I was glad he'd left already and wasn't there to witness another
meltdown from me. I didn't want to scare him again. And I felt so sorry for my
husband who would have to put up with me after receiving this devastating
news. And then I felt sorry that I wasn't able to carry his child. I felt
like a failure even though I knew how irrational that thought was. I couldn't
help but feel that way at the time.
Still
partly in denial, we made our way out of the hospital. Barry took me to the
store to pick up pads since tampons are a no-no after having a miscarriage. On
the way there I asked that he stop somewhere because I had use the restroom. He
stopped at a local sub shop. While I was using the restroom, it suddenly dawned
on me that I was miscarrying in a public restroom. I felt utterly
disgusting. When we left there, and after we stopped for pads, we got
lunch at a little hole in the wall sandwich shop. We ate outside at one of the
picnic tables under a large tree. Sitting there trying to eat without an appetite
was difficult. Sitting there with nasty men, most of whom were construction
workers, staring at me while I was miscarrying was even more difficult. I
remember thinking, “this is wrong. I should be at home doing this. Not in
public.” A sudden rush of guilt flooded me and I just wanted to be at home, on
my couch, crying in Barry's arms; miscarrying in my own house. Not in front of
a bunch of perverted assholes.
The rest
of the day is a blur. After arriving home, I remember eating asparagus,
crying, talking to my Mom and Dad, crying, texting my brother, crying, and
eating Chickfila for dinner. And probably crying some more. I hated going to
the bathroom. I avoided it at all costs. But with all the water I was drinking
because of the doctor's orders, it was inevitable. It was a harsh reality.
I made the
mistake of returning to work the next day because Barry had to, and I didn't
want to be by myself at home all day. Bad idea. I cried in my office off and on
all morning, until I finally left at 1:00. The next day, I managed to make it
until 2:00. And the next day, 3:00. It was hard. But every day got a
little easier and a little easier. Or so I thought. The evenings were a little
harder to get through. I cried every single night for the first 7 nights. I don’t
know why I had such a difficult time with the nighttime as oppose to the
daytime.
Tuesday,
August 21st, my appointment had finally arrived. I was so relieved
that Barry would be attending this one with me, just in case we were to receive
bad news. This appointment was the first one after the miscarriage. We were to
discuss how much my HCG levels dropped since the miscarriage, and our future
pregnancy plans. We nervously made our way in. The doctor came in and told us
my betas were at 265 (up from134 at the hospital). She was concerned that
we may be dealing with an ectopic pregnancy because the levels had gone up
since the miscarriage instead of down, but said that sometimes the levels at
the hospital can vary from the lab where I had them tested at. Just to be sure
it wasn’t tubal, she went ahead and sent me across the hall to do a
transvaginal ultrasound. My hopes were still high and my spirits still up. So
much so, that I was even able to joke around about the condom they put on the
transvaginal ultrasound “joy stick.” Although I don’t think all of the medical
terminology was sitting too well with Barry because he didn’t seem to find my
dirty jokes very funny. He looked scared and unsure as I lay on the table and
stared at him from across the room. Finally the tech came in and preformed the
ultrasound. She took the printed pictures with her to show the doctor and left
our room abruptly. I couldn’t help be feel scared at this point. “She usually
doesn’t leave the room that fast.” Right about the time
I had that thought, Barry chimed in with, “I just saw the inside of your lady
parts.” (Language cleaned up a bit, of course.) “Thanks for the impeccable
timing of your dirty joke Barry.” At least it made me laugh.
The doctor
came in shortly after and told us that all she saw was the same two cysts that
she had seen in the previous ultrasound and that we would monitor them. She
didn’t see an ectopic pregnancy. “Yay! I don’t have to have surgery today.”
Then came the awkwardness. “When can we have intercourse again and when
can be begin trying to conceive?” She told us we’d have to wait until my
hormone levels go down in order for us to have intercourse again so that we
avoid infection, which could take up to a month, and that we should wait 3
cycles before trying to conceive again. Upon hearing that, I was boiling. I was
sad. I was scared. I was every horrible emotion you could think of. I had
clouded visions of getting up and slamming her head into the wall and asking
her if she was out of her mind. “You want me to wait how long?! Everything is
closed up, how would there be an infection?!” After telling us that, she also
informed us of how fertile one is right after having a miscarriage, so she
wouldn’t surprised if we didn’t want to wait then entire three cycles before
trying again. “Okay, well thanks for hand feeding the ‘infection’ thing into my
husband’s brain. Do you really think he’s going to want to do anything with me
now that he thinks I can get an infection from it?” I felt like I left that
appointment with way more questions than answers. The only thing we got out of
it was, it’s not ectopic, and we will wait and see what the next week’s betas
show.
That day
and following Thursday, August 23rd, I had my HGC levels tested
again. On Tuesday, August 28th I had another appointment,
this time, by myself. She told me my levels were still in the 200-300 range.
“What the hell is going on? I know it’s only been two weeks, and these things
take time, but they aren’t coming down at all.” One could only imagine the
questions I had. I felt so discouraged. I felt like I couldn’t move on from all
of this because my body hadn’t even moved on yet. I just wanted all of this to
be over. I wanted to put it all in the past and move forward. Barry and I had
waited for years to finally be in a position to start trying and we were
finally there. Then we conceived on our first try and we loose the pregnancy.
And now we have to wait again? I was tired of waiting. I wanted to know
when I would get my next cycle, when we could try again, how long it would take
us to get pregnant the next time, if I would be able to carry to full term next
time or have another miscarriage. I felt like I was waiting for an answer that
was never going to come. And then there was Barry; poor Barry. He felt
completely helpless. There wasn’t a thing he could do for me at that moment,
nor I for him. He was a helpless bystander and so was I.
On Wednesday September 5th, exactly 3 weeks from the
day of the loss, my doctor called early in the afternoon with the results from
the previous week's blood work. Before announcing anything to me, she asked if
I had passed any of the tissue at the hospital while I was there, to which I
replied, "no, everything was passed at my house." She said that
usually, the hospital will collect some of the tissue being passed to send off
to the pathology lab where they can do genetic and chromosomal testing. Then
she said that she was meeting with one of the other doctors at the office
because my hormone levels were still going up, and it was concerning her. She
asked if I had had intercourse since the miscarriage and I told her just once
last week and once this week. I was hanging onto every single word she said,
hoping she'd say, "oh, we'll you're probably pregnant again," but instead
she said, "no, that isn't it then." I was told to wait two more days,
until Friday, and then she would let me know what the next step would be. I
hung up the phone happy, hopeful, and sad. I was happy that questions were
going to be answered and there would be a road to finally turn down. I felt
like the blindfold from my face was being removed. I was also glad she was
getting the opinion of another doctor, my original doctor to begin with.
I decided that if they opted for a D&C I wanted to have one last
ultrasound, just to be absolutely sure there wasn't anything in my uterus. For
the next two days I would pray and hold onto that last little glimmer of hope.
I hadn't felt the feeling of "hope" since that day at the hospital.
It felt good, although I knew better than to completely open my heart up to
it. But it was warm and kind compared to the rash of other horrible
emotions felt since the loss. It was puzzling actually. On one hand, I was
hopeful that some miracle had occurred and by the grace of God himself, I was somehow
pregnant again, which is what was driving my hormone levels back up. On the
other hand, I knew how completely unlikely and utterly ridiculous that was, and
I knew the outcome would be less than miraculous. But the feeling of hope felt
so good. And I felt good.
The following day, Thursday
September 6th, my
doctor called me; a day earlier than promised. She told me that my hormone
levels were just above 500 and said she'd like to do a D&E as soon as
possible. She asked if I could come in that morning for an ultrasound to which
I replied, "I will see you in an hour." During the ultrasound, she
noted that my complex cyst had grown from 2 centimeters to 2.6 centimeters
since my last ultrasound. She also told me that she still didn't see anything
in my uterus and that we would definitely be proceeding with the D&E as
soon as the receptionist could schedule it with the hospital. I asked her how
long it would be until the procedure and she said either the next day, or the
following Monday. After wrapping up the ultrasound, she left to me get dressed.
When she came back, she went over all of the legal documents with me and had me
sign a consent form. As I was signing it she told me that after the D&E,
she would be performing a laparoscopy to see if there was a tubal pregnancy and
if so, they would remove it. She said that if she couldn't remove it easily and
without me bleeding to death, she would have to remove the entire tube. I stood
there in disbelief as I tried to swallow what I'd just heard. I couldn't
believe that this was happening. I should've been happy that I finally had
answers to all of my questions but the thought of being put under for surgery
and possibly waking up missing a tube was the hardest thing I've ever had to
comprehend. It was all happening so fast. I guess I didn't expect all of that
at one appointment since my journey so far had been so slow-going. After
signing the paperwork, I was given a pre-op packet and told to go to the
hospital for pre-op testing. The receptionist told me that she would call when
she had an operation day and time for me. I hadn't gotten 5 minutes down the
road, when she called me back and told me my surgery would be the next day at
2:15. "Wow!" It was really starting to sink it. I called Barry and my
parents to let them know and I made my way to the pre-op appointment. As
nervous as I was, I was also somehow very calm. I knew that this was for the
better and I had complete trust in my doctor. Later on, Barry and I met up with
my Dad and family for a Chili's dinner and we spent the remainder of the night
watching TV on the couch, we kept the mood light and fun.
Friday September 7th had finally arrived and my new surgery
time had been bumped up to 1pm instead of 2:15. So we had to be there by 11
instead of 12:15. The morning started off normal. Barry woke up first and left
to pick up some things he had dropped off early in the week from the
alterations shop. I remember lying in bed that morning and swearing I could
smell coffee. "Maybe it's coming from the neighbor's house.."
Since I couldn't have my morning coffee, or anything else to eat or drink on
account of the surgery, I decided to take a shower instead. Not long after
Barry returned, it was time to make our way to the hospital. I gave the dog a
kiss, locked up, and got in Barry's truck. No sooner from opening his truck
door, did the smell of coffee punch me in the face. "Coffee?" I
yelled. Dumbfounded, I looked to Barry for an explanation of why his truck
smelled off coffee when he doesn't even drink it. When he finally stopped
laughing at me and my super hero sniffer, he told me that when he was leaving
the alterations place, he passed right by a Dunkin Donuts and couldn't help
himself so he stopped. He told me that he was hungry and would have felt bad
eating in front of me so he just got a little something for himself and ate it
on his way back home. I couldn't blame him. But the smell of my all time
favorite coffee was killing me the whole way to the hospital. Finally we
arrived, pulled in, parked and walked the long haul from the lot the entrance.
Barry held my hand the entire way. After checking in at the patient
registration, we climbed in an elevator and rode it to the second floor; The
Women's Center / Labor and Delivery. Now, call me crazy, but the fact that they
have you wait in the same room as the girls who have carried their child to
term and are there because they think they are in labor is pretty messed up. My
mood was pretty good when we got there but after having to sit in the waiting
room for just over 45 minutes with pregnant women walking through the whole
time and watching a little girl whose parents were letting her eat candy off of
the floor that people were constantly walking on, I was pretty upset by the
time they took me back to the pre surgical room to get me prepped. Especially
since the first 30 minutes or so that I was back there being prepped, they made
Barry wait in another waiting room by himself. However once they finished up we
were able to spend about another half hour together. He kept asking if I was
okay and I kept telling him yes, but that I had butterflies and I was hungry.
Every time I'd ask if he was okay, he'd say yes, but he was cold. So I would
grab his wrist and shove his hands underneath my legs which were also covered
with two heated blankets. "There, hows that?!" We laughed and joked
the whole time. I also made him promise me we'd get soup and sandwiches from
Panera when we left the hospital.
Finally the doctor walked in and said they were ready for
me. Barry reached over the side of the bed and gave me a kiss and told me he
loved me. They wheeled me into the hall where I heard him call out again, that
he loved me. "I Love you too!" She wheeled me down 4 different halls
and through 3 sets of doors before finally pushing me into the operating room.
The whole way in, the doctor kept saying that I would do great and not to be
scared. As nice as she was being, I didn't like her. She reminded me of someone
I worked with, whom I don't much care for. And the two even shared the same
name, which is even weirder. The operating room is the scariest place I've ever
been. The walls were 3x3 tiles from the floor to the ceiling. They were the
same color teal as the scrubs the doctors were wearing. There were carts
and instruments everywhere. I couldn't see anybodies faces because they all had
operating masks on. When I first entered the room the women who had wheeled me
in announced aloud, "Hello everyone, this is Candace. She will be our
patient today. Can everyone give her a warm welcome?" For as scared
shitless as I was, I was expecting people to turn around and start introducing
themselves to me by first and last name, but all I got was a unenthusiastic,
"hello." I don't even recall anyone turning around to greet me
face to face. This added to my paranoia. The woman wheeled me up next to the
operating table. She made it very clear to me not to move until she told me to
and to do everything she asked of me, when she asked. She started to pump the
bed up to make it the same level as the table they were going to transfer me
to. She then made the comment, "I'm going to pump you up!" in an
Arnold Schwarzenegger voice. Was I supposed to find that funny? Sorry, but no.
Shut up, lady. Just stop talking. Finally, they lifted me up in the sheet and
transferred me to the table. They strapped my waist down first and then
strapped my arms down to boards that extended from each of the table. (Picture
an airplane... that was me.) I laid there staring at the two huge operating
lights above me. They were sort of the like at the dentist, but way bigger.
There was also a flat screen TV at the end of the OR table which I'm certain
was for the camera they stuck in my belly button during the surgery. I heard
the male anesthesiologist behind my head, but I couldn't see his face. A
younger, short, female doctor came up to me and started sticking heart
monitor leads on my chest and shoulders. Then she wrapped the blood pressure
gauge around my arm. After pondering for a second, she asked the anesthesiologist
"is that right?" He replied, "No, you have it backwards. Just
take it off and flip it around." I thought to myself, Holy shit, you can't
even put the blood pressure thing on my arm correctly and you are standing in
an operating room, why?" My paranoia level spiked once more and by then I
asked the original doctor who had wheeled me in, whom I didn't care for, where
my doctor was. She said, "She’s coming! Don't worry. We can't start the
surgery without her. She's finishing up with the other patient next door."
All of a sudden my left arm felt like it was going to sleep. Then that feeling
changed to it being ice cold. I looked up and told anyone who was listening
that my arm was really cold. One of them replied that is was just the
anesthesia kicking in and not to worry. "Thanks for the warning," I
thought to myself. It must have been kicking in quick because I couldn't even
tell you now, if it was a man or women who had answered my question. And then I
softly and slowly closed my eyes. I remember that very last moment. I remember
it being very serene.
When I woke up it was a different story. Everything was
chaos. I was confused. I was scared and didn't remember exactly what was going
on, only that I was suppose to remind myself to ask if I still had my tubes and
ovaries. "OMG! Why would I need to ask such a thing? What they hell
happened?" I remembered crying heavily; just completely sobbing. The nurse
later told me that I was inconsolable when I first woke up. I remember feeling
so sick to my stomach. I quickly sat up and asked if I had my tubes. The nurse
told me yes, that I still had everything I went in with. Even hearing such
great news, I wasn't happy. I was sick, scared, and in pain. I told the nurse I
was sick and didn't get an answer so I yelled, I'm sick!" The nurse rushed
over to me and asked if I'd like something for the nausea and I said yes. I
remember her telling me that I needed to lay back and be still because the
movement was making me feel worse. I must have been thrashing around in my bed
quite a bit. Finally I curled up the best I could with all of the wires coming
out of me and the sheets and I closed my eyes. The next thing I know she’s
sticking this clear tube in my nostrils telling me to breath. She said that
since my heart rate drops when I sleep, I would need to wear it. After fighting
a losing battle with her about this several times, I finally fell asleep with
it in my nose even though the smell of the oxygen was making me feel queasier.
The drugs paid off and I passed back out.
Soon after falling asleep, she woke me back up to drink some
ginger ale and eat a couple of saltines. It took every bit of will power to do
as she asked of me and every bit of concentration not to puke on her. She told
me she'd let me sleep for a little while longer though if I drank a few sips
and ate a few bites. I was beginning to like this lady. I told her that she was
kind and sweet and thanked her for treating me so nicely. I also apologized for
"being a pain the ass." She laughed a little and told me that I was
no problem for her. She really was once of the nicest people I'd ever met. I
rested my eyes for what felt like only a few minutes longer until I heard her
say, "You have a visitor." I opened my eyes, and there was Barry! He
walked around the front of my bed smiling the whole time. When he got to the
side of my bed, he reached in and gave me the biggest and softest hug.
The nurse sat me up and pulled all the leads off of me and
helped me get dressed. I was coherent enough now to read her name tag which
read, "Angela." She told Barry to pull his truck around while she got
me all ready to leave. We had a nice talk from the recovery room to the
entrance of the hospital. She and Barry helped me into the truck and I told her
again how thankful of her I was. The whole way home was a blur, but I do know
Barry stopped by Panera and got us soup and sandwiches for dinner as promised. As the days
went on for the following week, the pain subsided and things seemed more
manageable.
The end..................................of that story and on to the next chapter.
