I’m really hungry, but I’ve got to wait at least another hour before I eat. Otherwise the antibiotics will either 1) absorb into my food, and not protect me from Nasty Infections or 2) interact strangely with the food, and I’ll vomit. I am in absolutely no mood to vomit right now. So I’ll wait to eat, then.
I’m tired, but don’t want to sleep right now. I’ve slept a lot recently, and want to do something different. So I type.
Tuesday, December 21st, I found out I was pregnant.
Monday, January 3rd, I was no longer.
Is it strange to miss something I only knew about for 2 weeks? She/he/it was only 8 weeks old, ‘inside time.’ It didn’t have a name or gender yet. We called it ‘pat.’ Pat-the-baby. It’s an action and a name together - hello, I’m Pat, the baby. Pat-pat me, please.
Our families knew, my new job didn’t. Most of my old job didn’t, either. Most of our friends knew - the ones we could tell in person, anyway. A general announcement had yet to be made. Perhaps we should have waited, to spare others the bad news. What can I say, I only keep my own secrets when I feel my personal security is at risk. This was happy news. It made the (potential) grandparents happy. The aunts-to-be went nuts. It seemed silly to keep it inside.
Ah yes, but it couldn’t stay inside, now could it. That was the problem. Monday night my doctor, who I never actually met, only spoke with over the phone (my first appointment hadn’t happened yet, I’d only met with a nurse) told me to go to the emergency room. He said my cramping and bleeding indicated that I really should head to an emergency room now. So I did. My husband and I did. I don’t know if pat-the-baby joined us for that trip. I think she was already gone.
By the time we got to the (correct) hospital, (who knew there were two with the same name?????) I was a bloody mess. Take that literally.
The hospital drew more blood. Earlier in the day a nurse had used a vein in my arm, but now those were hiding so instead this nurse plugged the back of my hand. Then I got an examination. Good news! the ER doc said. You look like you haven’t lost the baby yet! Things may be hunky-dory after all. I knew he was only acting on the information he had at hand (so to speak). He was just joining us that evening and didn’t know what was going on. I knew he was wrong, but nodded my head anyway - after all, I’m not a doctor. And better to be safe than sorry. I’m certainly not mad at him for being wrong, even though I knew he was.
Then, I got a catheter, as prep for an ultrasound. Apparently only women in my condition are treated to catheters, normally you just drink a lot of water beforehand. Or something to that effect. I promise I will try with all my heart and soul to be a good girl so I never ever need a catheter again. They are no fun at all. Amen.
The external ultrasound was uncomfortable. I think it might have been more pleasant had I not also had incredibly painful cramps in the exact same place where the tech kept pressing. I should have been better behaved, but I was a baby and squirmed anyway. Then the internal exam (given after the external ultrasound failed to show anything significant) made me want to kick someone in the head repeatedly. My husband stood there, wincing as I did, stroking my head and holding my hand. Telling me I was good. The second tech, who had grabbed the camera-wand from the hands of the first tech and whom I wanted to kick, (very very hard) complained her arm was getting tired because my gurney was so high. She whined as she repeatedly prodded me, asking if it hurt, until finally not only I but my husband and the first technician were all affirming that yes indeed, it hurt. A lot. And the she poked me again anyway, and whined about her arm. I hope the woman gets strip-searched and deported.
After the ultrasounds, I went back to the emergency ward. A woman who sounded as if she had ingested more than one pain pill wailed about her arm hurting. (Apparently sore arms were big on the hospital menu Monday night). I stared at the walls of my room, which were decorated with Disney (TM) Princesses and Buzz Lightyear. Buzz was on the ceiling above my bed too. A space ranger smiling down on me while I tried not to think about what was going on. The ER doc (who looked like Eugene Levy, as my husband had earlier observed) came in to tell me the ultrasounds showed I had an ectopic pregnancy. He announced I would soon be going into surgery. He said it matter-of-factly, like, “well - we are out of chocolate ice cream so all the guests will have vanilla.” Well - this is unexpected but you have an ectopic pregnancy. You’ll be going to surgery soon. Thanks and good night.
A new nurse came by and removed the catheter, thus making her my favorite person of the decade. She let me use the real bathroom, too. She should be sainted. I took a long time, savoring the freedom to pee, and when I finally hobbled back to my room a new nurse was there, who drew more blood (from my left wrist, this time) and gave me an IV. My first IV. Whee.
Outside of the OR I signed more consent forms handed to me by more nurses. My husband continued to be right next to me, as sweet and as caring as he could possibly have been. I didn’t get really scared until I encountered the concept of general anesthesia. I was scared of an allergic reaction. I am only medically allergic to penicillin but in recent years my skin has had reactions to all kinds of new (and old) things. I wanted to cry - I react to the sun, how do you know I will not react to the anesthesia? My doctor assured me if I had a reaction they would treat it. But I was still so scared. I had to remove all jewelry before going into surgery; I took off my wedding rings, kissed them, and handed them to my husband. I removed the belly ring I got on Venice Beach almost six years ago. I tried not to tell him how scared I was but eventually I crumbled and said, "What if I don't wake up?" I can't remember exactly how he replied, but I am sure it was along the lines of, "Of course you'll wake up." Right. Of course I would.
Then, they took my husband away. That made me very sad indeed. I liked him standing right next to me, and I am sure he liked being there as well, where he could see exactly what was going on. I think he would have watched the surgery if he had been allowed to. But, no - and off he went.
Inside the OR I moved from my gurney to the operating bed. I was given a drip which made me sleepy, and a few moments later an oxygen mask was placed across my nose and mouth. I knew after I was asleep a tube would be inserted to help me breathe. A nurse held my hand - I think she was checking my pulse, really, but holding my hand felt nice. Right before I fell asleep I could feel my face burning. I'm not sure if I mentioned this or not.
I don't remember falling asleep, or dreaming, or time passing, or anything. Then, the surgeon and a nurse were shouting at me to wake-up. "Surgery is over!" they exclaimed, the same way you might tell a small child, "look - you got a new sled for Christmas! How fun!" I was happy they were happy - obviously I must be okay. I was happy about one other thing as well: prior to going into the OR, one of my doctors had told me my breathing tube would be removed after I woke up. I was not looking forward to this, but figured that it couldn't be any worse than whatever else that had happened that night. However, as the operating team cheerfully told me I was okay, I noted a distinct lack of breathing tube in me. It was out already. Thank goodness. I am grateful I did not have to consciously experience the tube’s removal.
One of the nurses was having a problem locating my husband. She was not checking the correct waiting area. I wasn't too worried, but still wished they would hurry up and figure out where they put him. I opened my eyes again but no matter how hard I blinked the room remained doubled and tripled and shaking ever so slightly. I struggled to focus but gave up and closed my eyes again. "Listen to me," my surgeon was yelling, trying to get my attention. "You are fine. You did not have an ectopic pregnancy. You are fine. Everything is fine. You might forget this so I'll say it again - you did not have an ectopic pregnancy." Yahoo.
After another few minutes and still no husband, my surgeon called to me again. She was a short, thin lady who seemed like she might have a great sense of humor, if you happened to talk to her outside the OR. I liked her a lot. "You need a shot," she said. "This is very important. Do not go home before you get a shot. Do you understand? You need a shot for your blood type. To protect your next pregnancy. Tell them you need a shot." I smiled and said thank you. Whispered it - my throat was killing me. I would have bribed someone for ice cream. I noted how many things I was hooked up to - there was an oxygen tube running under (but not in) my nose, an IV in my left arm. A few sensors were still attached to me, which presumably connected to some machine somewhere in the room. A pulse monitor was clipped to my left index finger, which I briefly considered pulling off. A blood pressure sleeve encircled my right arm, taking measurements every few minutes. After some time, these items were removed - first the blood pressure sleeve, then the oxygen thingy, the pulse clip, and the other clips or wires presumably connected to the sensors, but not the sensors themselves.
A little while longer and I was wheeled into a recovery room. 3300, bed 1. The nurses said these numbers over and over, and my brain remembered it. I thought maybe I'd tell my husband where to find me later - honey, I was in 3300 bed 1. That's where I was.
In the recovery room, I asked the nurse (my - 8th? for the evening? I think I met almost the entire staff that night) if I could use the bathroom. She said she needed to go check something, but assuming that was okay then she'd help me, as long as I didn't think I would throw-up. I promised I wouldn't. She left, returned, helped me sit up, and wheeled my IV around the bed so it could accompany me on my trip. As she assisted me to my feet the entire room bobbed up and down about three times, my head fell off, and my knees bent completely backwards. Normally I probably would have whined pathetically and climbed back in bed, but I was on a mission. I was still savoring the ability to pee freely and was not going to admit to feeling a little woozy. I smiled, and continued hobbling towards the bathroom, like a cheerfully grimacing snail on broken legs, trying to show everything was fine.
As I reached the door to the bathroom, my husband came in the room. Guess they’d finally remembered where they’d stashed him. He seemed very happy to see me, as I was him. However, seeing as my jelly body was seconds away from melting into the floor and I was determined to pee, I glanced at him, threw another smile, then dragged myself into the bathroom. I grabbed on to the doorjamb for support, and my husband grabbed my hand briefly and squeezed it. He let go, and I sat down. Ahhh, success. I am eternally grateful for the freedom to empty my bladder in the position and location of my choice.
I finished up, and I bobbed my way out of the bathroom and back into the room, nurse and IV in tow. In a few painful moments I was settled into bed 1 of room 3300. My husband kissed me and put my wedding rings back on my left hand. I smiled again. Smiling was much easier than talking. My shoulder hurt (from the gas used to enlarge my abdomen, which was necessary for my laparoscopic surgery), my throat hurt, my stomach burned. The experts agreed, I was by now baby-free. Just a normal miscarriage. I was cancer-free as well. Since the internal ultrasound had, apparently, shown SOMEthing strange, my husband and I had both considered the possibility that this was something Extremely Not Good. But the surgeon had assured my husband repeatedly: I was fine. There was nothing wrong. I was fine. Whew.
I slept for a couple hours. Surprisingly. I mean, I was surprised to wake up and discover it was no longer 1:30 AM o’clock. My husband sat next to me, reading. I wanted to give him some room in the bed so he could sleep too, but it was too small. Plus turning on my side was not an option. I moved my legs so he could put his head down. He told me to stop being silly.
Around 4:00 AM my final nurse came in, gave me the shot (in the butt) I absolutely-needed-to-must-have-absolutely-without-a-doubt, and told us we could leave. We thanked her profusely. She should probably be sainted as well. I changed into the sweats I had thrown into an overnight bag, and was wheeled out of the room, down the hall, into the elevator, down another hall, and out the front door. Or back door. Or side door, whichever door it was. It didn’t much matter at that point - I was just glad to have packed up my broken body and be heading home.
Now, I am on three meds, one of which is a potentially habit-forming narcotic. I got 35 of those. Neat! The other two drugs aren’t nearly as exciting, and I only have 6 each of those. When I’m not on a pain pill, my shoulder, neck, and jaw are extremely stiff, and my tummy area rather painful. Not horribly so, just enough to notice it when I try to sit up or lay down or turn on my side. When the pain pills are kicking, though, I feel just this side of fine, except for the listlessness. My husband continues to be the most wonderful supporter in the world. At times we are sad, and at other times we are sleeping. And at other times I am gasping, trying not to laugh because it hurts too much. We are doing fine. We assure each other that someday, there will be another pat-the-baby. Pat-pat the baby. Bye-bye, sweet baby, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you in.
I am pretty gosh-darn scared of having to go through this again, but I know I survived it once, and can do so a second (but god help me, not a third) time if need be.
And now, here I sit. And I type. And finally, it is time to eat, so I will. Maybe someday when I am done with all the meds I will crawl inside a bottle of vodka, but then again maybe not. I don’t know yet. Right now I am tired and afraid. Afraid of posting this, but also anxious to do so. I want to keep my chronicle. I also want to keep my privacy. Almost everyone who reads this site is a friend, and I certainly do not mind my close friends knowing what happened. Many of them know already. For those random few who read this and do not know me, a small happy thought in my and my husband’s general direction would be much appreciated. And for you, you foreigner, you gossip, you whiner, you egomaniacal crazy witch, if you read this, remember - this is MY story. Not yours. I did not tell you this firsthand, because I knew how you would twist it into your own heartbreak and say horrible things. If you read this, when you read this, try to be decent and keep it to your damn self. Thanks.
Posted by acr at January 5, 2005 06:45 PM | TrackBack