Rented: There Were Two

This is an anonymous post from a dear blog friend of mine.

My daughter was a miracle. I don’t mean that in the religious sense or even in a devoted parent sense. She was a scientific miracle. For a year my husband and I tried to get pregnant with her. We went to many doctors and had more tests than I can enumerate. I was diagnosed with “unexplained infertility”and put on the infertility treadmill. Nothing worked. Then six months later, while we were on vacation and had no medical intervention I got pregnant.

If you have any inclination to say anything related to relaxing, shut your fucking hole. Being relaxed doesn’t cause pregnancy.

I always knew that I was incredibly lucky to have her and that I should never take for granted how she was finally conceived. I also always knew that I wanted more than one baby. When she was six months old we started trying again. More correctly, we never actually started trying to prevent pregnancy but I jokingly said to my husband when she was about six months old that if I were to get knocked up again I probably wouldn’t slit my wrists. My ideal would have been to have two babies 18 months apart.

After another year and a half it became clear that we were not going to get pregnant on our own again and we went back to a doctor. After multiple barrages of tests I was told that I have incredibly old ovaries. While I’m only 34 my hormones and ovaries act as if I were in my late 40s. Fucking beautiful. The doctor said that while nothing is impossible he did not believe that we would be able to get pregnant without medical assistance. Being that he is a doctor I suppose I wouldn’t expect any less from him. His recommendation a year ago was jumping straight to IVF a) because of my hormone levels b) because we had been trying for so long already and c) because I had expressed my wish for MJ to have a sibling close in age. After discussing it for a month my husband and I decided we should try some less invasive techniques. IVF seemed excessive to both of us since I had already had one baby and the cost was not something we could manage easily.

Jump forward one year, 4 IUIs, and 2 miscarriages. This time when the doctor said IVF we said yes. We borrowed the money from two exceptionally generous family members and started the process. I won’t go into the details. That’s not why I’m writing. I just thought a little background was necessary.

After all we had been through, I’ll be honest, I did not expect even the IVF to work so when the doctor called me that day to let me know that my blood test had come back positive I was in shock. “The numbers are low, but the hard part is over. You’re pregnant.”

The hard part is over.

I wish that had been the case.

The next week I was on cloud nine. After everything we had been through we were finally going to have another baby. It had taken 2 ½ years but it was worth it. Another baby was on the way. I was going to be due in June. I’d figured out the day to be June 18^th, although MJ had come early so who’s to say that baby #2 wouldn’t have as well. In either case, it was going to be a summer baby.

Things started going south on a Saturday. My husband had taken MJ to Ikea for the afternoon so she could play and they could look for big girl beds and get her mattress off the floor finally. A big sister needs a big girl bed. (No, we weren’t stupid enough to say anything to her about it). While they were away I developed a sharp pain in my right side. I’d been having cramping the whole week but as I had cramped on and off for a month when I was pregnant with MJ I didn’t think anything of it. This pain was different. It wasn’t uterine, it was on my right side. Just as I was starting to actually worry about it, it went away. I chalked it up as possibly intestinal. Until that night. 10:30 pm just as I was getting in bed the pain came back, worse than before. I spent a few hours lying in bed trying to breathe through it but that just wasn’t possible. Finally at about 2 am Jim convinced me to call the on call doctor at the clinic. He told me is sounded like I had a twisted ovary and I should get to the ER immediately to have it checked out. A friend came to stay in the house with MJ while we got in the car and went to the hospital. I started bleeding. A lot. I was terrified I was losing the baby.

After 7 or so hours of testing and waiting the ER doc came back and said that my blood tests were still positive, the pregnancy hormone was rising at the proper levels and that my ovary was not twisted. His best assessment was that I had an ovarian cyst that had ruptured. There was some fluid in my abdomen and that would without a doubt cause both the bleeding and the pain. I made a follow up appointment with my own doctor’s office for Monday and spent all of Sunday relieved and on bed rest.

Monday: I went to the office for routine blood work and an ultrasound. I was told by the on call doctor that he saw what looked like either a(n embryonic) sac or a blood clot in my uterus but that it was too early to tell either way. He was not optimistic about the ER doc’s diagnosis of a ruptured cyst and told me he was concerned that my pregnancy might be ectopic. In other words, he thought I had an embryo implanted in my right fallopian tube. He thought that was possibly the cause of my pain and the bleeding.

I was crushed but I refused to give up that easily. If the pregnancy was ectopic, why had the pain subsided and even gone away. I was told to continue bed rest until all bleeding had stopped. It never did.

Wednesday morning I woke up to heavy bleeding, just as I had had with the previous miscarriages. I knew that I was losing the baby. That’s what all the cramping and bleeding had been about. I was devastated and found it nearly impossible to get out of bed. It was only a matter of time before it was all over. After lying on my bed crying to myself for an hour or so while my husband got MJ dressed and fed, I got up and decided to carry on with my day. There was no point in lying round crying and feeling sorry for myself when there was nothing I could do. Yes, this had been my only and last hope. We had tried everything I could and it didn’t work. They couldn’t get my ovaries to produce enough eggs to have any to freeze and try again for a later cycle and there is no way it would be financially feasible for us to try again, but at least I had done everything I could. Move on. I got up and went about my day, bringing MJ to do her daily activities. By 5 pm, just as I was about to pick her up from a play group I went to the bathroom and there it was. Grey, twisted and looking very much like a fat little tadpole.

Have you ever held a 6 week old fetus in your hand? I have. And let me just say for the record: There is a HUGE difference between a 6 week old fetus and a baby. I’ve held both in my arms. I’ve loved both of them and I’d NEVER call a fetus a baby. What I went through was not a desired abortion, but it was an abortion no
netheless. It was a spontaneous abortion. It was a fetus and I wanted to to be more and I was horrified and crushed by my loss, but it wasn’t a baby. I know what it feels like to hold a baby and this was not it.

I picked up MJ with a fake smile plastered to my face. I went home and kept my shit together for the few hours that had to pass before her bedtime. Her father put her to bed. I sat on the couch feeling vacant. I called the doctor’s answering service to leave a message asking for an appointment for the next day to verify the loss of my pregnancy. I called my brother and told him it was over and that I thought MJ and I might want to fly up to visit him. I fell apart after (or maybe during) that. I was heart sore and thought I might never feel worse.

I had no idea. I had no idea there were two.

Just as I had the day before, I found it hard to get out of bed the next day. MJ’s dad took responsibility for dressing and feeding her but I rallied shortly after that. He offered to stay home from work and stay with me but I told him not to bother. I needed to get up. I needed to do something. If I sat around all day I’d go crazy. At least if I had to stay active for MJ I could put the happy facade back up. He went to work and MJ and I made plans for the day. We wanted to go to the park, after all there was no reason to stay on bed rest and she’d been asking me for a week to play soccer with her. We wanted to go to the library to get an Alice in Wonderland picture book. We got to the library before it opened and sat outside watching lizards.

The doctor’s office called me back at around 12:30 and asked me to come in for my appointment. I told MJ we could eat afterwards and maybe even stop off at the cafe and get a muffin. She was thrilled.

The appointment didn’t take too long. More blood taken and another ultrasound. He showed me my empty uterus, which I had expected. Then he showed me something else, which I hadn’t. There was what he believed to be a second embryonic sac and yolk. It had implanted at the juncture of my ovary and uterus. He said he couldn’t be sure, not on an ultrasound but explained that he was very worried about the placement of this possible pregnancy as if it continued to grow it would rupture not only my right fallopian tube but also my uterus. Did I have someone I could call to pick up my daughter? He wanted to schedule me for surgery that day.

Shock? Yeah, I think so. After all, I had thought it was all over the night before. All I had wanted out of this appointment was the ability to gain closure and move on with my life.

The details of the day are a bit fuzzy for me. My step-mother came to pick up MJ for a “play date”, my husband and father met me at the hospital. I spent the next few hours having my vitals taken, answering the same questions over and over again and looking at people strangely when they asked me “how do you feel?”. Seriously? How the fuck to you think I feel? I was mechanical, moving from room to room and person to person trying not to feel anything. I thought about MJ a lot and that thought made me smile, more often than not wistfully. I know I must have hurt my husband’s feelings because I kept telling him not to touch me. I didn’t want sympathy or understanding or any type of soft emotion. They would only make me break down. For the most part I held it together until they had me swabbed, gowned and lying in the pre-op room waiting for my surgery. Even then I only really lost self-control when a well meaning but poor thinking pre-op nurse said to me, “I know it’s hard, but everything happens for a reason.”

Everything happens for a reason? Oh really? Because, please, do tell me. What fucking reason is there for this? I’d love to hear a reasonable explanation as to why at the age of 34 after 2 ½ years and more money than I can afford instead of having a second baby I have to have a tube removed, effectively halving my already negligible chances at pregnancy. Really? What’s the fucking reason for that? Don’t give me that blind faith, God has a greater plan, bull shit. There is no reason.

No, I take that back. There is only one reason. Shit happens. That’s it, pure and simple. Shit happens, that’s the only reason. I wanted to yell all of that at the nurse but instead I turned to my husband and said, “Plain warning. The next person who says that to me gets decked.” He agreed.

The other thing I’ve been hearing a bit these past few days is “it’s unfair, but then again, no one ever said life is fair.” No kidding? Really? Life isn’t fair? Wonder why you always hated it when your mother, or anyone else for that matter, ever said that when you were younger or in pain of some sort. You hated it because it’s blatantly obvious, inane, vacuous, insensitive and thoughtless crap. No kidding life isn’t fair. Does anyone really think that’s an acceptable response to a painful event? Word of advice, if that’s all you have to say regarding someone else’s painful life experiences, take those words and shove them right up your ass because you’re helping no one and only alleviating your own sense of discomfort with empty prattle.

Today I’m sitting on my couch. My abdominal muscles are still sore but I’m getting up and down by myself again. I have no doubt that physically I’ll be healed in a day or two. I heal quickly. People keep asking me if I’m ok. I’m not. Not by a long shot but I dutifully answer “yes” because I know that’s the answer they’re looking for. I won’t be “ok” for a long time. My belly will heal and I’ll get on with my daily life but, no, I’m not “ok”, so don’t ask.

How do I feel? Angry, sad, sore, depressed and more than a little bitter. I hate fertile people. My hatred stems from a deep seated envy.

My daughter’s 3^rd birthday is in less than a month. My mother asked me yesterday if it was going to be a problem for me to have guests arriving not only with my daughter’s friends but with their new babies. My only answer was, “I hope not.” I’ll put that plastic smile back on my face, compliment my friends’ babies and I’ll die a little each time one of them asks me if I plan to have another. My plans have nothing to do with it.

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