I grew up watching my aunt raise a family of five boisterous, funny children. The stories of my cousin burying all of his mother’s good jewelry in the back yard to prepare for a for treasure hunt, or another cousin super-gluing all the dining room chairs to the floor and proclaiming he “saw the guy who did it” inspired me to want that kind of a family. I always knew my household was destined to be a crazy, energetic, busy hub, full of love and laughter.
Because of this, my husband and I were thrilled to announce to our family, over New Year’s Eve dinner, that we would soon be expecting our fourth child.
Excited congratulations and pats on the back followed, as we watched the children happily experience New Year’s Eve, knowing they would never make it past 9 pm. After dessert and cocktails, we said our goodbyes with hours to spare (it had been several years since we had seen the ball drop, unless it coincidentally happened while we were changing a diaper or nursing a baby in the middle of the night). Love and appreciation for our three children was on the forefront of our minds as we fell asleep that evening, ready to wake up to a new year, and ready to welcome a new family member into our home.
My dreams that evening, and my waking dreams of that big, fun family would be boldly interupted later that same night. Severe pain in my abdomen woke me at 2 am, and I feared what I knew the cramps and bleeding meant. With the experience of several miscarriages over the years, I had always been more or less at peace with the natural order of things. I understood, as sad as it was, that some things were simply not meant to be and that nature had taken it’s course.
But this time was different. I was in severe pain. Nighttime always makes things feel worse, anyway–the dark exaggerates feelings of loneliness. My husband was concerned, but after hearing the doctor say there was no other course of action except to wait, he went back to sleep. When someone is with you, emotions are easier to express–you can cry when you are hugged, or be stoic when it’s appropriate, feeding off your counterpart’s reactions. But when you are alone emotions tend to sit still inside your gut, like a quiet lake waiting for dawn. Alone in the dark, tired, but in too much pain to sleep, I did just that. I waited.
*****
Although my husband and I we were disappointed, the feelings of loss faded with the knowledge that we would try, try again.
I went to see the nurse practitioner, who assured me what I had gone through was typical and textbook. The pain I was experiencing was normal, she said. It would lesson as the days passed, she said. Three days later, however, the pain was still there. Again, I went to the doctor’s office. The nurse practitioner took some blood and pronounced the situation “normal”. I left her office uncomfortable, worried that I was imagining things– my mind was already so full from the daily activities of raising three small children.
Three days later, I allowed myself to admit that this pain was not leaving my body on its’ own. I searched the web and found a site that suggested I may have an infection–a common occurrence after a miscarriage. It hurt each time I sat down, so I went about my daily routine, intermittently sitting down to see if it still hurt. It did. Once again, I called for an appointment with the OB/GYN. My mother-in-law agreed to watch the kids during my 2:30 appointment.
It was still early, but the snow had stopped falling and the sky was clear, so I went out to the front walk way to shovel a clear path for my mother-in-law. When I came back into the house, I was overwhelmed by a wave of heat. I told myself–don’t we always–that this would go away, the dizziness would subside.
It did not. My body crumpled to the floor. Three little kids ran to see what happened to their mommy. Helpless, I asked my four year old to get me the phone. Normally, I would never have asked this of him–he was still so little, and the counter was so high.
But, I was down for the count and had no other options. The receptionist at the doctor’s office said I could come right in. I called my mother in law, who said she would be right there. While I waited, my children took care of me the best way they knew how–the oldest getting me a pillow, the middle one sitting and staring at me, and the baby crawling on me, not knowing the excruciating pain she was causing. I felt silly for causing a fuss. A mother is not supposed to need this much help–a mother is supposed to the helper, not the helpee.
My mother-in-law arrived in less time than I thought, and as I pulled myself up, my husband came through the door as well. His arrival didn’t make sense, as I hadn’t called him, but everything was beginning to not make sense.
“I’m driving you to the doctor,” he said. I told him, with as much nonchalant as I could muster, that I would be fine, that there was no need. I hated to put him out over something that would probably end up being an insignificant infection. “I’m driving you to the doctor,” he repeated, lovingly making it clear this was not up for discussion.
Each minute that passed in the car brought on a new, stronger wave of heat. I began to sweat. By the time we reached the doctor’s office, I was drenched with a sweat that had soaked through my bra and shirt. I wanted to get out of the car–I really did. But my body simply would not respond. My husband realized what was going on, even if I didn’t, and left the car at the entry way while he ran in to retrieve a wheel chair.
He helped me out of the car, and wheeled me up to the doctor’s office. While the nurses searched for my file, my husband ran back downstairs to park the car. I sat quietly in the wheelchair, and worried that I was over reacting. When he returned, a nurse brought me in to the ultrasound room, helped me up on the table and took my vitals. Maybe I’m okay, I thought. Yes, I’m definitely over reacting and this is so embarrassing.
The technician performed an ultrasound. My husband watched her eyes study the screen, holding my hand the whole time. She said nothing, and walked out of the room. Moments later, she returned, bringing with her the doctor who specialized in ultrasounds.
My feet are freezing, I thought.
“Okay, Wendy,” he began calmly. “Look at the screen here, and do you see this part that is dark?”
It’s all dark. I said nothing. I could no longer speak. Taking a deep breath was becoming more and more difficult. And I can’t feel my feet.
“The dark part is blood,” he said.
I cannot feel my feet and I cannot take a deep breath.
“You’ve had an ectopic pregnancy,” he continued, “and it has ruptured.”
Help me take a deep breath. I need to take a deep breath.
“You’re abdomen is filling with blood.”
The screen is all dark.
“That is why you’re having trouble breathing. The blood is filling your abdomen and is pushing against your lungs.” He was so calm, but behind him was a flurry of activity in the hallway.
“We need to get you into surgery immediately.” Some of the staff was peeking in to look at me. I could only blink at them. Two nurses were vigorously rubbing my feet, trying their hardest to increase the blood flow.
My husband, still holding my hand, asked the doctor if he should drive me to the hospital, and was informed that an ambulance had already been called. The paramedics would be there any moment to take me to the emergency room.
I watched my husband take his cell phone from his pocket and press the numbers with a shaky finger. I listened to him tell my father what was happening and where we were headed as his eyes filled up with tears.
Please don’t cry. It makes me cry to see you sad, and I can’t take a deep enough breath to cry. I can’t feel my feet or my hands and I can hardly breath at all. I want to, but I can’t. I need to breath and I can’t.
The doctor left the room to speak with the paramedics, while the nurses continued to rub my feet and hands. My husband asked me how I was. He told me they would take care of me. I could only blink at him.
I didn’t know this is what it would feel like…I didn’t know it would feel this way.
*****
The paramedics arrived after what seemed like forever. A medic asked me if I could roll onto the gurney myself and I managed to shake my head. I knew there were a lot of people around–they had cleared out the entire OB/GYN office to get all the medics in with their equipment–the equipment that would keep me alive until we reached the hospital.
I don’t remember anything about the ride to the emergency room. I do remember, however, my doctor greeting me outside in the emergency loop. She was calm. They were all so calm.
She smiled and told me to give my jewelry to my husband, who I realized was next to me as I was wheeled down the hallway. She began to move faster.
“Here’s where we’ll need to leave you,” she told my husband.
I think he kissed me and looked worried. Isn’t that what happens in the movies? It must have been like that. He must have been standing in the middle of the hallway, wearing his suit and open trench coat, the waist ties hanging at his sides, his tie askew. He must have looked smaller and smaller as I was wheeled down the hallway. He must have looked disheveled and sad as I went through the double doors. The music must have stopped, and the scene must have faded to black. That’s what happens in the movie, but I don’t remember any of it happening to me.
*****
After the double doors stopped rocking back and forth on their hinges, my husband made his way to the waiting room. He sat on the quintessential waiting room chair–wooden frame with zig-zag mauve upholstery–and was alone. He didn’t know how long it would take or what was happening to me behind those doors. He was not expecting to be there on that day. He was not expecting this.
A long time passed before his brother walked in. My disheveled husband and his worried brother sat in emotionless silence…and waited.
*****
I don’t know how long it was before the doctor came to the waiting room. Everything that happened to me after I blacked out was pieced together later.
It’s a funny thing when you lose part of your life–I wanted to hear everything about every moment from anyone who had been there. As morbid as it was, I wanted to know whatever details people were willing to share with me–it was my life after all, my memories that were now housed in the minds of others.
My doctor came in to talk to my husband, and she did say I had “made it”, just like they do in the movies. She told him I was not out of the woods yet–that I would be at the highest risk of infection and complications for the next three weeks. She told him to go home and get some rest–that I would not be lucid for some time.
On the way out of the hospital parking garage, my husband called my mother. He was, in her words, shell shocked. She described him frantically rooting around for change to pay the attendant, mumbling, “please have change here…please have change here.” He was driving my car. He did not have his wallet. He was not prepared for this.
Silently driving home, the radio off, his cell phone closed, he said out loud to no one, “Do I have to plan a funeral?” He truly thought the woman he had loved for so many years, his wife, the mother of his children, his best friend, was going to die that day.
*****
I spent three days in the hospital, but I remember only two moments.
The first memory is of my sister in law, who worked as a nurse in the same hospital. She came into my sterile room and immediately began to cry. The rest of her visit fades into the recesses of my mind.
The second memory is of my doctor standing over my bed. She had brought pictures from the surgery and explained what they had done inside my body.
The pictures, to me, looked like an indescript bloody mess, but she described what everything was and where it belonged. She explained the severity of the situation as I groggily tried to concentrate on her words. I heard her say I was very lucky. That if I had lived in the next town over, I probably would not have gotten there on time.
My body had lost over 40% of it’s blood supply, which explained why I was so weak I could not get out of bed even to use the bathroom. My fallopian tube was so damaged it had to be removed, leaving the remaining damaged parts to build up a considerable amount of scar tissue. I was asked if we could have more children, and she told me not to concentrate on that–I needed to focus all my energy into healing my body–I had a long road ahead of me.
*****
I opened my eyes to see my mother watching over me as only a mother can do. It would take over a month to fully recover. I would need to stay on bed rest at home taking few visitors. Even in this state, I was disappointed in myself for being a burden to my family, for not being able to take care of my children. I apologized to my friends who came to visit.
I spent the next few days regaining strength and listening to people’s accounts of my emergency, drinking plenty of water and resting. My neighbors created a supper program, and a full dinner was provided to us each evening. I knew I should have felt loved and grateful, but instead I felt guilty and responsible.
As the weeks passed, my energy returned, but my hair fell out in clumps. I had night sweats so intense that I would have to get up and change the sheets. My body was ridding itself of every hormone it had used to get pregnant, to get un-pregnant, and to stay alive.
My doctor explained to me her theory of two fetuses. One had miscarried normally on that New Year’s Eve night. The other had implanted in the fallopian tube, grown and caused the subsequent rupture. My mind had limited space to comprehend this, so I tabled it, promising to come back later for further examination. I asked her about having more children.
“It is time to let go of what was and move on with the three beautiful, healthy children you have,” the doctor told me gently.
I watched her lips move as she continued, “It’s not wise to consider having more children.” She was cautious with her words.
What does ‘it’s not wise’ mean? Just tell me yes or no. I can or cannot, I thought. I questioned her until she relented and gave me the final word.
“If you were to get pregnant, Wendy, you would be advised to terminate the pregnancy.”
Oh.
*****
Friends and family reminded me, as if I had forgotten, that I still had one fallopian tube and I would be fine to have more children. They told me of their friend of a friend who had the very same thing happen to them and they got pregnant again right after. They told me how lucky I was.
They tried to steal my misery away, to take my awful news, my bad fortune, and turn it into something that was going to be alright. I felt like a fool, having no other explanation than my doctor’s diagnosis. I had to defend the fact that it was all that bad, it was that sad and depressing, it was so final. Without the intention of doing so, they continued to take my experience, to tell me it was all okay and I hated them for that.
Just like that New Year’s Eve night at 2 am, I was alone. Except this time, people were hovering all around me. I wanted to be alone, in my own head, in my own mess where there was no hope and no silver lining and where no one else gets to have their say or tell me what to feel. I wanted to be angry and sad and suffocate in my emotions, not being able to take a deep breath, just like I couldn’t take a deep breath when my body was bleeding to death.
Of course, my friends and family were trying to help, but their reminders of how lucky I was only made me feel ungrateful and stupid. They didn’t know what it felt like to be physically and mentally turned inside out and then turned back “right” again. They didn’t know that “right” would never really be right, that what was “normal” wasn’t anymore, and that the expectations of leading the same life again were far too high.
Once again, I didn’t know it was going to feel like this.
*****
The days leading up to my husband’s vasectomy were full of dread, and finality. I had always believed I would be a mother of a large flock of children. Every expectation I had of my life was turned upside down. And now, I thought, who am I going to be?
My doctor prescribed some medicine for me. An antidepressant. She said it was a normal course of action after a body goes through this kind of trauma. I took it with shame and embarrassment, but with appreciation for the relief it provided. As the days passed, I began to breath again.
*****
Searching to find out who you are is not an easy task. I was forced to reexamine every moment in my life that had led up to this point, hoping to find the meaning of it all. I had always said I believed everything happens for a reason, so what was this reason? The universe, it seemed, had a plan for me, yet had not felt the need to apprise me of the details.
In the following months the veil that had covered my life for so long lifted. Things became clear…crystal clear for the first time. Experiences I had pushed to the back of my mind for months, years and decades came to the forefront and I was capable enough to deal with them. My body followed suit and became healthier and stronger than it had ever been. My breath came freely, and each inhalation filled my being with health and vitality. Like a super hero, surviving a fall into a toxic lake, I had come back better than before.
I realized the way we were living was not who we wanted to be–all those years had been within the expectations and perceptions of others. For the first time, my husband and I began to live within our own parameters. We could see the direction of our future–at least to the horizon line–and were ready to take off to find out what was on the other side.
Just as we knew, all those years ago, that we were meant to be together, we knew we were supposed to move on, to experience life outside of the city of our past. We packed our bags and moved across the country.
*****
I truly believe, and always have, that we are all here for a reason. I believe each of us is here on earth to fulfill our purpose, and to reach our full potential. Today, I am, and the rest of my family is, happier than we have ever been. We appreciate the sunrise and the clean air and being together and watching the Colorado sun slowly fall behind the mountains from our front porch. We are our family, and we are great at it. We are living in our own-ness, and the world is open to endless possibilities that we would never have seen before.
Life is a journey that takes you on back roads and hair pin turns, deep into underground tunnels and over bridges high enough to see truth. I have learned to appreciate it all and have regrets for none of it. I wouldn’t want the universe to reveal the details of its’ plans to me. For now, I’m just enjoying the ride.
