So much of my life for the last eight months has focused on doing what I needed to do to get healthy and get pregnant. I started eating healthier. I stopped smoking. I took vitamins. I greatly reduced my alcohol intake. I exercised and lost weight. I got aggressive with maintaining my blood glucose levels, dropping my A1C from 8.5 to 6.1 and my fasting levels from 200+ to a steady 110. I did everything right.
My husband & I began trying to conceive as soon as the doctor gave us the all-clear in December. I really thought I’d be pregnant by January, because fertility has never been my problem. However, for the first time in my life, I was PLANNING on getting pregnant, consciously trying to conceive a child, and Fate seemed to be laughing at me and giving me the finger all at once. So many things were thrown at us in the first few months of trying – the little guy’s illness, having to move, and the little guy’s subsequent kidney diagnosis all conspired to make conception impossible.
Finally, we decided to stop deliberately trying. We knew I had to conceive by late March/early April in order for me to be able to fly in August, and if I wasn’t pregnant by then, we’d have to start taking precautions so I DIDN’T get pregnant until after our vacation in August. Lo & behold, in late April, I missed my period, and on May 1st, we announced to the world that we were expecting Baby #3.
Again, we did everything right. I am healthier than I have been in years. I went right to the doctor, and my 1st check up was awesome. On May 19th, I went for my first prenatal ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy and how far along I was. Everything was absolutely fine. Eleven days later, while out on an anniversary date with my husband, all hell broke loose.
I hadn’t been feeling well for a few days, feeling tired and achy, but chalked it up to 1st trimester pregnancy issues. Upon arrival at the restaurant, I got hit with excruciating abdominal pain in the lower right quadrant, vomiting and chills. I called my OB, who said to get my ass to nearest ER, fearing an ectopic pregnancy. My husband refused to take me to Jamaica or Brookdale, so we ended up at Beth Israel Kings Hwy. They gave me dilaudid and zofrain, which stabilized me, and performed two pelvic ultrasounds, and a renal ultrasound (fearing kidney stones). They found a cyst on my right ovary, which apparently was supposed to be there, but couldn’t figure out what was causing the pain. Feeling out of their depth, they transferred me all the way uptown, to Mount Sinai.
The doctors at Mount Sinai sent me for an MRI, fearing the pain was coming from acute appendicitis. (MRIs are safer than CAT scans for preggos). The MRI revealed that it wasn’t my appendix. It was my right ovary, which had twisted around the cysts (yes, plural), and that at least one cyst had become necrotic. At that point, it became a matter of when, not if, I’d need surgery.
They took me in for laproscopic surgery, to prevent the ovary from rupturing and to stop me from becoming septic. In the end, they had to remove the entire ovary and the cysts, as the ovary itself was in torsion and had become necrotic.
At first, everything was fine. A post-op ultrasound at the hospital revealed a strong fetal heartbeat. Three days later, at my follow-up OB appointment, again, we had a strong fetal heartbeat, and even my doctor felt that we were in the clear, that the baby was ok. Until about 7:00 that night, when I started spotting. And again at 2:30 am, when the blood flow was heavier. By 5:00 am, when I began to pass clots, even my husband, ever the optimist, had to admit something was wrong.
Frantic early morning phone calls to my doctor, and to both my biological sister, and my unbiological sister and her husband for one of them to come and stay with my little guy while I went to the hospital AGAIN. My UBS getting to my house in ten minutes, and holding me while I shook and cried on the toilet, blood just flowing out of me. My husband breaking every traffic law in Brooklyn to get me to the hospital, and having an attendant inquire, when we asked for a wheelchair, if my water had broken yet. The anger of my doctor at the hospital for giving me a run-around, and then LOSING me so he couldn’t find me. The pity and sympathy in his resident’s eyes when he informed me that I had had a complete miscarriage, but “no products of conception remained”, so I wouldn’t need a DNC. The utter anguish, that no words can truly express.
And all I could think was, “But why? I did everything right this time”.
Today was the first time in over a week I felt well enough to clean my house and make dinner. It was, for all intents and purposes, a NORMAL day. Only I don’t know what ‘normal’ is any more. How do I move on? How do I go back to what I was?
A lot of people would not tell me my baby died. I was only 9 weeks along, and the child would not have been viable outside the womb. But I heard her heartbeat. I talked to her and sang to her and rubbed my belly in the night, telling her how much she was loved and how much she was wanted. And I lost her. Regardless of what the future holds, if we have another child, she was always be missing from my life. I will mourn on what would have been her birthday in December, and I will always hold her close to my heart. I will not forget the nine precious weeks she lived inside me, and heard my heartbeat from the inside.