My husband and I have been trying to have a baby. After a year of trying, it became apparent that something was wrong. We went to a fertility specialist in Winston-Salem for help. They ran some tests, and they put me on Clomid to help with ovulation, along with a couple of other drugs to help control my abnormal hormone levels. After three months, they determined the Clomid was not working and switched me to Femara.
We had a lot going on at this time. We were very hopeful about the treatments, so we were getting ready to move into a bigger house (my husband has an eight-year-old daughter named Amelie, who was six at the time). A few days before the move, I was having intense hot flashes. I was so scared; I had no idea what was happening. My husband, Josh, could feel the heat radiating off of my body. It eventually passed, and I put it out of my head.
That weekend, we moved into our new house. That Monday, I realized my period was late. I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. We were having a baby!
We let the doctor know, and they had us come in just to confirm. They verified everything for us, and we began to get very excited. I had very bad morning sickness, and I worked in a call center. I had to tell my boss, because I kept getting up to go puke. After that, people at work started to figure it out, and I am a horrible liar.
Since people at work knew, we thought it best to go ahead and tell our families before they found out secondhand. After that, things began to spiral out of control. One person told many people, and we had to make the official announcement a little before we were ready. Everything was going so well that we weren't even concerned.
Due to my personal medical history, they were monitoring the pregnancy very closely. The first two ultrasounds were great. The baby was growing, seemed strong, everything looked perfect. At the third ultrasound, the technician who performed it seemed a little concerned and showed it to a doctor on duty. The doctor wanted me to come back in a week for another scan. Obviously, we were nervous. At the next scan, the technician just said, "I am so sorry," and got the doctor to come in. The doctor told us that the baby had stopped growing, and though there was a faint heartbeat, there was really no hope of the baby living. I would miscarry. I had the option of doing a D&C or letting it happen naturally. She recommended letting it happen naturally, but she said it was ultimately our decision.
We were understandably devastated. Josh called my boss for me and told her what was going on and that I wouldn't be at work that day. We were both still (foolishly, some might say) holding on to hope, but we were trying to prepare ourselves for the reality, too.
What followed were the longest two weeks of my life. The weekend before New Year's, we had to drive up to West Virginia for a family function, and I had a horrible feeling that I shouldn't go. Against my better instincts, I did. On the drive up, I was cramping kind of bad, but the next day was uneventful. Then, as we were eating lunch with the family at a restaurant before we went home, I felt something. I knew instantly what it was. With as much self-control as I could muster, I excused myself from the table and went to the restroom.
Oh, God, it was so bad.
There was so much blood. There were other people in the restroom. All I wanted to do was scream and sob, but I am so reserved emotionally that I couldn't do it with other people in there. I kept trying to clean up, but it kept getting worse. I texted Josh to tell him. I told him we had to go. I did the best I could to get clean, and I rushed to the car. Josh and Amelie were there shortly after, and we hit the road. Our first stop was the pharmacy to get pads for (fruitless) damage control.
I don't remember what the train of thought was, but we decided to drive Amelie back to her mom's in Winston-Salem. In retrospect, the hospital in Princeton, where we were, was probably the correct decision. But it wouldn't have changed the outcome. We, of course, got stuck in traffic. Though we had made that drive countless times, we somehow took a wrong turn that added an additional 30 minutes to our drive.
Amelie's mom and my sister coincidentally live in the same apartment building, so while Josh took Amelie to her mom, I ran over to my sister's to use her bathroom. At this point, my clothes were completely soaked through with blood. I couldn't stop crying. My sister gave me some clothes to wear, and Josh took me to the hospital.
They instantly took me back and confirmed what we already knew. I'd lost so much blood that I was anemic for weeks, and when they tried to release me, I went into what I much later found out was hypovolemic shock. They gave me fluids and sent me home.
Every day since has been a battle. It's been more than a year now, and I still feel like I'm walking around in a daze. Sometimes it still feels so fresh that I burst into tears. I don't think I will ever get over it.
They ran all kinds of tests on me over the following months. They could find no medical reason for what happened.
In July, Josh and I moved to Wilmington and decided to start fertility treatments again. My doctor was unable to find a fertility specialist in the area. The closest he was aware of was in Raleigh. Discouraged, we put it on the back burner.
In October, Josh (probably tired of being woken from a sound slumber by my crying) suggested we go to a grief counselor. We found a really nice lady who specializes in miscarriage counseling, and she was able to hook us up with a fertility specialist in Wilmington. We've been seeing him, he's got me on Femara again, and hope has returned to our lives, though I'm still struggling with overwhelming grief over the loss of our baby.
But anyway, this is our story. My intention is to write about our experience going forward as it happens. Let's hope for the best.
No comments:
Post a Comment