I keep hearing this: “The more specific you get, the more universal it becomes.” I don’t know who said it first, but I understand the sentiment.
I have been struggling with my value. Big time. My therapist asked me yesterday what value I see in other people besides motherhood. And I honestly had a difficult time answering. I don’t know what is valuable. I’m so clouded that I feel like I don’t know anything at all.
At this point, the only thing I have is my experience. I’m unsure if is valuable. Sometimes all of this feels like its for nothing. Pain just for the sake of pain. But it’s all I have. And so I hope that by being specific about my experience I am not being indulgent but in some way offering value. When I thought about it, I value hearing other people’s truths. Truth is valuable. Always.
And so this is some of my truth.
I went back to my OB/GYN for the first time yesterday after my ectopic pregnancy.
I pulled into the same parking lot, I walked up the same staircase, I sat in the same waiting room. The fragrance from the flowers blooming smelled exactly like they did last spring.
A little over a year ago, right as the pandemic was becoming a reality for us on the east coast, my husband and I entered the building together. “He can’t come in with you,” they said, and so he went back out to the car.
I sat in the waiting room, nervous. My first ultrasound. In the 4 years, I hadn’t made it this far. It was a new experience. It felt victorious. I would be about 7 weeks, I predicted. Here we go.
I listened intently to the sonographer as she gave me instructions. Get undressed, urinate, put on the gown. I folded my clothes and placed my underwear between my yoga pants and sweatshirt. I put my socks inside my sneakers and tucked those neatly beneath the chair. I laid down and soon felt the cold jelly on my stomach.
I waited patiently as I heard her capturing pictures. Click. Click. She was silent. I anticipated the moment when she would turn the screen towards me and show me a blob that would eventually become my baby.
She never did.
Minutes went by and I built up the courage to ask, “is everything ok?”She took a breath and I could tell it wasn’t. “Well, I’m not seeing anything,” she said but assured me that I would talk with the doctor. Tears started streaming down my face almost immediately. Of course this is where it ends. Of course there is something wrong. Why would I have ever believed otherwise. I’m so stupid!
The sonographer continued to ask me questions, trying to acknowledge my reaction while also trying to make sense of it herself. “And when was your last period?” she asked. Click. Click.
I laid there as she finished her job, disconnecting from my body entirely. This was no longer an experience for my baby and I. This was now my body being medicalized. I was no longer a pregnant woman; I was a broken body that needed further investigation—a problem in need of a solution.
The sonographer was sympatheic to the fact that I was all alone, enduring the “new normal.” “It’s never easy, but I am sorry you don’t have your husband with you.”
“It’s ok,” I replied not because it was ok but because there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not about the pandemic and not about my stupid fucking infertile body that can’t seem to do anything right. It just is what it is.
I was told to come back a week later. It could just be too early, I was told. Although, that seemed to be a generous offering of hope to get me through one week of obsessively worrying. I knew that this wasn’t a good sign.
I waked back out to my husband, waiting in the car expecting me to be holding a sonogram. Instead, I entered the car and sobbed. Empty handed. Empty, entirely.
In that week I prayed fiercely. I talked to my belly. I asked for guidance and strength.
When I went back a week later it was determined that my Hcg stopped doubling but was continuing to rise, the second ultrasound still wasn’t showing anything, and I was ultimately given the diagnosis of an ectopic pregnancy of unknown location.
I didn’t have tears left. I was numb. I listened to the doctor explain my options. There weren’t any good ones. It wasn’t like choosing between a red popsicle or a blue one. Ultimately, you don’t get a popsicle. But no one can tell you what to do. There is a strong insinuation…but ultimately, I had to put my big girl pants on.
They offered me a few minutes to call my husband. I opted not to. I had to think rationally, not emotionally. I knew the decision I needed to make and I feared that once I spoke with my husband I would confuse myself.
I was alone, yet pregnant. Just not the right type of pregnant. Not the type of pregnant that gives you a child.
They sent me straight to the hospital. They made me put on gloves and a surgical mask before leaving their office. I remember thinking at the time that it was ridiculous. Why couldn’t I just wear the mask I walked in with and couldn’t they just give me the pair of gloves to put on before I walked into the hospital? “No, its our policy,” they explained. “If your’re going to the hospital you have to leave our office wearing gloves.” So I did. I drove the mile to from the doctor’s office to the hospital wearing a mask and gloves like an idiot. Like a sad, scared, idiot.
When you’re “treated” for an ectopic pregnancy early, it means you are given methotrexate, a chemotherapy drug. So when I arrived at the hospital I was sent to the radiation department. I was there for a couple of hours. It was understandable. It was the beginning of a global pandemic.
I sat in the waiting room alone, still wearing the gloves that were now ripped from getting snagged on the zipper of my wallet when I was fumbling to give my ID and insurance card to the woman at the front desk. I sat alone, yet pregnant. I surrendered. I couldn’t make sense of what was happening but I knew I’d have to endure it. This was reality. The pregnancy wasn’t viable. The pregnancy was going to be terminated.
When my name was called I was brought back and taken to a semi-private room to wait. There was a curtain that separated me from other patients. The nurse apologized several times as I watched her care for other patients who were wearing scarves on their heads. “I’m sorry, it’s lunch time so I’m all alone right now. But I’ll be with you shortly! Do you need water or juice or anything?”
“I’m good, take your time,” I remember telling her. I didn’t know how to communicate that I wasn’t necessarily in a rush to terminate my pregnancy. I’d be still and present and try to embrace the last moments I had being alone, yet pregnant.
Being surrounded by people who were fighting for their life gave levity to my experience. “This will not kill you. You will get through this. There is still life to live” I remember thinking.
Today I went back, after delaying my annual visit, and it brought all these emotions to the surface. I was anxiety ridden. I still question my decision. It was one of the hardest I’d ever have to make. Even writing these words about the experience, I am struck with shame.
But the facts were this: the information I was given made it clear that the pregnancy was not viable. I could have “waited” but that felt like a selfish decision given the state of the world and the overburdened hospital system at the time. Ectopic pregnancies, if left untreated, can result in life threatening circumstances that could result in need for immediate surgery. I felt, at that time, making the decision to wait was selfish and emotional. My rational brain knew what the facts were. But ultimately that decision is mine to live with. It’s a tug-of-war I put myself through. I have to believe that it was the bravest decision I could have made, and it was certainly the hardest.
There is no point to me writing this other than to acknowledge that we endure. We endure things that we can’t imagine. But there is still life to live.
