On our third date I took Richie to meet my "kids." In most cases this would be the death knell of a relationship. I might as well have said, "I want to have your babies." Thankfully, Richie seemed unfazed.
I had been volunteering at a Head Start center for over a year. My class consisted of ten 3-year-olds. The children had become a part of my life, and I loved watching them grow. It was just before Christmas so we went and bought presents for the kids.
On the ride over I talked a little about each child, telling funny anecdotes and sharing my favorite moments. I had a huge smile on my face as we walked in the building. The class had just gotten back from snack and knew that it was time for me to arrive. "I brought a special visitor today. This is my friend Richard, and he wanted to meet you," I told them.
My heart warmed as I watched Richie kneel down to talk to the kids. Within minutes he had them laughing. A little boy named Malcolm took one look at Richie and exclaimed, "Wow! You're really tall. Are you a basketball player?" Richie smiled and said, "I play for fun." Malcolm loved sports, and the rest of the morning he stuck to Richie like glue. We read stories to the class and put puzzles together.
As we gathered the class to pass out presents, Malcolm sat in Richie's lap. Everyone was excited, but no one was quite as excited as Malcolm. He finally received his gift and opened it quickly. "It's a basketball!"
It had been awhile since the scheduled bathroom break before snack, and Malcolm's excitement got the better of him. Can you guess what happened? Yep, he peed all over the floor and on Richie's leg.
There were several reactions I expected, but what actually took place surprised me. Malcolm started to cry. Richie looked shocked for a moment but said, "It's okay, buddy. Accidents happen." At that moment I knew that this was the man for me. He kept calm and was able to provide comfort to an upset child.
Over the years I have seen my husband interact with many children. My mom once told me, "Kids and animals love him. They can sense that he is kind." He builds card towers with our niece and nephew, hums to our oldest goddaughter until she falls asleep, and laughs when our youngest goddaughter spits up all over him. He is a man that was created to be a father, and I am lucky enough to call him my husband and best friend. I long for the day when he can rush home from work to the open arms of our beautiful child.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Slim Chance of Survival
I cannot explain why, but this has been the hardest entry to write. Maybe because it feels like it happened to someone else, or possibly because it significantly reduced our ability to hope. It could be because I was incapacitated for the majority of the event, or maybe because I cannot comprehend how dire the situation became towards the end. I think, more than anything else, it is difficult because I will never forget the emotions I saw in my husband's face that day.
Judging by the blood work, the Methotrexate shots were working. My numbers doubled again but then dropped by 25 percent. This is exactly what should happen. My body does not really conform to "normal" functioning, so I guess we should have expected the unexpected.
The two weeks following the shots were torturous. I was a wreak emotionally, oscillating between rage and despair. The injections induced nausea, dizziness, and extreme fatigue. My bones ached, and my hair fell out in clumps. I still had pregnancy symptoms.
One morning, I got up to get ready for work. In addition to teaching, I have a part-time job that becomes more consistent during the summer. This was my first day back after being out for so long. I got dressed, but I felt kind of off. I attributed it to the stress of trying to get back into the swing of things. When I walked downstairs, I became so dizzy I had to sit down. Richie tried to take me outside for some fresh air, but I sank to the ground at the front door. My legs felt like lead but were too weak to hold me up. With Richie's help I got back to the couch. I said, "Something's wrong. This is bad."
We talked to the on-call nurse who told us to go to the hospital immediately. After intake, we waited in an exam room. We did more ultrasounds, and lots of blood was taken. They checked my vital signs, but I cannot remember specific details. It was all a blur. I do remember the doctor coming in and giving the diagnosis. "You have an ectopic pregnancy in your right Fallopian tube. There is free-floating fluid in your abdomen, and you are hemorrhaging. We need to take you in to surgery."
There were more doctors. So many that I joked, "It's a party in here." Everyone kept saying I was handling the situation well, but I was in shock. Richie and I resigned ourselves to what had to be done. My parents came, we talked to some family and close friends, and I was prepped for emergency surgery. My R.E. showed up and said he would go in and remove the mass, and the procedure should take about 25 minutes.
I obviously do not remember the surgery, but I recall being wheeled into the operating room and noticing they were playing a Katy Perry song. This made me laugh, but it could have been the drugs. Then, I was out. I woke up two hours later, and Richie was holding my hand. "Is it really almost 10:00? What happened?" I asked.
Words cannot describe the look on my husband's face. In all of the years I have know him this was the only time I have ever seen him look scared. "It was bad, Sarah. You were in surgery for almost 2 hours." The R.E. came in then and told me that my right tube had to be removed because the mass was so big. There was a lot of blood in my abdomen, and things had been much worse than they originally thought. If we had waited an hour, I probably would have died.
How could things have become so serious without any warning? Ectopic pregnancy is the leading cause of maternal mortality in the first trimester. An ectopic pregnancy causes excruciating pain, and I had noticed only slight cramping. It came as quite a shock to realize that fetal tissue had continued to grow for eight weeks. I was, technically, eight weeks pregnant.
They say time heals all wounds, and some days are better than others. It is hard to believe that the empty space inside me will ever feel full. I give thanks every day that I survived, and I believe that I am still needed to complete life's plan for me. Although we have lost much, we have gained more.
Judging by the blood work, the Methotrexate shots were working. My numbers doubled again but then dropped by 25 percent. This is exactly what should happen. My body does not really conform to "normal" functioning, so I guess we should have expected the unexpected.
The two weeks following the shots were torturous. I was a wreak emotionally, oscillating between rage and despair. The injections induced nausea, dizziness, and extreme fatigue. My bones ached, and my hair fell out in clumps. I still had pregnancy symptoms.
One morning, I got up to get ready for work. In addition to teaching, I have a part-time job that becomes more consistent during the summer. This was my first day back after being out for so long. I got dressed, but I felt kind of off. I attributed it to the stress of trying to get back into the swing of things. When I walked downstairs, I became so dizzy I had to sit down. Richie tried to take me outside for some fresh air, but I sank to the ground at the front door. My legs felt like lead but were too weak to hold me up. With Richie's help I got back to the couch. I said, "Something's wrong. This is bad."
We talked to the on-call nurse who told us to go to the hospital immediately. After intake, we waited in an exam room. We did more ultrasounds, and lots of blood was taken. They checked my vital signs, but I cannot remember specific details. It was all a blur. I do remember the doctor coming in and giving the diagnosis. "You have an ectopic pregnancy in your right Fallopian tube. There is free-floating fluid in your abdomen, and you are hemorrhaging. We need to take you in to surgery."
There were more doctors. So many that I joked, "It's a party in here." Everyone kept saying I was handling the situation well, but I was in shock. Richie and I resigned ourselves to what had to be done. My parents came, we talked to some family and close friends, and I was prepped for emergency surgery. My R.E. showed up and said he would go in and remove the mass, and the procedure should take about 25 minutes.
I obviously do not remember the surgery, but I recall being wheeled into the operating room and noticing they were playing a Katy Perry song. This made me laugh, but it could have been the drugs. Then, I was out. I woke up two hours later, and Richie was holding my hand. "Is it really almost 10:00? What happened?" I asked.
Words cannot describe the look on my husband's face. In all of the years I have know him this was the only time I have ever seen him look scared. "It was bad, Sarah. You were in surgery for almost 2 hours." The R.E. came in then and told me that my right tube had to be removed because the mass was so big. There was a lot of blood in my abdomen, and things had been much worse than they originally thought. If we had waited an hour, I probably would have died.
How could things have become so serious without any warning? Ectopic pregnancy is the leading cause of maternal mortality in the first trimester. An ectopic pregnancy causes excruciating pain, and I had noticed only slight cramping. It came as quite a shock to realize that fetal tissue had continued to grow for eight weeks. I was, technically, eight weeks pregnant.
They say time heals all wounds, and some days are better than others. It is hard to believe that the empty space inside me will ever feel full. I give thanks every day that I survived, and I believe that I am still needed to complete life's plan for me. Although we have lost much, we have gained more.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Shots
Seconds turn in to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days but we move through a haze of loss. All I want to do is sleep. I move from the bed to the couch, and that takes all my energy. Richie goes to work and takes care of everything around the house. I honestly do not know what I would do without him.
I force myself to get up and go to the doctor for more blood work. My Beta count drops to 55, but two days later it is up to 95. Two days after that it climbs to 200. Finally, my HCG is doubling as it should. It makes no sense, but we begin to allow ourselves to hope.
Driving home from the doctor's office, I receive a phone call from our nurse that knocks the wind out of me. Everything she says is matter-of-fact, but I can hear the concern in her voice. "Sarah, you need to go to the hospital. I am emailing you the paperwork to take with you. We are not sure why your HCG is climbing and have concerns about what this could mean." I make it to my mom's house before I break down. She calls Richie who rushes home from work.
"You have a pregnancy of unknown location. There is fetal tissue growing, but we cannot see it," the ultrasound technician says after a thorough examination. Our reply is a textbook example of the denial phase: "Wouldn't it be too small to see at this point? If there's tissue growing, then a baby could be there." We are told that, at 6 weeks, there should be a visible fetal sac. With development occurring outside the uterus and erratic HCG counts, it is obvious that this is not a viable pregnancy.
Over the next few hours there are examinations by more doctors and nurses, phone calls back and forth between the hospital and our reproductive endocrinologist, and decisions about our situation that do not seem to include us. Finally, a doctor comes in and says, "Your R.E. and I have agreed on a course of action. We think it best to give you two injections of Methotrexate to break down the tissue that is continuing to grow. This is a chemotherapy drug that helps rid the body of unwanted cells."
Unwanted? We want these cells more than anything. We just need them to continue growing in a different place. What if there is still a baby there and the shot destroys it? The doctor allows me to cry and shout and then tells us, "You can wait and hope that things will change, but I know that the outcome will be the same. You will eventually need the shots. The situation will become more dangerous the longer you put this off."
With a compounded sense of loss, I get the injections. This hurts more, physically and emotionally, than the presumed miscarriage. We are told to follow up with the doctor for more blood work. I feel sick and worn out as we walk out of the hospital, thinking that the worst is now behind us.
"You have a pregnancy of unknown location. There is fetal tissue growing, but we cannot see it," the ultrasound technician says after a thorough examination. Our reply is a textbook example of the denial phase: "Wouldn't it be too small to see at this point? If there's tissue growing, then a baby could be there." We are told that, at 6 weeks, there should be a visible fetal sac. With development occurring outside the uterus and erratic HCG counts, it is obvious that this is not a viable pregnancy.
Over the next few hours there are examinations by more doctors and nurses, phone calls back and forth between the hospital and our reproductive endocrinologist, and decisions about our situation that do not seem to include us. Finally, a doctor comes in and says, "Your R.E. and I have agreed on a course of action. We think it best to give you two injections of Methotrexate to break down the tissue that is continuing to grow. This is a chemotherapy drug that helps rid the body of unwanted cells."
Unwanted? We want these cells more than anything. We just need them to continue growing in a different place. What if there is still a baby there and the shot destroys it? The doctor allows me to cry and shout and then tells us, "You can wait and hope that things will change, but I know that the outcome will be the same. You will eventually need the shots. The situation will become more dangerous the longer you put this off."
With a compounded sense of loss, I get the injections. This hurts more, physically and emotionally, than the presumed miscarriage. We are told to follow up with the doctor for more blood work. I feel sick and worn out as we walk out of the hospital, thinking that the worst is now behind us.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
An Emotional Roller Coaster
We are standing at the end of the island. The sun is hot, the spray from the ocean cools our skin. The waves crash against the rocks and pull the shore out to sea, one grain of sand at a time. Driftwood, shells, and rocks have been beached over the years. Most people would be contemplating the wonders of the universe and the beauty of the world. I feel the sun and hear the waves, but inside I am experiencing a hurricane. Emotions are roiling around inside me, and the last several months are replaying like a movie montage in my mind. It is an emotional roller coaster.
On June 1, we found out we were pregnant. You hear the saying, "I just knew I was pregnant." Well, I knew but it did not seem possible. In October 2011, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. Basically, my body does not ovulate. Without ovulation you cannot get pregnant. My Reproductive Endocrinologist said I had the most cystic ovaries he had ever seen. I opted to have ovarian drilling surgery with the hope of getting rid of the cysts and balancing my hormones. The surgery took place in February 2012. It was pretty awful, but I recovered fairly quickly. My body began to regulate itself.
Less than three months after surgery, on Cycle Day 59, I ovulated for the first time in my life. Considering "normal" ovulation occurs around Cycle Day 14, we had decided the surgery had not worked. Somehow, the fates aligned and 13 days later I knew.
I woke up June 1, nauseated and tired. Ten minutes later I was headed to the store to buy a test. Standing in our bathroom, my heart was pounding as I watched the first line and then a second appear. The second line was so faint, I almost convinced myself I was imagining it. In need of a second opinion, I took a picture and sent a text to Richie. "Do you see 2 lines?" is not the way to tell your spouse you think you might be pregnant.
Two days and five tests later, it started to sink in. A blood test came back positive with a Beta HCG count of 62, which was great. I cried, Richie kissed my belly, and we celebrated the impossible. We told our immediate family and I remember thinking, "It doesn't get better than this. This is the best day of my life."
The next day I could not dodge this bad feeling, a premonition of sorts. That afternoon I went to the bathroom and there was blood, not a lot but enough to make my heart stop. I prayed aloud, "Oh, no. God, please. No." I called my nurse who tried to reassure me with, "Spotting is normal in early pregnancy."
My follow-up blood test the next day should have been over 125, but it was only 78. "It could be a blip," my nurse said. "We will check again in 2 days and have a better idea of what's going on." We did not make it 2 days. That night there was more blood. This time it was bright red and heavy. The on-call nurse told us, "We worried this might happen. With numbers like yours we classify it as a 'suspected' miscarriage."
My ears started ringing, and I could not get air into my lungs. Richie held me, and we both cried. The grief was palpable, and it felt like our world was caving in. "We were pregnant for 6 days," I said. The night passed, the sky brightened, and I eventually fell asleep while tears streamed down my face. It is hard to believe that this was just the beginning of our loss.
On June 1, we found out we were pregnant. You hear the saying, "I just knew I was pregnant." Well, I knew but it did not seem possible. In October 2011, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. Basically, my body does not ovulate. Without ovulation you cannot get pregnant. My Reproductive Endocrinologist said I had the most cystic ovaries he had ever seen. I opted to have ovarian drilling surgery with the hope of getting rid of the cysts and balancing my hormones. The surgery took place in February 2012. It was pretty awful, but I recovered fairly quickly. My body began to regulate itself.
Less than three months after surgery, on Cycle Day 59, I ovulated for the first time in my life. Considering "normal" ovulation occurs around Cycle Day 14, we had decided the surgery had not worked. Somehow, the fates aligned and 13 days later I knew.
I woke up June 1, nauseated and tired. Ten minutes later I was headed to the store to buy a test. Standing in our bathroom, my heart was pounding as I watched the first line and then a second appear. The second line was so faint, I almost convinced myself I was imagining it. In need of a second opinion, I took a picture and sent a text to Richie. "Do you see 2 lines?" is not the way to tell your spouse you think you might be pregnant.
Two days and five tests later, it started to sink in. A blood test came back positive with a Beta HCG count of 62, which was great. I cried, Richie kissed my belly, and we celebrated the impossible. We told our immediate family and I remember thinking, "It doesn't get better than this. This is the best day of my life."
The next day I could not dodge this bad feeling, a premonition of sorts. That afternoon I went to the bathroom and there was blood, not a lot but enough to make my heart stop. I prayed aloud, "Oh, no. God, please. No." I called my nurse who tried to reassure me with, "Spotting is normal in early pregnancy."
My follow-up blood test the next day should have been over 125, but it was only 78. "It could be a blip," my nurse said. "We will check again in 2 days and have a better idea of what's going on." We did not make it 2 days. That night there was more blood. This time it was bright red and heavy. The on-call nurse told us, "We worried this might happen. With numbers like yours we classify it as a 'suspected' miscarriage."
My ears started ringing, and I could not get air into my lungs. Richie held me, and we both cried. The grief was palpable, and it felt like our world was caving in. "We were pregnant for 6 days," I said. The night passed, the sky brightened, and I eventually fell asleep while tears streamed down my face. It is hard to believe that this was just the beginning of our loss.
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