/ The RE's Muse: A critical scene from my day

The RE's Muse

After 4 years of infertility, 2 surgeries, 1 miscarriage, and 19 months of high risk pregnancies, hubby and I now have two little women in our lives--one a toddler, the other not far behind. Buckle your seatbelts, it's gonna be a wild ride.

Thursday, August 26, 2004

A critical scene from my day

(Note: long, depressing post follows. Please consider yourself appropriately warned.)

We got to the office this morning, all smiles and laughter. Telling private jokes in the waiting room until it was our turn to be called in.

In we went. I peed in a cup, got weighed, answered questions about my symptoms (sore boobs, peeing a lot, no real cramping, etc.) and eventually undressed from the waist down. A few minutes later, in came Dr. Blood (I call him this for the fact that at one of my first visits, all of the bloodwork he ordered equaled up to 17 vials--10 big, 7 mid-sized). I hadn't seen him personally since my post-op appointment back in early June. My husband hadn't seen him since immediately after my laparoscopy in May. He seemed pleased to see us, shook hands with my husband and then with me and asked me to scoot to the end of the table, feet in the stirrups.

Down I went. In went the wand. He turned the ultrasound screen slightly toward me so I could see it and said: Here's your uterus.

Then he asked me if I was sure about the date of my period. Um, yeah, pretty sure, I said (as a cycling infertile, you know this date without a doubt but something in his tone made me question myself). Mild panic starts to set in. Brain cannot fathom what I think may be coming next.

He moved the probe around for a few minutes and didn't say anything. And then the wave broke, crashed to shore, and I was caught in its rip current.

He said: By now we should see the fetal pole but if you look here, there's just the sac. When it forms, it should have two parts, one becomes the sac itself and the other, internally, becomes the embryo. That hasn't happened.

I couldn't breathe, couldn't comprehend. After what seemed like forever later, he took out the wand.

And said: We have two options. We can wait and you will have a miscarriage naturally in time or we can do a surgical procedure, send the tissue to the lab, check it for genetic anomalies.

I said: Would I be under general anesthesia?

He said: No, but you wouldn't be aware of what was going on. I don't believe in having to put someone through that if I don't have to. We'll give you something so you won't remember a thing. We can do it tomorrow.

And then I couldn't speak. All I could do was cover my eyes and cry softly. Thinking how happy I was only moments ago, how much I wanted this baby, how much I wanted to give my husband this gift. And so my husband held me (well, more like leaned down over me to hold me since I was still flat on the table in the usual position) as only he can.

The doctor said: Know that you didn't do anything to cause this. It happens. It's nature's way. This doesn't mean it'll happen again. It's common and once we send the tissue for testing, we'll know if it has anything to do with genetics or age. Or it may be nothing at all. But it doesn't necessarily mean it's going to happen again. I've had many patients this has happened to and they've gone on to have successful pregnancies.

My crying intensified. He told me I could move up off the edge of the table. My husband helped me sit up and I buried myself in his shoulder, sobbed uncontrollably--so hard I had trouble breathing, started to hyperventilate. Dr. Blood had not yet left the room, and he came over to me and hugged me, rubbed my arm, said he was so sorry, and brought me some tissue. The u/s nurse then did the same (and--thankfully-- gave me more tissue to boot). And then he said: I'll give you two some privacy, and left the room.

My crying really kicked it up then. Great big honking noises alternated with squeaks. The kind of crying you do when you're a kid -- great big sobbing hiccups. I must have been broadcasting my pain clear into the hallway because Dr. Blood came back in the room and hugged me again, again said how sorry he was, gave me more tissues.

And through it all, my husband talked me down from the ledge. Wiped my smeared eye makeup from my face. Told me it wasn't my fault, to look at the bright side, we got this far--we didn't even know we could get this far and we did, and once the tests come back, we'll know what else we're dealing with, we'll know where this journey will take us next. He told me not to feel like I'd let him down because I hadn't. But I did feel this way and I still do.

Dr. Blood's nurse came in, said how sorry she was, and gave me the pre-operative consent forms to review and sign, asked if I had any questions. Told me someone from the hospital would call me today to tell me what time to go in tomorrow, and so on.

I eventually started breathing again, stopped the giant hiccup cries. When it was time to check out at the desk, I couldn't keep my composure and the tears began again. These people had been so happy for me only moments ago; I'd been so happy for me.

The receptionist came around the desk and hugged me, held me, told me how sorry she was. Told me not to worry about the copay for now, to just leave and we'd deal with it at my next visit.

And so we left. Got in the elevator only after making sure no one else was in it. I went back to work, e-mailed my boss all the news since I'd need tomorrow off (and I knew I wouldn't be able to tell her in person without breaking down). She came over to my desk, told me how sorry she was, hugged me, told me go ahead and go home if I wanted, she would help me with whatever she could.

I managed to stay for an hour and a half but couldn't stop crying...still can't. I'm at home now, just trying to stop the pain. But it's not working and now I've got a horrendous headache from crying so much to add to it--oh well, on the bright side, at least now I can take some advil.

The hospital called me a little while ago to tell me when I had to be there (10:30 a.m.). The person who called said she was sorry she had to call me about this, asked me some customary questions about any allergies and medical conditions and, before we hung up, she said to me: There will be people who may say things to you to try and help you but sometimes they hurt. Know that they mean well. Take care of yourself; your body still thinks it's pregnant, the hormones are still there. Allow yourself to grieve.

And that, my friends, is what I am trying to do. My body still thinks it's pregnant, meaning that it's not, I am not. Today, a door closed. I hope I have the strength to open the next one that comes along because, right now, I don't think I do.

22 Comments:

At 1:25 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'm so sorry. Know that I am thinking about you, and I hope you find the strenght to go on. Much love.

Kris
~brokenornot~

 
At 1:26 PM, Blogger amanda said...

Oh, Dee. I'm so sorry. I'll be keeping you and your husband in my thoughts.

 
At 1:56 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Oh, I am so sorry. I have lived this scenario three times, and they are three of the worst moments in my life.

Cry and cry and cry, because it's a huge loss. I am hoping that the next pregnancy will be a healthy one that can start to heal the pain.

patricia
http://laf.typepad.com/

 
At 4:37 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Dee - If it has been said once in this community, its been said more times than any of us would like. I am so achingly, devastatingly sorry. Please know my thoughts are with you.

Mandy -infertilityisfunny.blog-city.com

 
At 4:39 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Oh no Dee. I am so sorry. I am crying for you. I am so sorry.
Menita
(lifesjestbook)

 
At 4:41 PM, Blogger Lexi said...

I am so sorry. I know exactly how you feel. I, too, went in for an u/s thinking I was going to come out with good news and was devastated. I remember being taken aback at the strength my sadness had. Thank goodness for good men.

My heart goes out to you.

 
At 4:56 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I am so sorry...What a terrible terrible thing to deal with..I cannot imagine.... Just hold on tight to that husband of yours...

alex (the infertile gourmet

 
At 5:34 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'm so sorry.

~Brooklyn Girl

 
At 5:45 PM, Blogger Wavery said...

Hate the hiccup crying, hate the crying so hard it induces a headache. But really really hate the heartache.
I am so sorry.

 
At 5:46 PM, Blogger Barren Mare said...

I really am so sorry.

 
At 8:20 PM, Blogger Toni said...

I am so sorry....I will keep you in my prayers...

 
At 10:02 PM, Blogger Dawn said...

It is just so sad. I am truly sorry for your loss and for your pain. I wish so much that we could make it better, somehow. I am thinking of you..

 
At 11:34 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I am so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.

Nina

 
At 3:16 AM, Blogger Sanorah said...

Thinking of you... I'm so sorry.

~Sanorah

 
At 10:08 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'm so sorry for your loss :(

~Karen

 
At 2:09 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'm really, really sorry.

Karen/Naked ovary

 
At 4:08 PM, Blogger GiBee said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

 
At 11:02 AM, Blogger getupgrrl said...

I'm so sorry, my friend. Truly.

 
At 2:31 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I am so heartbreakingly sorry for your loss and pain...so utterly, utterly sorry.

Emily
http://scrambledeggs.blogs.com/scrambled_eggs/

 
At 3:46 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

So,so sorry.

Not to be clinical at this tender moment, but it is really good that you had the genetic testing. For me, it provided answers that eventually brought me some peace.

Marla
The Middle Way

 
At 11:22 AM, Blogger Anna said...

another person who is so very, very sorry.

 
At 5:13 PM, Blogger Soper said...

Oh, Dee, I get busy for a couple of days and then I decide to pop over and check on you and I see THIS. Oh, sweet girl. I am soooo sorry. There are not enough words....

 

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