Warning: this entry is largely cathartic, so if it's TMI for you, don't read it.
2009 cemented December 28th as my least favorite day of all time. But it started in 1998. I was 19 years old, pregnant for the first time--21 weeks, over half-way to the finish line. I was about two weeks from my scheduled ultrasound (on student insurance, there was only one--so we'd put it off a little to have a better chance of finding out the gender). Christmas Eve I noticed some spotting, but the on-call doctor didn't seem concerned and simply told me to keep off my feet as much as possible. So I laid on the couch through Christmas, opening all my presents: a rocking chair to nurse in, an infant swing so I could take 1/2 hour breaks to do my homework, and baby blankets. Christmas added in a little bit of pain, but again, the on-call doctor that day simply told me to lay down on my left side and call the office on Monday. The day after Christmas brought more of the same. My first anniversary, we stayed home from church as I laid in bed--very well into labor, as the doctors I called daily should have recognized, and I would have known if I'd ever experienced it before, or if I'd been far enough along to even consider that as enough of a possibility to research the signs yet. Monday morning (December 28th) came in a blinding red haze of pain, that I managed to speak through as I called the doctor's office and attempted to set up an appointment as I'd been told the previous 4 days. The doctor, it seemed, was in the hospital that morning, and couldn't see me until the afternoon. Terry tried to give me a blessing, but was interrupted when an urgent pain sent me running to the bathroom, where I passed the remains of my baby (still inside his sack) and the placenta all together. Terry gathered the remains in an old clean mayonnaise jar to take with us to the hospital, I ruined my favorite fuzzy slippers in the snow and slush, as we went to the hospital--where I should have gone in any of the four previous days had any of the FOUR doctors I contacted not been so concerned with preserving his/her own holiday weekend. Once in the hospital, I figured at least the doctor was there (the reason I couldn't get an office appointment that morning), and it shouldn't take too long to see her. But, no, instead I was left waiting for hours in a rather open room in the ER, where hospital staff left the jar with the bloody remains of my baby out on the counter for me to stare at (I have never saved a jar again--for any reason, and threw out a dumpster full of old Mason jars that had been left in the basement as soon as we moved into our IN house). Finally, the doctor came (past the time of my scheduled office appointment), poked and prodded me, commented that I "should really be in more pain than this", and commented she thought the problem may have been incompetent cervix because of the "painless delivery"--at which point, I really rather felt like ripping off her head. Then I was sent off to radiology to check if everything had passed all right, with a catheter inserted and put in reverse--to fill my bladder for the ultrasound. Another scary and very strange first time event. At my follow-up visit, I learned that the baby was a boy, developed to 18-19 weeks, and was told that pathology wasn't able to discover much more because the body decomposed quickly in the open air after it passed (a problem that really needn't have happened if any of 5 separate doctors had been competent enough to recognize there was a problem over any of those 5 horrible days, or if the hospital staff had taken care to seal the remains properly instead if sitting it out in the air for hours until the doctor finally deigned to appear. Needless to say, I have nothing at all good to say about that particular set of doctors, and once they sucked all the money out of my small savings account, I had nothing more to do with them or that hospital--ever. In the meantime, Christmas is always a hard time for me, and while I managed to kick the depression enough to be able to sing again a year and a half later, when I finally had Marty, it's still--11 years later--a toss-up on whether I'll make it through singing about the joyous birth of a baby boy at the time that I lost my first and only baby boy (that I'm aware of).
Fast forward now to 2009. Skipping over the happy births of my 3 practically perfect princesses, and the many, many losses scattered through the years, we come to my final, surprise pregnancy. The one I had hoped would be lucky number 13. Three ultrasounds showed me the tiny heartbeat, the final one further developed than any pregnancy since Linda. So hopes were high, everything seemed to be working out well. I was able to enjoy Christmas with the family and an anniversary overnight getaway (a little early). But then came Monday, December 28th. Perhaps I should have known better than to schedule a doctor's appointment on the 11th anniversary of my first and worst loss. But I wanted to get in as soon as possible--and the appointment was with the high-risk doctor in the practice, who I should have been seeing all along, but is very difficult to schedule in. I told the doctor that I had no bad symptoms, except that the nausea had recently stopped (not necessarily bad, since I was nearing the end of the first trimester), and that I was really there to hear the heartbeat--since I'm aware of the tendency to have a 2 week delay between end of development and onset of any signs of loss, and it had been 3 weeks since the last u/s. So she tried for that before anything else. At just shy of 13 weeks, the heartbeat should have been easy to find with the Doppler, but it wasn't. So she wheeled in an ultrasound machine, and still couldn't find anything. So she sent me to imaging, where I was unsurprised to see the tiny form--completely still, and measuring only 11 weeks, 4 days. The doctor seemed surprised that the medications and everything hadn't worked. I was sad, of course, but am not really surprised by bad news anymore (especially since I'd done the same medication through the previous 2 losses). So I was scheduled for surgery on New Years Eve (since I'd been taking blood thinners, I needed a couple days to get them out of my system before surgery). I knew the girls would be away for the last half of the week, and I didn't want them to think I was shoving them away, so instead of spending the romantic day with Terry that we'd planned for after the doctor's visit (that I obviously wasn't up to anymore), we picked up my favorite distractions early and spent the day as a family--watching Princess and the Frog, buying everyone a book of their choice (and several for me, of course) at Half Price Books, and added 3 more to our reservations to the Melting Pot, where we introduced the girls to the wonders of cheese and chocolate fondues. It was a better way to spend the day--remembering the blessings I have with me all the time.
Yesterday, New Years Eve, I spent largely unconscious, as my 13th pregnancy and 10th loss was completed in surgery. While I was out, a tubal put an end to that chapter of my life. I'm a little bit sad, but mostly relieved, since I don't know how I've survived the pregnancy drama as long as I have, and have NO desires at all to continue it. As a small example of the contrast between my first, and for many reasons worst, pregnancy loss, and this most recent one, I'll write a little bit about this hospital experience. Despite having to wait a few extra days for the surgery, I was still symptom-free by Thursday--so no days of bleeding or pain to wait through. I was forewarned, so the hospital trip and loss were scheduled, expected, and relatively easy--not a rush to the ER as my world turned upside down, or waiting to complete a miscarriage at home only to rush to the hospital while hemorrhaging (which I've also done, a few times). Outpatient surgery was recently improved, so the experience was much nicer than even the last couple times I came to this same hospital. I came in to a private room where I signed papers and was prepped for surgery. The nurse managed to get the IV in on the first try (a rarity for me--my record is 11 attempts before success). After the surgery and recovery, I returned to the private room where Terry had waited for me in a comfy-looking recliner. For the first time ever, I was offered the opportunity to arrange for burial (though I didn't choose to, since it seemed wrong after doing nothing for the previous 9--but it is comforting to know that my baby will be buried in the unmarked grave that is offered for free, rather than tossed out in the trash or flushed down the toilet). The nurse was shocked when I mentioned that burial wasn't even given as an option for my loss at 21 weeks. Apparently at this hospital, at least, it's standard for any loss over 10 weeks. Also, for the first time ever, I was given books for the girls talking about dealing with death, grieving, and loss of a sibling. Not sure that the books are fully relevant to the situation, but the thought was most welcome. Another first, not only was I told that counseling and support groups were available if I wanted, but it was made very clear what was available and exactly who I would need to contact to take advantage of those services. Again, I don't know that I'll make use of the information--it seems a little silly after 9 times getting through on my own. But then again, maybe it's about time I actually deal with my issues instead of simply writing long and whiny blogs when I'm sad or can't sleep. At any rate, this hospital experience was a far cry from my first, thank heavens. It was a good way to end the baby-making era of my life, and now I'm looking forward to a new year, and a new set of experiences.
