It's None of Your Business, but I'm All Left

“Your little guy is so cute. How old is he?”

“Thanks, he’ll be 4 in November.”

“Are you thinking of having any more?”

Ooh, so many ways to respond to this question:

“Nah, being a mom’s kind of a buzzkill.”

“I’m really focusing on my career right now.”

“Is it really appropriate for you to inquire about my sex life?”

“That’s not really any of your business, is it?”

I’m not really that offended when people ask me this question. I get it. I have one kid, clearly my parts work, it should be pretty simple to just have another. I mean, the first one came out of thin air, so it seems safe to assume the second one would, too. Depending on my snark level that day, any one of those answers would probably work. But, if you really want to open this can, let’s jump right in:

I was pregnant in January. On February 8, I started bleeding and cramping. I took three ibuprofen, but the pain continued to escalate and become so severe that I agreed to go to the ER (bill #1, because nothing ever happens during normal business hours). Upon entering the ER, they asked me to fill out paperwork, stand on a scale, give them a long description of why I was there – all things I could not do, because I was in the process of dying from the pain. (Some of the most unfeeling human beings on the planet in the ER, my goodness). A few different morphine-like pain killers later, I was calm enough to endure an hour long trans-vaginal ultrasound (bill #2), after which a nurse came in to tell me she was going to administer a rhogam shot.

“A rhogam shot? I’m miscarrying, why are you giving me a rhogam shot?” (Rhogam is what they give you when you have an rh-negative blood type so that you and your baby’s blood doesn’t kill one of you, or something, whatever. I was miscarrying, so I didn’t need a rhogam shot.)

“Oh, did no one tell you?”

“Did no one tell me what?!”

Twenty painful minutes later, a radiologist came in to tell me that my baby was totally fine. There was a heartbeat and everything. The pain I was experiencing was from a ruptured ovarian cyst, I was going to be fine, though no one could tell me where all the blood was coming from, but I was going to be fine, get some rest, you’re going to be fine. Fine.

I slept the rest of the morning in the hospital (bill #3) and woke up with a new pain. This time it covered my entire abdomen, so I assumed it was constipation pain from all the narcotics. I’m no stranger to constipation, so I figured it best that I go home, rest, take some Miralax, poop. I’ll be fine, everything’s fine.

I went home, all right. I went home to puke up some Miralax and spend the next twelve hours in alternating fits of screaming pain and hydrocodone-induced naps.

Back to the ER we went (bill #4 - less than 24 hours after my first trip, because, of course nothing ever happens during normal business hours). It’s determined by way of an MRI (bill #5) that I have an ectopic pregnancy to be removed by surgery (bill #6) the following morning. And by the way, if you’re on the fence about being claustrophobic, spend 15 minutes in an MRI machine while enduring the worst pain of your life. That should clear up your suspicions.

Upon waking from anesthesia (bill #7), the first thing I hear is “blah blah blah, removed the ovary… blah blah… and the fallopian tube… blah…”

Turns out, not only was I not miscarrying, I also didn’t have an ovarian cyst rupture OR an ectopic pregnancy! Instead, the pain was being caused by --- OVARIAN TORSION! Along with kidney stones, ovarian torsion (and its brother, testicular torsion) can be infinitely more painful than anything else a human will physically experience in their lives. Unmedicated childbirth was super fun by comparison.

The surgeon looked almost giddy as he came into my hospital room.

“Do you want to see what we found? We got pictures!”

“I guess. Okay.”

“Yes! Look! That’s your healthy ovary over there, (he pointed to a white splotch amongst a lot of moist pinkness) and that’s your non-healthy ovary and fallopian tube there (not needing to, but pointing at the big, giant, purple, bruised, nasty, unmistakable splotch amongst a little bit of moist pinkness).”

While my left ovary was in perfect, tip-top shape, my right ovary was three times its normal size, had twisted around the fallopian tube a few times, and wanted the hell out of my body.

Recovering from my first surgery ever wasn’t horrible, I guess. I had the added benefit of also being pregnant, so the meds mixed with morning sickness was a b*tch, but the worst was over. The discomfort of incisions and not being able to get up to go pee on my own was nothing compared to the pain before the surgery. Tyler’s mom even came to help out with Coltrane, so I even had a full-time maid/nurse/mom/friend at my beck and call.

Two weeks later, I started bleeding again. Just a teensy bit, but I still thought it best to make an appointment with the surgeon to be sure (bill #8). Before the nurse even turned on the ultrasound machine, I knew, but then the image popped up on the giant screen right in front of me. A note to you OB/GYNs out there: when a woman comes into your office who might be miscarrying, turn off the giant screen that’s connected to your ultrasound machine. I can get pretty dry, emotionless, and sarcastic with every other part of this story, because what do I need with an extra ovary anyway? But, this part? The part where I had to see it? Where I had to see that little gummy bear not move at all? Not float in the middle of that little sac, but just lay there on the bottom? I could have done without seeing that. My intuition and your tech’s silence and fake friendliness was plenty confirmation.

“You have three options: you can let it pass on its own, take some medication to get things moving more quickly, or we can schedule a D&C.”

(Thinking to myself, that’d be bill #9), “I think I’ll just let it pass.”

I didn’t cry until I called my mom on the way home. (My mom, the woman who buried two infants, exactly one year apart, then miscarried, and then decided she’d try again? I endured a tiny fraction of what she endured, and I wanted to hand in the towel.) Then I called Tyler and texted the few people we had told, “No more baby.”

Tyler’s band was scheduled to go on tour that week, and I insisted that he go. He deserved to go do something on his own after all this craziness, and I assured him I’d be fine. I mean, a miscarriage is just like a heavy period, so the internet says. No big deal, I could handle that on my own. Emotionally, I need time alone to process things anyway, so it made the most sense for him to go. But, guys, the internet is wrong sometimes.

On Tyler’s second to last day on tour, I woke up around 4:00 am thinking I had peed my pants. I walked into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and in the tiny bit of light coming through the window, I could tell, that was not pee. Every few seconds I felt a gush, while I sat, half asleep, repeating over and over, “this is too much blood, this is too much blood.” I called the doctor, I called the hospital, I called my dad, I read website after website – the only information I gleaned was that if you fill a pad in less than half an hour, you need to go to a hospital. A mattress pad couldn’t have held all the blood that was coming out of me. Also, I was alone, Coltrane was asleep in my bed, and I knew that if I passed out on the toilet or died, that would be very, very bad. I called the only three friends I have in Idaho Falls, even though it was only 5:00 in the morning, one answered and came over right away. Bless that saint of a woman.

Have you seen Moana? Remember that scene at the end when Te-ka, the giant fire-breathing lava monster is freaking out because something was stolen from her? Well, that was me when I entered that effing ER (bill #9) for the third effing time in two effing months. And, since I wasn’t in physical pain this time, I could communicate loudly and clearly why I was there and how I felt about it. Nothing ever happens during regular business hours, and just to make things even sweeter, the ER was staffed entirely by men. Men, with their one little organ (prostate) that might go bad when they turn 60. Meanwhile, women have five (wait, it’s four now for me!) things that could kill them at any moment from the time they hit puberty and on. I realize what a ridiculous prejudice this is now, but at the time, I wanted them to know how little they understood about what I was going through and how dumb it was to have zero women on the schedule.

I still don’t know if that much blood is normal. Not one of those men seemed to have a clue, and I forgot to ask the woman that did the D&C procedure that afternoon (bills #10 and 11), but at least, now I know – if you miscarry pretty much any time after 6 weeks, don’t let it pass on its own. It could turn into a bloody, violent, terrifying, and traumatic disaster, of which doctors should inform their patients.

I don’t write this post for the pity or condolences. I purposely have said very little about this experience because “I’m sorry for your loss” is not helpful for me. I like to swim in my misery alone for a while, then bury it deep in the ground, and then resurrect it at a later time when I’m feeling stronger. No, I’m writing this because I really wished I’d had something to read while I was going through something terrible. I wished I’d had some validation that what I was feeling was normal. Because, do you know what doctors also don’t inform their patients about? While it may take only a few weeks to physically recover from surgery, it can take six months to a year to emotionally recover. According to the National Institutes of Health, post-surgical depression is an actual condition that many post-surgical patients experience, but NO ONE talks about. Doctors tell you, “You’ll be able to go back to your normal activities in such-and-such amount of time,” but then what? Sure, you might be able to physically do a lot of things, but mere physical existence isn’t quite enough when you’re a more intellectually sophisticated being than a gerbil or a tree.

I’m here to inform you, if you’ve recently “recovered” from a medical trauma or surgery, but still can’t get out of bed, cry about nothing and everything simultaneously and constantly, and/or feel like you’re dying on the inside, you’re not alone. And there is hope. Your normal self will begin to emerge slowly. Sometimes with the aid of an antidepressant, sometimes simply with time, but you’ll get there.

I know, because I’m getting there. September 22 was my due date. I was supposed to have a tiny baby in my arms right now, and I don’t. But that’s okay. I’m also supposed to have two ovaries, but that’s okay, too, because, just in case you’re wondering, women can live totally normal and fertile lives with only one ovary. It sounds annoying and cliché, but I’ve learned so much because of this frustrating, painful, traumatic, annoying year. Things I may not have learned any other way.

So, the next time you want to ask someone if they’re planning on having another baby, or just one baby, or if they even want a baby, please stop and think first. It seems like a simple question, but it never has a simple answer. Mine is one of millions of stories, many even more tragic. And, frankly, it’s not really any of your business, is it?