So I declared my entry back into the blog world and then the blog sat untouched. I debated coming back at all this time. And if I did come back, I debated whether I’d tell you what’s really been going on.
And then I realized that I’ve actually been wanting to talk about it all along. I’ve been fighting the popular tendency to swipe these kinds of things under the rug. To let them be only a private matter. But to me that didn’t make sense. It’s going to be such a defining part of our lives that it seems silly to not be able to share it with others. So that’s why we started telling a few more family and friends, and why I’ve decided to document it here, too.
So here goes nothing…
A few weeks ago, we found out we were expecting. We had been trying for a while and, honestly, I wasn’t expecting it to have worked this time either. As soon as the word “pregnant” appeared on the first test (and the 4 subsequent ones that followed), we were blown away but instantly fell in love—with the reality of becoming parents, with the tiny little thing growing inside of me.
I tend to have an anxious personality and had no idea how much something like a pregnancy would amplify that. I panicked with every twinge. Googled a million things a day. And waited, very impatiently, for our first appointment.
Then some complications started. I’ll spare you the details, but I was worried. I read 1,000 articles that said this could be very normal, and yet obsessed over the tiny paragraph in every one of them that said “but sometimes it’s not.” The doctors did some blood work and everything looked good, so I tried to let that calm my nerves. But something inside me—whether it was complete paranoia or some morbid form of maternal instinct—knew something was wrong.
We went in for an emergency appointment on a Friday afternoon. And in the glow of a dark ultrasound room, it was confirmed. I had an ectopic pregnancy. I sobbed silently on the table as I apologized to the technician for not being able to hold myself together. She left the room to set us up with the doctor on call and the last little part of me that was still holding it together finally broke.
We moved through the motions in a fog, spending our entire evening in the ER. They decided to monitor me over the course of the next week, which meant more waiting in the midst of our grief. Then, exactly one week later—at almost the exact same time and in the same patient room—the doctor sat down and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have good news.” I was going to need surgery, immediately.
Within hours the surgery was over and I was recovering in my hospital room in that sickening haze of anesthesia, pain, and disbelief. Right now, the physical recovery has been so dominate that my emotions have taken a backseat. Last week I couldn’t speak of it, couldn’t even so much as think about speaking of it, without breaking down. Those moments are fewer and farther between now, but I can still feel them lurking. I’m not stranger to grief but I have a feeling that this journey is going to be different than anything we’ve ever been through before.
So for now we’re hanging in there. Taking it one day at a time. Praying. All of the things they tell you to do in times like these. And we’re leaning on each other. I know we’ll get through this, together. I know we’ll feel OK again one day. One day can’t come soon enough.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in." -Haruki Murakami