Life Behind the Curve

***I’ve been overwhelmed with the kind words I’ve gotten here and on Twitter and Facebook about my last post. Below I continue my story. Those of you who write know how writing can help you deal with tough situations, but for those of you who don’t, I just want to say thanks. This has been far more therapeutic than I could have imagined.

As a reminder, if you’re pregnant, you should stop reading now. Seriously. I went a little easier on the swearing in this post, but it still might not be for you. And if you’re grossed out by medical stuff, you just might want to come back tomorrow for the final(?) installment, because this is graphic. I’d apologize but it’s the truth, and it’s part of my story and I need to tell the whole thing. Again, no offense will be taken, I just wanted to give you fair warning.***

The ER waiting room was packed. I got myself checked in and joined Scoot and the boys in a crowded room with bad TV blaring from overhead. Everyone in that room had their own story, their own maladies that drove them there. Yet I felt like there were a million eyes on me.

Unfortunately, simply showing up in the ER did not take my symptoms away. The pain was still unbearable. The diarrhea continued to worsen. And to add insult to injury, thetoilet in the main restroom for the ER was backed up. I found another restroom back by radiology. Luckily I seemed to be the only person who needed it with any type of urgency and so had my run of the place. (Errr…bad word choice…sorry.)

Each time I went, I wasn’t sure whether I was losing fluid more from the diarrhea or the insane amounts of blood leaving my body. I had brought what would normally be a week’s supply of pads with me but ended up having to flag down a nurse and get a new supply from the hospital’s stock.

After a wait of more than an hour, I was called back by the triage nurse. He was a young man, no more than 25, likely a few years younger. He took my vitals and asked about my symptoms. I told him I was having a miscarriage but that I hadn’t passed the amniotic sac yet.

He sent me into a different restroom to give a urine sample. Clearly already suffering from dehydration, urinating enough for a sample proved challenging. After a few minutes I got what I thought was enough to make him happy. (OK, well, maybe not “happy” but you know what I mean.)

Another wave of pain hit. I just wanted to curl up on the floor and be done. I went to wipe with toilet paper and looked down to see a transparent object about the size of a golf ball. Oh, shit! What am I going to do with this? I remember all the books and websites I read that said to keep large clots or the amniotic sac itself so that it could be tested (for what I still don’t know). I stretched to reach to the paper towel holder above the sink, laid a few towels on the floor and placed the wad of toilet paper holding what was to be my third child on it.

I was defeated.

I walked out of the restroom with the cup of urine in a paper bag as I had been directed. The nurse asked if I was able to get a sample. I told him yes but could I have another cup, as I passed the sac and it’s now laying on the floor. He very kindly told me that he’d take care of it and sent me back to the waiting room.

I don’t remember whether I told Scoot what happened, I assume I did. But I was so shocked, embarassed, ashamed, brokenhearted.

As I sat there waiting, I thought to myself, huh, I wonder if that’s what real labor feels like. D was induced and I had a doctor who was liberal with the pain medications early on in my “labor.” I ended up with an emergency C-section so when it was B’s turn, I scheduled a C-section. No real labor. Even if I were to have a third, I’d already been advised against even contemplating a VBAC. I found it cruelly ironic that the only labor I was destined to experience would be this kind.

I waited for a short time in the waiting room and was then called back. I was put in the last room on the left. The boys, especially D, were confused and curious. As the nurse tried to get me situated, they were acting, well, like a four and one year old would in an emergency room. Scoot took them out to the waiting room and I was left alone.

Very very alone.

From the moment I found out I was expecting with all three pregnancies, there was always a feeling inside, sometimes psychological — that little reminder that there’s another life in you — sometimes physical — a hiccup or elbow to the rib that said, “Hey, mom, I’m here.” That feeling was gone.

Thank God Scoot’s sister arrived within minutes of me being brought back so Scoot quickly rejoined my side.

In my experience, every trip to the ER is about the same. You wait, you see someone, they say they’ll be back later, the nurse checks on you, you don’t really get the answer you want. And the cycle repeats. Such was my experience.

I had an IV. I got a couple (few?) bags of fluid. I was to have an ultrasound to make sure all the “pregnancy matter” was out, but they needed me to have a full bladder before they could do it and I was so dehydrated I wasn’t there yet. After what very well could have been hours, they gave up. Since I couldn’t fill up my bladder on my own they were going to do it for me.

How, you ask? Well, have you ever heard of a reverse catheter? If you’ve ever had a catheter, you’d know that a tube is placed in your urethra and, normally, the fluid from inside your bladder comes out. So reverse that. They put a catheter in and flushed my bladder with fluids.

O!M!G!

Oww! It still hurts to think about it.

The ultrasound showed that everything was gone. I had left it all on the bathroom floor.

I went back to my “room” in the ER, got some more wonderful pain meds (gotta love a doctor who is willing to dope you up before letting you loose on the world), and was discharged.

We were home sometime around 2 or 3 am. The boys were safely tucked in their beds. Their aunt and Papa had treated them to ice cream. They were there, two healthy boys, and come the morning they were going to need me.

I was beat. Little did I know, I had only taken my first step down the road to physical and emotional recovery.