Here’s why I stopped blogging after the first few posts:
5 days after I started this blog, I discovered I was pregnant. Seeing those much lusted-after double lines on the FRER was such a shock, I almost swooned with the realization that it had actually happened. I can never forget that day, that moment. We were waiting for a handyman to come help us fix some stuff around the house and I thought I would take the test after he goes to avoid any emotional public display. As my second post on the blog mentions I had already taken an HPT a few days back and the result had been a resounding negative. But, inexplicably, my period did not show up. I am never late, and certainly not by 4 days, so I decided to take another test or ask the doc what was going on here. Well, the result was positive and we were elated, to put it mildly.
Initial HCG numbers were great and doubling right on target. The next two weeks went by in a happy daze. Since God had granted us this preciousness after much yearning, we were rather cautious in our celebration. We told only our parents and no one else. Even amongst ourselves, we would refrain from overt planning or constantly mentioning the baby; we were that superstitious!
Exactly two weeks from the day we found out, we had our first ultrasound appointment. Hand in hand, like two excited adolescents we traipsed off to the doctor’s office. Since my symptoms so far had not been too severe, I was also rather thrilled about having my first ‘gag’ moment earlier that day. The nurse greeted us cheerfully and started us off on the TVS. She told us she might not see much in which case we should not panic; it was possible, apparently. After a little prodding she said she would call in a doctor for she wasn’t sure what was happening. The doc who came was not the one we see normally. She was efficient enough but not the warmest person around. After a few more uncomfortable prods with the probe she told us there were basically three options: 1. there was no baby; it had stopped growing, 2. the baby was growing in the wrong place and 3. it might be too early to see the baby and we should get a second u/s in a few days. The third option was delivered with a distinctive lack of conviction.
I felt the world drain of color. My heart sank to the recesses of despair. My eyes filled up and even before I could register it, I was sobbing uncontrollably. The doctor looked at me as if I was slowly growing horns. On my nose. Or all over my face. Thankfully, in a short while I got a chance to speak with my own doctor who is the nicest, gentlest soul ever. Sadly, he had the same thing to say. It did not look good. He called me back in a few days for a repeat u/s.
If I tell you that the next few days were the longest days of my life, I would not be resorting to a cliche rather it would be the only words that can do justice to what those 4 days felt life: a never-ending, hazy, grief-stricken rollercoaster whose operator seemed to have relegated his post. Forever. I wrote letters to my unborn child. I pleaded with him/ her to be brave, to trust me, to not leave my side. I begged God not to separate me from this life growing within me. I did not, could not believe that my baby was not growing. If not for my husband, I would have simply starved those few days. He ran around getting food for me, fed me lovingly, held me when the tears took over, assured me everything would be okay… all this while the man’s heart was breaking too.
In 4 days, I was asked by my doc to go get my my HCG checked at the ER (it was a Sunday). Heart in mouth, we went. They took my blood and asked me to get yet another u/s done. Interminable minutes, hours went by. The ER staff sporadically checked in on us, oblivious to the torture clutches our hearts were in. After what seemed like ages, I saw precisely the last person whose face I wanted to see–the same doctor who had coldly delivered the verdict to us at our RE’s office. In her clipped, curt voice she told me she had met with the doctor on duty and basically my HCG had pleateaud and there was nothing to be seen in the u/s. Nothing. Nada. She was now pretty sure this was an ectopic and I should get it operated upon through a D&C soon else I was in serious danger of a tubal rupture.
Up till that point both my husband and I were pretty sure we did not want to move forward with anything till we took a second opinion. The highly aggressive manner in which this doctor was pressuring us had really put us off. But with this new information about a potential threat to my life and a documented surety that the pregnancy was not viable, we felt cornered into deciding on getting the D&C done.
And so it was that my two week old dream came to a staggering, brutal halt. Just over 4 months after I was in surgery for my myomectomy, I was once again being wheeled into an operating room, this time to take away that which I had prayed nonstop for, that which I had been overjoyed to welcome in to my body and that which was now being snatched away from me. I felt like the worst mother on the face of this world. I was unable to save my baby. They were taking my little angel away from me and I could do nothing except mutely stare. The tears that were copiously flowing from my eyes seemed to sear into my skin; never in my life had I felt more wretched.
It was over before I could even register what was happening. I was soon under anesthesia and in about half an hour the procedure was over. They gave my a shot of methotrexate following the procedure to treat the ectopic. Another hour of monitoring and then I was sent back home. To emptiness. To a bleeding, shattered heart. To countless hours of mourning. To a long, cold war with God.