A Journey Through Loss and Grace
In early 2013, I became pregnant. Excited but scared, I was ready to take on motherhood. At 37, I knew there were greater risks associated with pregnancy than if I were younger, but I was ready for it—all of it: the morning sickness, the growing belly, the fatigue, and more.
Then, in mid-April, things went south—fast. I was spending the weekend at my parents’ house. A childhood friend was celebrating her baby girl’s first birthday, and I was planning to attend. I arrived early to help set up. That morning, I woke up with a horrible backache. Later, I began experiencing pain in my left side. I told my friend, and she—and the other women there—assured me it was normal. Some had experienced similar pain early in their pregnancies. As the day progressed, the pain grew more intense. I was back at my parents’, alone, watching TV and resting, when the pain in my side began to radiate to my lower abdomen and then to my right side. I started to worry.
I became nauseated and felt weak. Later, vomiting and diarrhea forced me to bed. I was miserable. Could this be just a virus or gastritis? The pain in my abdomen and right side eventually subsided, and the pain in my left side became intermittent. The next morning, I felt horrible. I hadn’t gotten much sleep, and the pain in my left side had intensified. I called the on-call OBGYN, explained my symptoms, and asked if it could be an ectopic pregnancy. He asked a few questions and said it was probably just a virus. He advised me to rest, stay hydrated, and relax. Relax??
I called my niece, who had experienced several miscarriages. She became concerned and contacted my sister to come check on me. It was late Sunday evening. The nausea and diarrhea had subsided, but the pain in my side remained. I felt dehydrated and made the decision to go to the emergency department to at least get IV fluids—to rehydrate my body and my baby.
When I arrived at the hospital, I explained everything to the nurse, including my concern about a possible ectopic pregnancy. Call it intuition—or maybe paranoia—but as a nurse myself, I often self-diagnosed. The on-call OBGYN ordered labs, an ultrasound, and IV therapy. She came to my room with the results. She explained I was probably not as far along as I thought, and implantation may not have occurred in the uterus yet. She also noted a large cyst on my left ovary, confirmed by ultrasound.
They admitted me for observation and continued IV therapy. In my gut, I felt my suspicions were right. I knew I was at least 11 weeks pregnant—implantation should have occurred. My HCG levels were present but not as high as expected. Once in my room, I tried to rest, but my mind was racing. I was worried about my baby—and angry at my husband. He had stayed home to bale hay all weekend. I needed him, and he wasn’t there. He had other priorities—and being a supportive husband and father didn’t seem to be one of them.
The next morning, my OBGYN came early. She told me I could go home and would need to visit her office every other day to monitor my HCG levels. Two days later, on April 16, I made the trip to the city for bloodwork and a clinic visit. The pain in my side was still intense and intermittent. As I drove around the parking lot looking for a spot, a sudden wave of pain radiated through my abdomen and right side. I saw stars. I became hot all over, overwhelmed by a rush of heat in my abdomen that climbed up to my neck. I felt weak, disoriented, and short of breath. I quickly found a parking spot and slowly made my way to the clinic. When I arrived, I stood in line to check in, but before I could reach the desk, someone seated me in a wheelchair and whisked me away to an ultrasound room.
A clinician explained I’d be having a vaginal ultrasound and needed to change into a gown and empty my bladder. I could barely stay awake or upright. On the table, two clinicians stood by—one holding my hand, the other performing the scan. As the instrument passed over my abdomen, the ultrasound tech’s eyes widened. She whispered to her colleague that there was a huge mass in my uterus.
My OBGYN soon entered the room. She confirmed I had an ectopic pregnancy and that my fallopian tube had ruptured. I was hemorrhaging internally and needed emergency surgery. As they wheeled me to the OR, she quickly reviewed the consent forms. She would remove my fallopian tube and ovary—and possibly perform a hysterectomy. She grabbed my phone to call my husband. In pre-op, a nurse placed an IV in my arm. A surgical team surrounded me, ready to take me in.
When I woke up, my husband was asleep in a chair next to my bed. My OB came to see me. She explained that I didn’t have a cyst or a mass in my uterus. The bleeding in my fallopian tube made it appear that way. When it ruptured, the blood filled my abdominal cavity, causing that rush of heat through my body. She gave me images from the surgery—what was left of my baby. I never got to see an ultrasound picture of our baby.
I never got to hear a heartbeat.
I never got to say, “Hello, baby,” or “Goodbye.”
On April 16, 2013—my parents’ 58th wedding anniversary—our baby entered eternal rest. My guardian angel was beside me. God was with me. I’m so grateful my emergency happened in the parking lot of the hospital. Had it happened earlier, I might not be here to share this story. The thought of possibly losing control of my car and hurting someone else makes me sick. I am certain I would have hemorrhaged to death.
Thank you, God, for always being with me—especially in the storms.
With love,
Delilah
