For the life of the mother: my ectopic pregnancy story.
the 4 year anniversary of my ectopic pregnancy, days before yet another presidential election // TW: pregnancy loss, medical abortion, pregnancy and other topics that may make you uncomfortable
During October of 2020, I suffered a double miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy.
The TL/DR: Took the test, it was positive. Did the blood work, it was not. Mid month suffered immeasurable pain and blood loss. And then it didn’t stop. Did blood work, the sample was lost. Doctor said I was fine. I was overreacting. The pain did not stop. Demanded an ultrasound - confirmed it was an ectopic pregnancy. Was treated with methotrexate - a medical abortion.
Did I mention this all happened in OCTOBER OF 2020?!
I put a brief synopsis of this on my Instagram & Facebook pages while it was happening, right before the last presidential election. There were several reasons for this.
1 - I thought, I know when people’s pets die and grandparents are sick, so why can’t I let everyone know what I was going through - and that I would be out of commission for a bit.
2 - I had just started a new job and was getting tons of inquiries about partnerships & collaborations from past friends and designers in the Home industry. I wanted those I actually cared about (and were linked to on personal channels) to know I wasn’t ghosting them. How considerate of me.
3 - Chrissy Teigen inspired me to share my story. We were going through this hell at the same.
4 - I finally was diagnosed and treated for my ectopic pregnancy on October 28, 2020 - six days before the presidential election that BIDEN & HARRIS WON.
Abortion was on the ticket then, more so than we realized.
And the conversations about women’s healthcare were already happening - but maybe not as prominently as they are now.
Also days before Halloween. I sense-checked my post about my medical abortion with my older sister, because I will always be a child seeking her wisdom and guidance.
She said: “Use the A word, and the ghouls and goblins will appear.” She was right, so I removed the A word then.
Which is why I’m sharing my story again, today, on the four year anniversary of what was a devastating day. What struck me then - and continues to enrage me now - is that (here comes a funny social reference) IF YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW.
AND
IF YOU DON’T KNOW, YOU DON’T FUCKING KNOW.
I’m sharing my story again because I’ve heard politicians, mouthpieces, content creators, and incompetent men talk about abortion and miscarriage and pregnancy and pregnancy loss as if it’s no different than getting your teeth cleaned.
Or a better comparison - to getting an emergency root canal. Something that happens, it’s not great, yes there’s blood and pain, but you get over it and then it’s done.
The right wing lies that women are going out to da club, having sex with wild abandon and then getting abortions a couple of weeks later are insane. And yet, the way that people who DON’T KNOW talk about this, they make it seem so simple. Of course, I am not shaming people who haven’t gone through this. Although to be clear - SO MANY WOMEN go through this. Many (most?) don’t talk about it. But what I have learned from my experience - going through it and sharing it with my small network of friends & collaborators - is that there is power in sharing.
So let me tell you about my experience.
I had health issues for years that were ultimately solved by an integrative doctor. She saved me from a 3rd, once in a lifetime sinus surgery and got me healthy through diet, supplements and a brutal but effective elimination diet. Before this, I cried every time my friends and family members announced their pregnancies. My career was taking off, I was getting sicker and more miserable with each flight, and I basically ruled out a family because I was so sick all the time.
So getting healthy in 2019 was a turning point for me and my beloved husband - the guy who has stood with me since high school.
We had already talked about trying for a family right before the pandemic, so when we realized that this weird, stay at home period was sticking around, we started trying. And got pregnant immediately. We watched so many of our friends and family struggle with family planning, so we knew it wasn’t going to be easy. So to get a positive pregnancy test right away - and on Dan’s birthday no less - seemed too good to be true.
It was.
I started spotting, and went to the doctor pretty early. The bloodwork showed that something was wrong. My doctor, through a mask, told me that it wasn’t looking good and that I would start miscarrying any day now. Two weeks later, it was brutal. I’ll spare you those details.
After two terrible days of the big M, I was taking things easy and thought - the worst is behind me, we’ll take some time to heal and recover, and we’ll try again. I was such an emotional, tired wreck but I had a plan. My husband had already planned a road trip to visit his Marine buddy that next weekend, and I forced him to go - thinking I wanted a weekend alone to cry and eat take out and watch comfort movies from my childhood, like Newsies. So he went and I spent the weekend alone - crying, still in pain, and still bleeding.
I remember being on the phone with one of my closest friends, who had gone through at least six miscarriages that I was aware of, and talking about how I was still bleeding and still in pain. She told me about how all of her experiences were different and that I just needed to rest. But then a few days later, she checked in and I answered honestly - that I was still in pain and still bleeding.
I called the doctor, who told me I was overreacting but scheduled bloodwork to confirm “this is just how it goes sometimes.” This was mid October 2020, and still very much the height of the pandemic. So it shouldn’t be any surprise that it was hard to get an appointment at my local Questlab - nor should it be a surprise that they lost said bloodwork. So when I called a few days later to check in on results, no one had anything. By that point, I was freaking out and finally googled my symptoms.
Text book, glaring boldly in black and white, my symptoms pointed to an ectopic pregnancy. It was a bit confusing because I had already had the miscarriage, but this is just another proofpoint that I was not the standard patient. I called my doctor freaking out, begging for help because I knew it was an ectopic and No, I’m not a doctor and can’t explain why this is happening. But please please please can you help me.
So she sent me to an ambulatory center to have an emergency ultrasound. Alone again because medical centers weren’t allowing guests. I remember walking into the office and the receptionist said, “this is a courtesy scan to set your mind at ease.” And I started rage crying as she pointed me toward the room.
I communicate for a living. Some of you (is anyone still reading this?) have said I have a way with words. So it took everything in me to not scream and throw shit when she said this. I listed the symptoms, the textbook ones, to the doctor and nurses for 3 weeks. And I kept being told I was overreacting, to just let nature take its course, that no they have no idea why these things happen. Don’t question God’s plan.
The look on the tech’s face when they saw a fertilized egg where it didn’t belong made me laugh actually - because I have a sick sense of humor and at that point, it was a little satisfying to know I was not in fact overreacting and I did truly know my own body better than anyone else.
My doctor was patched in via phone and she gave me the news that I already knew. I was then instructed to drive myself to the hospital 15 minutes away and to check myself into the Emergency Room.
Now, I don’t know if anyone else had the pleasure of visiting a hospital in late October of 2020 but St Barnabus still looked like those scenes in Outbreak.
I was greeted by a security guard in full swat gear + mask standing next to a nurse in a full hazmat suit with full head gear. We couldn’t hear each other over the outdoor heaters and masks and chaos, so I had to shout several times that:
“I WAS JUST DIAGNOSED WITH AN ECTOPIC PREGNANCY AND YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO TELL ME WHERE TO GO.”
After about four shouted exchanges, she finally heard me and understood.
I’ll never forget her face, as I then started fully sobbing uncontrollably, realizing where I was and what was happening. And she said “Good lord, I wish I could hug you right now. This is the fucking worst.”
And then she passed me to a security guard who walked me to the makeshift triage they had set up in the hallway.
I then spent 10 hours+ in a hallway, sitting in a chair (not a bed) with a shower curtain around me, next to coughing (Covid carrying?) children, mental health patients going through episodes, and other ER events. I didn’t plan on being there so long, or knowing how my day would go, so I hadn’t thought to bring water or food. But I did bring my high school copy of The Grapes of Wrath (what is wrong with me).
Mid-day my sister and husband - kindly supportive and feeling helpless they weren’t with me - coordinated to bring me soup and grab my car, as I had driven there myself. They weren’t allowed in to see me, but my husband was able to hand off a canister of homemade soup to a security guard who looked just so sad and broken down when he handed it over.
I basically spent this time reading Grapes of Wrath and having someone check in on me infrequently. They were clearly overwhelmed and I guess technically I wasn’t as urgent as those around me.
Never once did anyone use the term “medical abortion.”
As much as my experience was terrible - and it was. I did not have to stop and wait to speak with an administrator. Or a lawyer. Or a politician.
And while I was pretty fucking angry with my own doctor and her nursing staff, I know that on some level it was not their fault. Diagnoses these days are made on the law of averages. And as people who know me will tell you, I’m anything but average (whether as a compliment or not, lol).
But, if I had to sit in that makeshift, hallway triage while a fucking lawyer - or even better, a recent law school grad at the bottom of the totem pole - or a fucking cop poured over recent laws and statutes to determine what kind of healthcare I was to receive - I would have burned the whole fucking building down. Not really, but you know.
And this is what is happening. My care may have been impacted by circumstances outside of our control due to the pandemic, but this seems luxurious compared to Red States (who also have the highest mortality rates). Women are in fact bleeding out in parking lots. Or having to travel out of state to get care. And in some circles, they now want to monitor women crossing state lines to see if they are getting abortions elsewhere?!
And it’s not just that POLITICIANS SHOULDN’T BE MAKING HEALTHCARE DECISIONS. Although they shouldn’t.
It is already a very complicated time. And so many factors to consider. And so much can change in an instant.
And that’s the sensitivity to this. If I hadn’t gotten the medical abortion when I did, the fertilized egg that landed in the wrong spot would have kept growing. Fallopian tubies (typo I’m leaving in because it makes them seem adorable) are not meant to expand like that, and they would have burst.
And I could have bled out, if I didn’t get to a hospital quickly enough. And only if I lived in a state that would treat me.
Then my chances of a “spontaneous” pregnancy would have been destroyed.
So I would have had to pursue IVF - if my tired body could take the rounds of hormones and injections and stress.
Which would likely mean - no babies. Because as anyone who has struggled with fertility issues will tell you - stress is an even bigger problem than physical ones. And this is the most stressful and isolating and upsetting experience to endure.
And, many Republicans are supportive of laws that will eradicate IVF.
But back to my own medical abortion.
I didn’t realize this was what it was until I got home. The actual experience was a very nervous doctor? Nurse? NP? shot me with Methotrexate in the likely not sterile makeshift triage hallway, with the shower curtain partially opened because we both couldn’t fit in my cubby hole with the hospital chair that didn’t tilt.
I then called my husband, weaved my way through the maze of the Covid filled emergency room, and collapsed into the car for him to drive me home.
I’m writing all this because I think the conversation about abortions and medical abortions and IVF have gotten too casual. Or again they’re treated like a root canal - they suck, but you move on. And that is what I was NOT prepared for. That it was impossible to move on.
Because when you get pregnant, everything changes. Your hormones. Your body. Your mindset. So for anyone to make this decision for themselves and their families - whether by want or circumstance or medical reasons - it is a heavy, life-altering decision.
Hearing politicians and commentators like Tucker Fucking Carlson talking about it makes my actual blood boil. Because the burden and shame (even when it’s not your fault, shame somehow works its way into the experience) is harsher and crueler than anyone else's thoughts or prayer or opinions could ever be. But when you add that level of judgment from others onto your own, terrible, soul-sucking experience - it’s devastating.
Because you woke up that morning pregnant, with hormones racing through veins doing their job, and then you weren’t. And that change in hormones is catastrophic. It’s the same change in hormones postpartum - but postpartum, you have a bundle of joy that makes you cry you’re so happy and you are bonded with a connection stronger than anything in the world.
But when you suffer pregnancy loss, those hormones just vanish - and in their place, cold shame, pain, fear, anguish are replaced.
When I got home, my husband did everything he could to care for me. When all I wanted to do was sleep and cry and take burning hot showers. And he tried to keep my phone away from me - work had told me to take all the time I needed but never actually stopped emailing me or texting me or slacking me. But after one day, I started doing research. What happened to me. Why. What should I do to prevent this from happening again.
Because clearly I needed a new doctor. And sadly, I had to basically give myself a crash course in medicine to learn how to communicate about my experience so that we could try again.
And what I found was infuriating.
#1: The lack of information - why does this happen? Oh, we don’t know. Why don’t we know? Because there’s no research. Yes it’s a complicated time and who would want to volunteer to endure research? But also, there’s no research.
#2: Some states have some truly deranged thoughts on what should happen to women who suffer from an ectopic. Like Ohio. Yes, the same state that the creep with real "couch fucker" energy is from.
Some dusty old man in little Ohio tried to pass a bill in 2019 that would force women to go through surgeries to try to implant a fertilized egg from an ectopic pregnancy into the now formerly pregnant woman’s uterus. Despite other doctors calling it “science fiction.”
Like, if any men are still reading this - I can see them thinking, “Well, that’s the recommended procedure. Schedule it and show up. No food or water after midnight.”
But that does not AT ALL capture how fucked up this cruelty is. Because that woman was pregnant, has already had something go wrong, and it’s not as simple as a root canal. And now being expected to do a followup surgery. This is the loss of a pregnancy. A rush of blood and pain and hormones and anguish. But sure, let’s force that VESSEL to go back under the knife, be injected with a whole slew of other drugs and pain killers, and when that SCIENCE FICTION fails and that mother is truly broken… what do we do then? Say sorry, we fucked up? Go back and try again?!
Speaking of pain killers.
When I did in fact get pregnant and went through 36 hours of labor - I was given fentanyl. After 12 hours without an epidural - 12 excruciating hours filled with pain and vomit and tears and feelings of being a failure, I consulted with my husband and doula who reminded me that I had said - If it looks like I am exhausted, and my exhaustion may then lead to a cesarean, I should take the epidural. So I did. But never once did anyone explain what was in the actual epidural. So I was ABSOLUTELY shocked when I reviewed my hospital bills - months later - to see FUCKING FENTANYL was given to me without so much as a “hey, are you cool with this?”
Because if they had asked, I would have likely said no. And fine, a simple google search tells you that it is used in low levels to do XYZ. But, with the addiction crisis in this country - that some politicians love to blame other countries for and yet it is our OWN pharmaceutical companies contributing to and profiting off of - you would think that they wouldn’t given FUCKING FENTANYL to women in labor.
You know, for the life of the mother.
And the tiny baby.
I was devastated for months after my ectopic pregnancy. The pregnancy hormones bounced around my body like a pinball on their way out - I’m not a doctor, but that’s how it felt. And they’d rise up when I least expected it. Was it pregnancy hormones or just the intense wave of depression I suffered through after - who cares. I just know that for months afterwards, I was not myself.
Little? things would set me off and I would be rage crying on the floor. I could sometimes tell in the moment I was being “un-rational” but I couldn’t stop crying or yelling or feeling worthless. And my poor husband. My poor, sweet, saint of a husband. Watching me go through this and testing and learning on the fly how to deal with it. Because, I have to admit, I was not being rational.
And I hate to admit, I never fully stopped to think about how this was affecting him.
Until I heard a song recently by my new favorite band, IDLES. (See? It all goes back to music).
Imagine listening to a British punk album and then realizing they were singing about pregnancy loss? I’m about to celebrate my daughter’s 2nd birthday and still - the waves of sobs that racked my body unexpectedly were wild.
And then I told my sweet, loving husband about this song - and he teared up as I teared up as those horrible memories were drummed up inside us both. The same and yet so different.
A song like this even existing gives me hope that even though politicians in DC are trying to go backwards, there are good men out there who are helping to create a new way of living. Of supporting women. Of talking about their own emotions and experiences. And this gives me hope.
How did I move on from this?
1 - I went back to my integrative doctor who tested my blood and alerted me to the exceedingly high levels of metals and toxins in my blood. Likely due to working in industrial manufacturing sites and living in New Jersey.
2 - My husband found a Belgian Malinois puppy who activated the oxytocin pipeline. He is my first baby.
3 - I took my healthcare into my own hands and became spontaneously pregnant after a combo of acupuncture, reiki, Chinese herbs, meditation, and high, high hopes.
I doubt anyone is still reading this and I don’t blame you. This is hard and traumatic and heavy.
And just another story amongst a sea of stories of women who have suffered. Women who carry hell - silently and otherwise. Women who don’t need ANYONE ELSE ENTERING THIS CONVERSATION.
Women who are begging for their right to bodily autonomy and choice.
Please vote blue. Please vote the party that is actually supportive of life.
