Kristi's Story -- A lonely journey through ectopic pregnancy

I'm honored to share Kristi's story of a loss due to ectopic pregnancy.

Her story highlights several factors that are unique to an ectopic pregnancy or other early pregnancy loss:

• A husband often feels so different than the mom about the loss because he hasn't had a chance to bond with the baby.
• His reactions are often NOT helpful to the mom, which can make the loneliness in an early loss that much more painful. (Though I admit that his actions legitimately might be helpful to him.)
• Ectopics are hard for doctors to diagnose. This is why it's so important that we moms are in tune to our bodies and demand the care we (and our babies) deserve. When something is wrong, we have to trust our instincts.
• Medical personnel often don't treat ectopic pregnancies as the loss of a baby. The lack of compassion gives off the the feeling that we are just being "drama" and that "people miscarry every day, so what's the big deal?" The lack of validation for our loss -- and, therefore, the invalidation for our grief -- creates a very tricky journey of grief to navigate.

Her story also highlights what I'm sure all of us in the pregnancy-loss camp would agree with:

• Your loss changes you in a deep and profound way. And no matter how much you want to go back in time and have things the way they always were . . . you simply can't. And that is really hard to deal with.
• Your loss opens you up to a new world . . . a world of grief. A world where babies die. And a world that will probably never feel safe to you again.

On Christmas Eve, I was finishing up work and noticed that my eyes kept getting blurry and I felt dizzy.

Earlier in the week, I had started to wonder if I could possibly be pregnant because I wasn't feeling the usual signs of menstruation about to start, and I was tired more and having some nausea. So after the blurry vision and dizziness started that night, I decided to take another pregnancy test. (I had taken one a few days earlier which was negative, but thought it might have been too early to test.)
When I saw a faint second line on the test, I was overcome with joy . . . as well as full of anxiety about how my husband would feel. I decided not to say anything to him until I saw the doctor on Monday and knew for sure. 

On Sunday, Christmas Day, the spotting began.


It seemed to take forever waiting for Monday morning to come so I could call the doctor's office.  When Monday morning came, my husband planned a last-minute trip out of town to drop off some car parts at a machine shop and maybe to stop on our way out to see one of his daughters who is pregnant. While he was loading up the van, I called the doctor's office and found out that they were closed that day.

On the way to my step-daughter's house, I suddenly had to throw up, and hung my head out of the window to do so. When we got to the house, my daughter immediately told her half-sister about mommy throwing up, and she in turn immediately asked me, "What are you, pregnant?" I just kind of brushed it off, but told her later when we were alone that I thought I might be. 

Later that day, I admitted to my husband that I could be pregnant, and as I feared, he wasn't happy about it. He was constantly being negative about it, saying that he was too old to have another baby (he was 42 and I was 34) and that he had nothing to show for his life.

When we got home, we noticed our pet guinea pig was acting funny and wouldn't eat. I called and made an emergency visit to the vet and found out that she had an obstruction probably from chewing on the string to my pajamas a few days earlier, and she might not make it.

The next morning, the vet called to tell us that the guinea pig didn't make it. Then I went to the doctor and anxiously waited in the room for the doctor to come in and tell me for sure if I was pregnant. With my husband acting the way he was, I didn't know how to feel.

When the doctor came in, I could tell she looked nervous. She told me that the urine test came back negative but would call me with the results of the blood test. I immediately started crying and told her that I wasn't sure if I wanted to be pregnant because of the way my husband was treating me. I had wanted a baby for so long and just wished he could be as happy as I was.

I left the doctor's office and went to the vet's office to pick up our dead guinea pig. The nurse called me later with the blood test result and told me that I was pregnant. According to the hCG number, I was about 5 weeks along. Because of the spotting and cramping, I had to keep having my hCG checked.

The following weekend, my husband actually came with me and my daughter to my parents' house  to celebrate Christmas (which is something he never does.) We had a good weekend . . . we bought a couple of new guinea pigs, and he seemed to be taking the pregnancy news better, even though he never talked about the baby. The spotting had stopped for most of the weekend, until it started back up on New Year's Day.

That next Wednesday, my husband was being a total jerk . . . ranting and raving about everything except what was really bothering him (which I knew was the baby), and then storming out to his shop without even saying goodbye. My cramping had gotten much worse that morning, and I finally decided that afternoon to drive myself to the ER. 

I dropped off my daughter at the shop with him and told him where I was going. I spent several hours alone in the ER waiting to have a transvaginal and abdominal ultrasound. The doctor told me that my hCG levels had been very low for as far along as I was. (The doctor's office had always told me they were rising, but I guess they were never doubling like they should.)

The woman who did the ultrasounds is an old friend of mine, and I could tell from her face that something was wrong. The doctor told me I could just not be as far along as everyone thought (which I knew exactly when I conceived), or it could be either an ectopic pregnancy or an impending miscarriage. With no solid answer, they sent me home.

That Friday, the doctor's office called and told me that my hCG dropped a little and that the doctor wanted to try another ultrasound that Monday. The weekend seemed to drag on forever waiting for Monday to come. When I had the ultrasound, once again I was told that they couldn't see anything on the sonogram, but that my cervix was still closed. The official report came back saying that there was no evidence of an ectopic, and that the radiologist believed it was consistent with an early pregnancy. 

But the next morning, while I was working, I could feel the bleeding start. I ran into the bathroom and saw that the bleeding had gotten heavier. I told my husband I believed I could be miscarrying.  He had a physical therapy appointment he was getting ready to go to for his shoulder surgery, and I told him to go ahead and go. As the bleeding continued to get heavier, I called the doctor's office and they told me to come in and get checked. 

I was devastated to hear that my cervix was now open. It was hard to listen to a baby crying in the room next to me as I waited for my hCG number to come back. My number had risen a little and was told it could be an impending miscarriage or an ectopic pregnancy, or that my pregnancy still could be viable. Again, I was told I should just go home and rest. 

When I got home, I decided to take a bath to help relax. When I got out, I started to freak out when I saw that there was blood running down my leg and that the tub was filled with blood and several clots, including one the size of my hand. I yelled for my husband to come in, and he helped me get dressed and had me lie down. 

I called the ER since the doctor's office was closed and told them what happened and what the doctor had told me. Once they heard which doctor's office I went to (the hospital and a doctor at the clinic are in the middle of a lawsuit and he is banned from the hospital), they told me that I was having a miscarriage and there was nothing they could do for me. They told me to come in if I was bleeding through more than two pads in a half an hour. 

The bleeding stopped a few hours later, but the following night, I was cramping a lot worse. I had taken a Percocet and it wasn't doing anything to help with the pain. I called the ER again and told them that my doctor told me it could be ectopic, and again (once they heard what clinic I went to), they told me that if the doctor really believed I could have an ectopic, they would have done something by now. They inisisted I should just take another Percocet.

The next day, I had another hCG drawn. I was sure that it would be 0, and that I had miscarried. Instead, I was shocked to hear that my number had gone up again. 

The next week, my hCG levels kept rising slowly, but still nothing showed on the ultrasound. My doctor referred me to a gynecologist out of town who wanted to see me the next day. He told me that there was no way that this was a viable pregnancy and that he believed it was in my right tube. He said that on the ultrasound, there was more fluid developing around that tube. The ultrasound also showed fluid behind my cervix and around both ovaries and tubes. 

I told him about all the bleeding the week before, and he was shocked about that, too. Nobody could explain what was going on. My case was not the typical ectopic. 

The doctor suggested that I have the methotrexate injection. [This is a drug that will dissolve the baby and placenta, which would help prevent further damage to the tube.]

I had to wait for the pharmacy to get it ready, so we left to go shopping and kill time for a couple of hours before wereturned. By this time, the wating room was full of pregnant women and women with new babies. I couldn't stop crying as I waited for them to call my name. 

When the nurses brought me back to the room, and I saw the sonogram machine and the chart on the wall showing the various stages of pregnancy, I bawled harder than I ever have in my life. After the nurses gave me the two injections in my hips, they let me out the back way, so I wouldn't have to see all the pregnant women again. 

I cried the whole way home. I had told my husband that it made it even harder knowing this was my last chance to have a baby. At first, he seemed to be more open to trying again, but he hasn't even touched me in so long, like he's afraid I'll get pregnant again.

 I feel so alone. Not a single day goes by that I don't think about the baby. It's my first thought upon waking and my last thought before going to sleep each night. 

Tomorrow I go back to see the doctor who gave me the methotrexate injection to have an HSG test. [This is a test where they inject die into your tubes to see how if there is any blockage.] I am anxious to find out how much damage to my tubes there has been. 

I have had two laparoscopic surgeries in the past, with lots of scar tissue, adhesions and cysts having to be removed. I developed pelvic inflamatory disease after the second surgery, so I am worried what the doctor will find. I don't know if my husband will be coming with me or not. I might be going through this alone as well. 

I just wish I could back in time before any of this ever happened. It's so hard even getting on Facebook now, especially when I see pregnancy updates from two of my step-daughters, some friends, and my husband's cousin. It seeems like every day, somebody else is announcing their pregnancy. I even had to suspend my account for awhile because it just got to be too much to bear.

I don't like this woman who I have become . . . this woman who is angry and hurting all the time . . . this woman who knows that everything that you have ever wanted can be taken from you just like that, and there's nothing you can do about it.


A word to other mommas . . .

I would tell other women going through this that they should not be afraid to let their feelings out . . . that it's okay to be angry, it's okay to be sad. I felt so bad at first that I was angry at God until I talked to my pastor, and he made me realize that it's okay and natural to be angry with God, and that "God's got big shoulders and can take it."

I also have realized that I feel a lot of guilt and anger at myself. I've realized that I sometimes blame myself for being anxious about being pregnant, that maybe somehow my fears caused it. I also have been so angry at my husband for his reaction to my pregnancy and have blamed him, but I know deep down it's not anybody else's fault that this happened, that no one caused it. 

Also, it's very important and helpful to reach out to others who have been there for help to get you through it. I feel so alone with my friends and family, because none of them have any ideas what I am going through, so the support pages on Facebook have been a godsend for me.


Thank you, Kristi, for sharing your story of your baby, and the experience of your loss. I know the loneliness of losing a baby to ectopic -- but know that you are never truly alone in this loss. Thank you for being brave in sharing your story.

I feel like every pregnancy loss story is so important and deserves to be told. If you would like to share your story, please email me at renyeart@gmail.com. We can post your story anonymously if you would prefer. 

My goal in sharing stories on this blog is:

1) To honor our beloved babies and keep their memory alive.
2) To validate and honor the grief of the moms who have lost their little one.
3) To be a resource to women who are hoping to find someone, somewhere out there, who can relate to their feelings of loss. I hope this blog will be that resource.

Facebook revisited

Sometimes your message can get lost in your words.

I don't know if that's what happened with my post about Facebook -- but based on some of the comments I received -- I fear that that might be the case.

I've read over my note several times, and besides a few minor word choices, there's not much I would change. However, I do feel like a follow-up post is important.

First, I think it's important to clarify who I write for. I write for couples who have lost a baby or have struggled with infertility. I also write for others who are going through a loss of some kind and can relate to the grief I share. I also write to others who are looking for helpful ways to support those they know who are going through a pregnancy loss.

My message is intended for those particular men and women. If you find yourself reading my blog, but you haven't gone through a loss, or you aren't trying to support someone, you just might not understand my message. And that's OK. You're still welcome to read. But don't be surprised (and certainly don't judge me or my readers) if you don't find yourself in the same place.

You'll notice in my first post that I really just said two things:

1) For those who have recently suffered a loss, being on Facebook can feel like an emotional minefield.

Based on the feelings I've heard from other women, I know that this is not just my experience. But it is an experience shared by many of us women suffering through a loss. I simply want everyone to be aware that Facebook can be hard. I am not trying to place blame anywhere. Just know that what you post does affect other people.

It's like if you just lost a very dear grandma. If you constantly saw posts on your newsfeed saying  . . . "Just hung out with my grandma, God has blessed me so much to have her in my life!" Or . . "My grandma is giving me such a hard time tonight. It's so hard to take care of her, and I'm just so tired!" Or "Just found out my grandma is going to live with us! I can't wait to spend every day loving on her!"

Each of those posts might hurt. Not because you hate grandmas. Or because you are angry at your friends. And not because those posts are wrong.

But they hurt because you are bruised and hurting. You have suffered a loss, and every reminder of that loss -- no matter how innocent it is in itself -- feels like someone has just pressed in on the bruise of your loss. And it makes your soul ache with longing and regret.

That is how I feel when I see pregnancy-related posts. I am not bitter or resent babies or others' joy. I am bruised and hurting. Whether the reminder comes from a Facebook post, or a baby commercial, or a Babies R' Us catalog in the mail -- that reminder hurts. Even if the reminder is not wrong in itself.

I do my best to navigate those reminders, and avoid as many as I can, because some days I'm just not ready to have someone or something press in on my bruise and cause me pain.

Which brings me to the second point I made on my note . . .

2) If you are pregnant and are going to announce a pregnancy, and you know someone who recently suffered a loss, please let them know privately before making a public announcement. This can really help someone who is struggling with loss to be emotionally prepared for your announcement and subsequent posts.

I was not asking every pregnant woman to go through a mental rolodex and think of every single person they might offend each time before they post. I was simply asking that ONE TIME, before you make your first announcement, to give a friend that you know is struggling with loss or infertility a heads-up. This will help them to navigate those painful reminders -- whether that means they unsubscribe to your posts for a time, choose not to look at their newsfeed, or whatever they need to do to protect their heart.

Vintage Farm Girl felt that the burden should fall on those of us struggling with loss to protect ourselves on Facebook. And in part, I believe that we do need to be responsible (which is why I've stopped checking my newsfeed most days.) But your private message can help us be responsible for guarding our emotions while on Facebook.

Because I am writing to those who consider themselves support people, I wanted to give them one more tool in their tool box of ways to support someone. So often people tell those of us going through a loss, "Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Well, I am giving a suggestion of one thing you CAN do to help. And it DOES help.

I want to reiterate what (in bold) I was NOT asking people to do:

I'm not asking everyone to stop posting about their pregnancies. I'm not even trying to complain. And I'm not saying that your FB life should revolve around sensitive people like me.

A few of the comments I received were that I was "holding people hostage in my pain." That I could not recognize the joy of others because I did not have that particular joy. And that I was criticizing others for celebrating their blessings (amongst other things . . . ).

Let me address those criticisms for a moment.

A few weeks after our loss, my sister called to very sensitively let me know that she was expecting. If I could hold anyone up as an amazing example of how to be sensitive to others going through a loss, I would hold up my wonderful sister.

Did her announcement hurt? Terribly so. But it was not because I resented her. It was not because I resented her baby. It was not because I was a bitter woman who was holding my sister hostage.

It hurt because I had always wanted to be pregnant with my sister, and we would have only been a few weeks apart. It would have been wonderful to go through each stage of pregnancy, each milestone, together. I imagined being able to call each other as our babies learned to roll over, smile, talk and start to eat. We'd be able to compare notes on nursing, sleeping (or lack thereof) and all the adventures of being a mom the second time around.

But Olivia was dead. And even if I got pregnant right away (which I couldn't), it still wouldn't be the same.

Her announcement hurt because I couldn't be the one to simply cry with tears of joy as she had done for me. Please hear me say that if I could have only wept for tears of joy, I would have done it happily and with abandon. When we announced our pregnancy with Olivia, my sister was one of the few people that was simply so happy for me that she cried in the middle of wal-mart. Her excitement meant the WORLD to me. She had given me an amazing gift with my pregnancy that I could never give back, no matter how much I wanted to.

And trust me . . . I wanted to! Because she deserves it. Because I love her with all my heart. But I just couldn't. There was pain mixed in with my joy for her, and I couldn't sift that out no matter how hard I tried. Even Ryan couldn't understand that there was pain in her news for me. Part of what hurt was simply that there was pain where there should be none, and that I couldn't ignore that.

With her news, I realized that I would now have a very tangible reminder of Olivia. As her pregnancy progresses, she will reach milestones I never will. You can call me bitter if you want (but not on this blog) -- but the truth is she has what I do not. She announced her pregnancy on Facebook, I never got that chance. She will bless my parents with their next grandchild. I will not be able to do that with Olivia. As her child grows, I will see where my baby should have been at that age.

Her baby is a miracle. He is a blessing, and will be a wonderful addition to our family. I love my new nephew. But I also deeply miss my daughter. I miss my pregnancy. I am so very sad my sister and I will not be comparing belly pictures, pregnancy aches and pains, delivery stories, and our babies' milestones. I'm devastated that our babies will not know each other and be close cousins.

My grief is real. So is my joy for my sister. Both feelings live together in the same heart, sometimes like best friends and other times like fighting siblings. Sometimes the grief feels stronger. Other times joy wins out.

My pain for Olivia and my joy for my new nephew must coexist. There is no other way.

One last thing I wanted to share . . .

Last Sunday, I woke up feeling happy and content. This is unusual for me. I questioned it at first . . . then gave in to the wonder of waking up sandwiched between Maddy and Ryan watching the rays of sunlight filter through the curtains to announce a peaceful morning. I snuggled my family, and drank in the peace that was overtaking my heart in that moment.

During church, though, I had difficulty concentrating. I wanted to hear the message, but my heart and mind were fixed on what Olivia was doing in heaven. Was she happy? Does she look down on me? Does she know I love her? While we worship here, is she singing? Is she just a little baby . . . or is she big? I couldn't get my mind off of her all morning.

Lunch was fine. On my way home, I casually browsed through my Facebook newsfeed for a few minutes. Two friends had announced pregnancies.

I knew that it was April's Fool's Day. But my own sister had announced her very real pregnancy on Facebook on April's Fool's Day two years ago. I needed to give both of these friends the benefit of the doubt, because neither seemed to me like the type to joke about a pregnancy.

For a few hours that afternoon, I wrestled with my emotions. Besides the bruise I mentioned I feel earlier, I also knew I needed to be happy for these women. But I had pain, and it was hard to feel happy. I also had to prepare myself for seeing them with belllies, seeing posts about ultrasounds, and the like.

While I wrestled to have joy for these women, I was painfully aware that I had begun spotting the day before. We were trying to conceive this month, and I was hoping to be pregnant. I was terrified of having another ectopic as I had lots of pain earlier in the week from my fallopian tube. A late period + spotting + pain in my tube + a negative pregnancy test =  the potential that I might have another ectopic.

Could I withstand another loss? If I didn't have a loss, then I was still not pregnant, which was disappointing, though not as devastating as an ectopic would be. Just dealing with the disappointment and fear surrounding my spotting would have been enough in the day to warrant a breakdown. But there was more . . .

Because it was a nice day, and because our memorial tree was finally ready, Ryan and I had decided to bury the tissue I had passed with Olivia and plant her tree. (Don't worry, I kept the tissue sanitarily.)

Before we went outside for our the burial, I checked Facebook one more time. It turns out that those pregnancy announcements were just April's Fool's jokes.

But it didn't feel funny to me. Not at all. I wrestled for hours that day to try to muster up happiness for my friends, on a very emotionally-charged day. And it was all for nothing.

It was then that I posted my note about Facebook.

I hope all this background info helps you understand my original post. And no matter how you first felt about my note, I do hope that it encourages you to still be sensitive and to know how to help your friends on Facebook struggling through loss.

And . . . if you've actually read this far, thank you. I think this has been my longest post to date. I appreciate you hanging in there with me while I hash through my intentions and background on what has been my most controversial post so far.

If you have gone through a loss, what other helpful things have your friends done to help you navigate the emotional minefield that we live in day-to-day?

Swimming with sharks

I'm a big fan of Shark Week.

Which is weird, because I am TERRIFIED of sharks. And every episode has my heart in my thoat, my hands sweating, and my muscles tense.

I remember watching one episode where a woman was attacked by a great white shark while she was kayaking near the shore. The shark rammed her from below, flipping her kayak and dumping her in the water. Her husband was far ahead, and was only getting farther away as he continued stroke after stroke, unaware that his wife was battling one of the most feared predators the world has known -- an 18-foot great white.

She eventually made it back into her kayak, with a bite to her arm, and paddled to shore where her husband met her. At one point during the attack, he had looked back to check on her, but couldn't paddle quickly enough to help.

The next day, this woman did something I never would have done.

She got back into the water.

She figured if she didn't do it right away, she might lose the guts to ever get into the water again. She didn't want one shark to ruin a sport she loves.

Today that's where I found myself. Facing the water. And wondering if today I will be swimming with the sharks.

Recently, I got bitten. Doing something I love, in a place that I had considered both safe and sacred.

I was bitten by words. Ignorant, vicious, cruel words that attacked my character, my motives, my purpose, my message, my family, my spiritual walk, my relationships . . . just about everything one could attack.

And let me be the first to admit . . . IT HURT. Bad enough that I really didn't want to get back in the water again. For the first time, this place has truly made me feel vulnerable. Losing a daughter is painful enough. Having people kick you while you're down is pain on a whole new level.

The thing is . . . I'm not a quitter. And I might be sensitive -- and some might consider that a weakness -- but I'm also really strong.

I am strong enough to get back in the water.

But I'm arming myself against the sharks.

From now on, readers' comments will be filtered through a second party. If a reader attacks me, my family or another reader in any way, that comment will be deleted before I will ever see it.

Also, there will be no more anonymous comments. You will have to register your name if you are going to comment.

If you want to comment, please keep your words helpful, kind, and respectful to me and to all my readers. You might disagree with what I write, but realize that my writing is about my journey and my feelings along the way. My feelings are valid -- whether or not you agree.

I stand 100% behind my character, my motives, my grief, my journey and my blog. And so, by the way, does my husband.

 I will never claim to be perfect.

But I do claim to be as honest as I can be. I will do my best to honor the very short life of my daughter. I will stand up for those of us in the club that no one wants to belong in, and share what life is like from our perspective as moms who have lost their babies. I will do my best to help others understand how to support the women in their lives struggling with pregnancy loss. And I will fulfill what I feel like God has called me to do -- to grieve out loud and break the silence of loss.

Into the water I go . . .


P.S. To all of you who have called, texted and Facebooked me during the last 24 hours to encourage me . . . thank you. I have visited your words numerous times, drawing from them the confidence and courage to continue my blog. I love each of you very much, and am blessed beyond blessed to count you all as friends.