Story of a forced abortion

Dear anonymous --

I think I speak for all my readers when I say, I am so, so sorry for what you went through. I can't imagine losing twins -- enduring that at a young age -- and having no choice in your abortion.

Wishing you much love and healing.

Rachel


A story of two lives lost, one life forever altered

I just read your blog about miscarriage, I also read many of the comments and didn't notice any about losing a child to abortion. Maybe I didn't read enough comments?

I had an abortion 30 years ago. I was 13 years old and my mother gave me no choice.

They were twins, I do not know the sex of them nor did I name them, but I grieve for them still till this day. I think of what they would be like, just as I think about my 2 living children's futures and lives. I grieve for them always and await the day I am reunited with them.

 -- Anonymous

Heather's Story: A complicated grief



I feel guilty writing this, as my circumstances are so very different than most here, and I can only imagine the losses any of you are feeling.

My first child, a son, was a surprise at my young age. I've since had two fairly healthy daughters as well. With my son, when I was right at three months, I started bleeding. The military doctors rotated. The one on duty the day I went in wasn't concerned, so I headed several states away to visit family. My spouse was deployed.

I had my first of several ultrasounds while visiting family. Since my spouse was deployed, my mom went with me to this unfamiliar doctor's office in the medical building she was employed in. I can't remember everything that was said, as I was 18 and this was in 1997.

I remember the term "dissolving twin" being tossed around. When I asked my mom, she dismissed that thought. I assumed she knew more than I did and stopped talking about it. She would correct me when I did share in front of others. I didn't bother telling my spouse at that time. He had enough stress being in the Middle East.

Fast forward several years, and I found the ultrasound pictures and medical records sealed up from that day. My mom had them still.

I don't know if my son was a twin. He overheard me talking about it and said he is sure it was his twin and feels a piece of him is missing. I don't know how to process this honestly, so I haven't allowed myself to. I allow him to share anything, though I wonder if it's wishful thinking for a brother on his part. Beyond that, I'm clueless what is "ok" for me to feel.

Eventually, we did have a young man live with us his senior year. Neither of his parents would allow him to reside there due to his past issues. We loved him, and he went off to college eventually. He was stabbed two years ago and died from this. He wasn't my child in reality, yet I silently mourn his loss daily.

What I do know is that each day, I hug my kids tighter. Earthly existence is temporary. All in my family, including this young man, are children of God's, so we will be together in eternity someday. My heart will then be able to find peace.

Heather

Thank you, Heather, for sharing. Please, don't feel any guilt at all. A loss is a loss is a loss. I'm sorry that your losses have been complicated, which makes it that much harder to know how to grieve. You are so right -- in heaven, our hearts will finally be at peace. Rachel

Guest Blogger: Response to "Letter to friends with infertility"

I'm so thankful for this precious woman who has chosen to share her story, and delve more into the difficulties in infertility. If you choose to comment, please keep your comments full of love!  -- Rachel

Oh Rachel, thank you. You get infertility as much as you can. And because of that, I come away feeling validated. Validated that my pain is real. Validated that people’s words hurt me even though usually unintentionally. Validated that others could be more careful. 

I would want anyone who has ever questioned my reality to read your letter. It gives good insight about some of what I’m going through. Maybe others wouldn’t judge my actions and reactions as they do if they had any sympathy of the situation. I definitely feel like others dismiss my pain. I have to be guarded now in who I open up to because there are very callous responses from people who don’t understand. 

Just ONE of the crazy things about infertility is that while I am currently dealing with the loss of motherhood, if I ever give birth or adopt, then that loss becomes extinct. Unless a couple is actually told, “You will never have children,” they join the rest of us as we live in this in-between state. We don’t have children but we may have children. In life, we often want definites. Infertility is most certainly a shade of gray, not black or white. 

After being told we had unexplained infertility, the doctor said, “That is actually a good place to be. Because it doesn’t mean you can’t have children.”

Maybe if I were just told I would never have kids, I could just move on. I would know to grieve over never being pregnant, and then pursue other options. But instead, I live in a waiting game . . . Four years and counting. 

Another issue is how to deal with others' comments. I’ve developed a system of avoidance of painful situations like baby showers and such, but you cannot possibly plan for when someone outright asks you questions or makes comments.

After one rather traumatic interaction, I replayed the whole scenario over and over until I came up with my plan for any future issues. If the person is merely an acquaintance or is not someone I want to open up to, I will say something like, “That is a personal topic and I would not like to discuss it with you.” If they persist, I would reiterate that. If the person is closer, I might say something like, “Well, I would be willing to share with you on that if you want to get coffee sometime.” The latter will be an indication that I do not intend to discuss anything at that time or in an open setting. 

I would like to share that traumatic experience because it was so hurtful, I just need to get it out.

We were at a large gathering on a Sunday afternoon to celebrate the finalization of a baby's adoption. I was fine being there because the couple is older than us and cannot have children. I was holding the baby, when this middle-aged woman I’ll call Rosa came and sat next to me.

Rosa is from Spain, and I knew her from previous employment. She was all smiles and said something like, “When are you having a baby?” 

Because of the language barrier, I couldn’t understand if she was asking when I am due or telling me that I should get started having a family. I am a plus-sized woman, so the former would be an insulting comment regardless of my situation. (It just adds insult to injury to look pregnant because of excess weight and not be). 

I just responded, “No.” She kept asking and commenting for several more minutes, and I just kept saying, “No.” If I had been prepared, I would have told her that is a private matter and I did not want to discuss it with her.

I left that afternoon with all kinds of emotions. I was rather shocked that she continued to press the issue. I tried to tell my husband afterward that I don’t want to be around that person again, and that I was making eyes at him to come rescue me. But he had no clue.

I do try to be merciful when others make hurtful comments, as I am sure that I made many unknowingly harmful comments before I experienced infertility myself. I now find myself SO grateful when meeting new people who DON’T make comments or ask questions.  If you can see that we have no children around us and we haven’t made comments about a babysitter, then it is logical to assume we have no children. I know I will never ask someone about their family status again. I know all too well what it does. 

I do envision what a child with my husband’s and my DNA would look like. But I think, even more than that, I live in fear all the time that one of our parents will pass away without ever meeting our children, or at least one child. 

The more years that pass, the scarier and more real this fear becomes. It is very important to me. My dad’s mother died before I was a year old and I treasure the very few photos there are of her holding me. Even though I never knew her, it means a lot that she met me. I want that for my children. And every woman knows that she needs her mother more than ever when she’s pregnant. Your mom is your best comfort at that time. I would hate to not have my mom around if I ever get to experience pregnancy. 

Infertility is absolutely consuming. I can’t seem to ever shut my brain off. I’m always aware of where I am at in my cycle, when we need to try, what symptoms I’m feeling, and the many whens: when to take medicine, when to get bloodwork, and when the doctor appointments are. 

Any women that ever says they were miserably sick for nine months does not understand that I would LOVE to be miserably sick for nine months knowing that I would have a child. 

I constantly question what God wants from me. What am I doing wrong? What am I supposed to learn? Hasn’t this season lasted long enough? 

I hate this season and I don’t handle it gracefully. The longer I remain here the MORE I sin. Is God waiting for me to have no more jealousy, bitterness, faithlessness, distrust, anger, resentment,self-pity, and lack of joy before he will give me children?  If he’s waiting for that, I know I’ll never have kids. Because every day, I learn of someone else being pregnant, fight with my husband when he’s not compassionate, fear losing my parents, or question God’s best.

I also feel like I have to justify adoption. I want to adopt children. I am strongly convicted as a born-again Christian that I should care for orphans and train them to love God. I want to have a home that more and more children are added to it all the time. I look forward to a large family.

When asked why I don’t adopt right now, my answer is that it would be much easier for my husband and me to learn how to be parents from conception on. If given the opportunity, I want to take advantage of God’s design in the nine months of preparation and the growths tages of a baby.  There’s a slow transformation that takes place in natural parenting. Once we experience that, then it will be so much easier to add more and more children. I never want to have a stigma that we adopted because “we had no other choice.” I want to adopt because I want to adopt. 

I know that you will struggle with key dates having lost your baby. I struggle with dates, too. Especially my birthday.

Last year, several weeks before my birthday, whenever I thought about it, I would burst into tears, because I wanted to have several children by this age!  I am grieving that I will never have children in my 20s. The 30s are scary when it comes to fertility. Time is counting down.

And some holidays are hard, too. Family getting together at Christmas, and it’s another year passed without any grandkids. While on my husband's side, there are now four grandkids, none of whom were around when my husband and I got married. 

I do wish that every pregnant woman would realize that her pregnancy is a source of pain to others. A reminder of what they don't have. A source of jealousy about wanting to be in your place.  And bitterness when you complain about your situation.

I am a very outspoken person, and my infertility has made me understand that everything out of my mouth, on facebook, in a blog, etc., has the potential of hurting others. I HAVE learned this lesson to be careful about my joys or hurts being a stumbling block for someone else. 


If you would like to share your story of pregnancy loss or infertility, please email me your story at renyeart@gmail.com. I can post your story anonymously if you would like. I do reserve the right to edit your post for clarity.

Breaking 11 years of silence: A story of miscarriage at 13 weeks

I am honored today to share the story of a friend who suffered a miscarriage at 13 weeks. She went through her unplanned pregnancy and miscarriage alone. Completely alone. After 11 years, she is breaking the silence and is now talking about her precious baby and the loss that rocked her world.

We all have such different experiences in our loss. Her story shows the side that is so often overlooked. What happens when a pregnancy isn't planned, and lost? What does life look life after a loss when you suffer alone?

I want to be sure to protect this momma's heart -- so if you want to comment, please keep your comments full of love.

-- Rachel

When I moved to a new state at the beginning of my junior year of high school, I fell in love with a boy. For years, I hoped he would notice me. When he finally did . . . I knew he was the one. I was young, unmarried and thought I was invincible; the thought of getting pregnant never crossed my mind.

I actually got pregnant on the night that I lost my virginity. I was on birth control, but had strep throat and was on antibiotics, thus rendering my birth control inactive. It took me quite a while to realize I was pregnant. I just wasn't paying attention to the fact that I had missed a period or two, and because I was taking birth control, I never thought I would get pregnant.

Once I realized what was happening and took a pregnancy test, I was getting ready to go back to college for my junior year. I went to the doctor and it was confirmed, but the doctor said that I might have done some damage by continuing to take my birth control while pregnant. I immediately stopped and knew that, no matter what, I was going to keep the baby. I already loved that little one growing inside of me.

I went back to college and didn't tell anyone. Not my family, not my friends and not the father. I was just going to travel home for my doctor’s appointments and figure out how to tell my family after I started really showing.

Around 13 weeks, I started cramping really bad. I went to the health center at my school and they recommended an OB/GYN in Charlotte. I went and they did an ultrasound, but the baby's heartbeat was slightly slower than normal. They said there could be many contributing factors. They scheduled me for another ultrasound a few days later to check the heartbeat and everything again.

Two days later, I woke up cramping and bleeding heavily. I had never felt/seen anything like it. I didn't want to tell my suite-mate, so I got dressed and walked (very slowly) across campus. By the time I got to the health center, I was in bad shape. They called an ambulance and they took me to the ER.

When I got there, they did an ultrasound and there was no heartbeat. They sedated me, and did another ultrasound a few hours later. The doctor confirmed that there wasn't any hope, but that I needed to have a D&C procedure.

I had surgery and was released the next day. I remember being “foggy.” I’m not sure that I truly understood what was going on. I had just lost my precious baby. But because I hadn’t told anyone, I had to go on with my life as if nothing had happened.

I was pretty sick for the week or two after . . . I had a lot of bleeding and cramping and felt so empty, but I just couldn't bring myself to talk about it with anyone. It was almost surreal. I felt like I was walking through a life that wasn’t my own. I just didn’t tell anyone. In fact, I didn't tell anyone for many years.

I just started opening up about it over the last year, but still don't talk about it much. I went through it completely alone and felt like I had no one to turn to. I lied to so many people for so many years! People were concerned about me and couldn't understand why I cried all the time, so I tried to put on a brave front and go on with my life.

It has been almost 11 years and there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about my child. There are times that I dream about her. While I have lived a good life since that day, I can’t say that the emptiness has ever gone away. Maybe it won’t ever go away. Someday, I hope to blessed with children, but for now, I know that she is looking down on me. Mommy Loves You!

A word to others:
To those who have a friend who has lost a baby, let them talk about it as much or as little as they need to. There are days that I long to talk about her and days that I don't.

Thank you so much, friend, for being so brave in sharing your story. Thank you for sharing your precious baby's story -- I know you miss her so much.



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.


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.

One step forward . . . two steps backward

Today, I took a step forward. I also took two steps backward. Or . . .  make that a dozen.

I actually did an Arbonne party today. Was I ready to? No. Was I ever going to feel ready? Maybe not for a long, long time. But as my mom and my counselor both pointed out, it might feel good to do something "normal." Something productive that usually brings me satisfaction.

Last night was extremely rough, and I thought I was making a huge mistake in trying for the party today. But you know what? I did it. Granted, I made a billion "mistakes." Things I forgot to bring -- things I brought, then left them in the car -- things I did completely wrong. I even called one of the guests by the wrong name. I guess you still get post-partum brain, even when there's no baby at the end of the pregnancy.

In spite of all that, the girls were really sweet. I enjoyed getting to know them, and I enjoyed the party.

Ryan and Maddy drove with me to the party, so I think that made it easier.

But on the way home, I became sullen. We ate at Panera, and I was consumed by remembering my last visit to Panera -- the day after I miscarried and I had emotionally lost it when I got my coffee.

Later this evening, friends of ours watched Maddy so Ryan and I could have a date. It was super, super nice of them. I was looking forward to our date earlier in the day, but now? Now I was paralyzed by emotion. We ended up at the movies watching Mission Impossible. But I couldn't focus. I read blogs and texted. I just felt disconnected from everything -- Ryan included. Nothing felt right.

My mood had gone considerably south by the time we'd gotten home. Anxiety about going to church crept up. Ok, it didn't creep. It clawed at me, making me feel like I was on the verge of a panic attack. I wanted to go to church, but I'm not ready for attention. I feel like I'll just cry through worship. Not be able to focus during the sermon. And I feel like I'll want to make a beeline out of there if anyone talks to me.  Ryan assured me I didn't have to go if I wasn't ready. But I almost feel like the longer I procrastinate, the harder it will be.

Then there's the anxiety about more "firsts" coming up this week. (As in, "Last time I did this, I was pregnant. This will be my first time doing this/going there/talking to this person since I lost the baby.") Last time I went to church, I was pregnant. Now I'm not. And later this week, I will go to my work to collect my things and have lunch with my friends. But last time I was there, I was pregnant and I began cramping and this entire nightmare began.

I decided to try to sleep off the anxiety, but decided to open my mail first. I opened up a sympathy card. The first thing I read was, "There are no words that are appropriate right now." How true. This whole situation was inappropriate really. When is it appropriate to lose a baby? And what words could a person say?

The truth of this overwhelmed me. The woman who had penned those words was the first to see me in the bathroom at work, curled up on the floor in pain. She was the first that brought it to my attention that I might be losing the baby. Until then, I was in complete denial anything was truly wrong.

Remembering that day sent me into flashbacks of the events I've gone through in the last three weeks.

Trauma 1: I was at work, enjoying a Christmas party when the cramps started. A week before, I had been joking to a coworker that I had a "cranky uterus" this time around. We both laughed. But on this particular day, the cramps were sudden and awful.

It became obvious to others I was in pain, but I didn't want attention. So I excused myself to the bathroom, thinking that in 15 minutes or so, they would pass and I would be able to eat the yummy Indian food that was waiting for me.

That was definitely not the case. I found myself needing to breathe through the cramps, and eventually, I curled up on the floor (albeit, as far away from the toilet as I could possibly get. And yes, I know this is really gross. But I was just trying to get through the pain.) Coworkers came in, and I insisted I was OK . . . but deep inside, I wanted someone to come help me. Finally, my friend Deb came in and saw me crying in pain. She said, "That's it. We're driving you home, or to the hospital. Which is it?"

They drove me to my parents' house, and my dad believed I had either an ectopic pregnancy, an obstructed bowel, or appendicitis. My parents took me to the ER. Before I got to see the Dr., much of my pain subsided due to pain meds and I wanted to go home. My dad insisted that I be seen.

Trauma 2: I had a very kind, compassionate Dr. He seemed to care very much for me and my baby, and spent a lot of time with us. We discussed how far along I might be, and when my due date is. And then, he reviewed my paperwork one last time before leaving the room to order tests and said casually, "Oh, wait a  minute. The pregnancy test here says you're not pregnant."

And with that calm, casual statement -- as if he was announcing something as trivial as my temperature -- a part of my heart died. Just died. I knew there was no reason for the pregnancy test not to be positive unless the baby had died, or was going to die. And the despair that filled my entire being was so consuming. Crying didn't help. Nothing helped. During that time, I was almost numb to physical pain. They put in the IV lock, and I didn't notice. I almost wanted some physical pain at that time to take away the heartache. To give me some distraction from the raw emptiness inside. (Eventually I got it as my arm ached from the IV.)

I had to have an ultrasound, and I watched the image of my empty uterus wave across the screen as the technician searched for a baby. Nothing. There was nothing. I know what my pregnant uterus should look like. And that was definitely empty. At one point, she turned up the sound and I heard a familiar "whoosh whoosh" of a heartbeat. I think the technician saw hope flick across my face for a brief instant, because she quickly made note that that was MY heartbeat -- not a baby's.

It seemed like the ultrasounds lasted 30 minutes (I had two). All during that time I was despondent. The technician was also kind, and told me over and over, "I'm sorry." But she said she couldn't tell me anything about the ultrasound. She just said, "I know you think you know what this is, but it might not be." But then in the next breath, she would look at me compassionately and say, "I'm so sorry."

By the time I saw the Dr. again, I had been in the ER for 5 hours. And I had begun to bleed. The Dr. said the blood draw came back positive for pregnancy with very low HCG levels. I had to wait until Friday for the blood draw to find out if the numbers had doubled, which would indicate that the pregnancy might be viable. He told me that he wasn't willing to give up on my baby. That he's seen crazy things happen before, and he was holding onto hope.

I felt a little bit better. But I also knew it would take a miracle from God for us to keep this baby.

Trauma 3: On Friday (two days after the ER visit), I had the blood draw. After the blood draw, I came home and could finally sleep. I was worn out from praying, crying, reading about miscarriage/ectopic pregnancy, and the like. It was as if after the blood draw, there was nothing left for me to do. A friend recently blogged that we women fight to keep our babies alive in the uterus. I definitely felt as if I had been in a battle. Now it was up to the numbers to tell us the fate of our baby.

The nurse's call woke me up and she said we had good news. The numbers had gone from 560 to 840. So that meant the baby was still alive and growing. When I informed the nurse that I hadn't bleed at all in 24 hours, she was encouraged. She, too, said she was holding onto hope for our baby.  But she also said that because the numbers didn't double, she was still quite concerned about the placement of the baby.

So much hope was given to me then. I began texting and calling with the good news. But still, I did ask friends to pray that if our baby was ectopic, that I would pass the baby naturally so I didn't have to make any hard decisions.

Five hours after the nurse's call, it seemed that God was answering my prayer. Well, at least the prayer that I had hoped He wouldn't have to answer.

The bleeding began, and the cramps. We were supposed to have dinner with Ryan's grandpa that night -- but I didn't think I should go. We were supposed to go out of town on vacation the next morning, but I didn't know what I should do. Ryan and I were on opposite pages as far as what we should do at this point, and emotionally, we were both heated. But I knew this was the end. I wanted to pass the baby as peacefully as I could at home.

[Please excuse the next part -- it's a bit more graphic, but I really feel I need to write this out.] During the cramping, I was constantly in the restroom checking my bleeding. It was definitely as heavy as a period. Once, when I stood up, I felt something in me and felt the need to push. I sat back down and did, and this large clot with tissue forcefully came out.

As soon as I saw the clot, I began weeping, clinging to the toilet. I knew it was our baby, and she was sitting in our toilet. I felt as if this caged animal inside of me was let loose. There was no rational thinking. No logic holding me back from just feeling. Honestly, I had no choice but to let this grief possess me in a way I had never let anything take over. I was no longer felt like Rachel -- I couldn't even recognize this person who was wailing on her bathroom floor. In truth, I don't think Ryan recognized her either.

Trauma 4: The next few days were so hard. I felt expected to be normal. To go on vacation, and be socially acceptable. To enjoy shopping and eating out. To enjoy our hotel. I couldn't. I didn't know how to be normal. I no longer cared if I made others happy or uncomfortable. I didn't know how to be this new person I had become. I didn't know how to grieve. I didn't know how to live.

Trauma 5: The following Tuesday, as I was putting on my coat to leave for my post-miscarriage appointment (that was originally scheduled as my first prenatal appointment), I felt very sharp cramping in my abdomen. Within seconds, I could no longer stand the pain was so intense. I eventually walked to the car, taking many breaks to squat. (I imagine I was a sight to the neighbors.) I called my parents and asked if one of them could watch Maddy, and the other accompany me to my appointment as I could not go alone . . . I was in too much pain. They asked if I needed them to pick me up. I declined. I didn't want to be late for my appointment.

I could hardly walk, but somehow I got Maddy into her car seat and began driving. The pain was unbearable, and made me nauseous. I kept telling myself outloud I was OK, in between dry heaving. Maddy was in the back telling me over and over not to cry. The truth is, I knew my tube had ruptured. I knew I was bleeding internally. But for some reason, I still thought I could handle it.

At one point, the logical part of me said, "You need to stop here at this fire station and tell them you need help." The illogical part said, "They'll take me by ambulance and we can't afford that." I took probably 30 minutes to make a 15-minute drive. My mom was so worried that I had gotten in an accident. (She later told me she had to get on her knees and beg God to forgive her for letting me drive like that.) As I crawled along the highway, I recieved many dirty looks from the people that passed me by. It's hard to drive fast when you hurt so badly.

By the time I reached my parents, I could officially no longer stand. I broke down in tears of relief when they took Maddy from me and helped me into the backseat of their car. My dad took me to my appointment because my parents figured he would need to carry me in.

My mom called Ryan to tell him I was in pain. She also called the office to let them know that I was coming to them in bad shape. They brought out a wheelchair and both my dad and the nurse helped me in. I sobbed as quietly as I could in the fetal position as they wheeled me through the waiting room. I was relieved the room was not full of onlookers.

My poor nurse was smaller than me, but she had to fully support me standing and had to undress me and get me into a robe as I could not. My normal self would have been humiliated -- but this new me didn't care. My OB immediately came in and did an exam. Again, nothing was in my uterus. She wheeled in the ultrasound where she saw fluid in my abdomen and a mass by my ovary. She told me I had an ectopic pregnancy and that I needed surgery right away. She said I had not passed a baby on Friday, I had passed uterine lining. The baby would have died when my tube ruptured.

She was going to try to save my tube and ovary, but she could make no promises. She didn't know what shape I was in until she opened me up.

After the nurse redressed me, I called Ryan. "I'm in pain. (Long pause). Meet me (long pause) at Harrison. (Long pause). I have to have sugery." Ryan could barely make out my words. Later he told me he thought he was going to the hospital to say a final goodbye.

At the hospital, the receptionist had me go in the backroom to fill out paperwork. Really. She wanted my insurance info. At this point, I was shaking from the pain. She asked my dad if I needed a blanket from being cold. He pointedly told her I was shaking from pain, not cold. She infomed him he needed to move his car. For a few minutes, they left me alone in the room . . . and I began dry heaving again. Finally, after seeing me try to throw up on her nice carpet, she realized maybe this was not a good idea. Paperwork could be done in the hospital room. (I can't believe it took her this long to realize the absurdity of me doing paperwork in the shape I was in.)

The nurses were really kind. I mumbled out answers to a billion questions about my health and previous surgeries as best as I could, and FINALLY they gave me pain medicine. After the shot, I began truly throwing up at this point. Ryan was finally in my room, and was trying to comfort me. Each shot for the pain lasted about 15 minutes, but it was enough to finally stop the shaking and I could rest just a bit.

Family arrived at the hospital out of nowhere. It was nice to have everyone there supporting me, even though I didn't see them.

I got wheeled into the OR, and my OB kept telling me, "Baby girl, I'm going to take care of this for you. I'm going to fix you and make you feel better." At that point, I could have cared less that she was talking to me as one might talk to a toddler. Her words gave me much comfort. I knew she cared about me.

The shot had worn off, so I was quite ready for the anesthesia. The fear I felt toward the surgery was overcome by my need for relief. The gave me the anesthesia, and I just nestled my head into the pillow as I might have if I was going to bed. Sleep was most welcome.

It took me several hours to fully wake up after surgery. At one point, I dreamed that the baby had floated down my tube into my uterus from the surgery. When I woke up, I thought I was pregnant again. It took me a while to realize that was just a dream.

It was disorienting to wake up from surgery, not knowing what had gone on. How long had I been in surgery? What time was it? Did I have a tube still? Did I have an ovary? Heck, did I have anything left in there? Did I lose blood? Did I have a transfusion?

Ryan came back and told me I did still have a tube, and that I had lost a half a liter of blood and had a huge clot, but that I did not have to have a transfusion. At some point, I thought I heard that I had a cyst on my ovary they had to take out. But I found out a week later that was just something I conjured up on my own in my anthethesia-induced stupor.

They sent me home that night. And my family and friends loved on me and took care of all of us. And I guess that's the silver-lining in this whole thing -- I've experienced other people's love and concern -- even from strangers -- in amazing ways.

Back to today -- I finally feel some relief after writing this all out. I apologize again for the more graphic nature of my post. :(  The memories of pain and fear were welling up into anxiety -- and from my past, I know the only way for me to release that is to write it all down.

Tomorrow, maybe I will go to church. Maybe I will be able to take another step forward. And maybe tomorrow night, I'll only have to take one step back -- and not two.