The two weeks following the misoprostol were difficult to say the least. I smiled less, I cried often. I did my best to put on a brave face at work, but on the inside I was broken. My bleeding was a constant reminder of our loss. I felt empty. I was empty.
I had gotten up for work on a Friday morning, almost two weeks after the misoprostol, and felt like I was finally seeing a small light at the end of our hellish tunnel. I had hardly bled at all the last two days, and I finally felt like I was getting back to “normal”.
That afternoon at work, I felt a sudden gush of blood into my underwear. I had a diva cup inserted, so I was a little taken aback that I had filled all 30 mL of it and then some. I carefully made my way to the bathroom to empty the cup and then carried on with my day. I didn’t think much of it, until an hour later I felt another huge gush of blood. What the hell was going on?! I thought this nightmare was coming to an end.
I waddled my way to the bathroom and discovered I had filled my diva cup yet again and bled all the way through my panties and leggings. I embarrassed and scared.
My clothes were too blood-soaked to put back on. I still had to see another three patients that day, there was no way I was going to sit at my desk with no panties and blood everywhere. I tried to maintain my calm, as my mind flicked through the various outcomes and consequences of what was happening. The nurses at the fertility clinic said that if I soaked a pad an hour, for two consecutive hours, then that was cause for concern. Maybe the bleeding would slow down and everything would be fine. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I put my diva cup in and found a bag for my bloody clothes. I talked to my manager and explained the embarrassing situation. As I explained to her what happened I started crying and she told me to do whatever I had to do.
I grabbed my purse and walked to my car. The second I stepped foot out the front door, I felt blood running down both of my legs.
Oh my god. I couldn’t believe that my miscarriage wasn’t over. It was only getting worse. I didn’t think that was even possible.
I sat in my car and broke down. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t go anywhere because I had no panties and blood streaming down my legs. I didn’t know if I should go to the hospital, but even still I had blood leaking down my legs under my dress. I would have left a trail of blood behind me and who knows how long I would have to wait.
I called one of my co-workers from inside my car. I don’t even remember what I said to her, I was just crying and hyperventilating. She got me an extra pad she had in her purse and a garbage bag to sit on. I called my wife and she talked to me in the kind and calm voice that she uses when I’m freaking out. I started to breathe and get my head straight again. I felt physically fine and I knew I could drive home safely. I just needed some goddamn panties and a pad and then I could figure out what to do next.
I drove the hour from Regina back to Moose Jaw trying to convince myself that everything was going to be okay. I pulled into my driveway an as soon as I got up out of the car, blood was leaking out from the pad and running down my legs. I ran inside to my bathroom and took my diva cup out. I had filled the diva cup again, completely soaked the pad I was sitting on and there was blood everywhere. I went into full panic mode, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably on the toilet. I knew I was bleeding too much.
My poor wife started cleaning up around me and asked if we should go to emergency. I still couldn’t think straight. Deep down, I knew I had lost too much blood that afternoon, but I wanted to check with the fertility clinic before I went into emergency. Being a nurse, I didn’t want to go to emergency without a good reason. I got into the shower to wash the blood off my legs.
I called the clinic and the nurse confirmed that I should go to emergency. I heard some worry in her voice as I told her about how much blood I had lost that afternoon. We gathered our things and headed to the hospital for my first emergency trip ever.
The emergency room was like everything else in Moose Jaw: small and quiet. I was thankful for that because as we sat there I started to feel dizzy. A nurse took my vital signs before admitting me. My pulse was 134.
I had never been a patient before. After being assigned a room in emergency, I sat at the edge of the bed, adjusting to my surroundings. Somehow, laying down on the stretcher would have been admitting there was really something wrong. I was feeling better now that we were at the hospital. My wife and I talked lightheartedly, to distract ourselves. My bleeding had slowed quite a bit in the last couple of hours, which was encouraging. I felt a bit silly for even being there. Maybe I wouldn’t need a D&C after all.
The doctor on call was actually my family doctor. It was a relief to see a friendly face. He said that we would do some blood work and a speculum exam and the decide what to do from there. My blood work was drawn by an awkward lab tech and we continued to wait, listening to the buzz of the emergency department around us.
My doctor came back in to the room a while later for the speculum exam. Ugh. I knew it had to be done, but I was not looking forward to it. I laid back and scooched to the edge of the bed, with a wedge pillow under my butt. I made a joke about how many people had been up in my private bits lately that I really didn’t care anymore. But that was a lie. I did care. It was invasive and awful. I hated it.
The doctor saw what he thought could be blood clots or products of pregnancy, but he wasn’t sure. He wanted to do an ultrasound to confirm what was going on.
I walked down the hall to the ultrasound room. The tech did an abdominal ultrasound first. She said I still had a bit of urine in my bladder and that I should empty it in order to do a transvaginal ultrasound. Oh great. My favourite.
I went to the bathroom that was attached to the room and peed. I stood up to wipe and gushed blood all over the floor. How much blood could I possibly have left in me?! I tried my best to wipe up the floor. I told the tech what happened and apologized profusely. I was overcome with embarrassment.
The transvaginal ultrasound was bloody and awful. I felt so exposed and there was nothing I could do about my bleeding. I just laid there and stared at the ceiling wondering what I did to deserve this. The tech was very kind and said that it wasn’t my fault when I kept apologizing for bleeding everywhere. She said she couldn’t tell me anything she saw on the screen and I would have to wait for my doctor to tell me the results.
As I walked back to my room, I felt another gush of blood. That continued for the next couple of hours as we waited for the results to come back. I finally resigned myself to laying down on the stretcher. I felt tired and defeated. I just wanted some answers. I just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The doctor came back into the room and shut the doors. He told me that the ultrasound had shown some retained tissues from the pregnancy. He said that though my condition was not emergent, it was urgent and that I would need a D&C the next day. My worst fear was coming true. I immediately asked if I would be under a general anesthetic and he said that likely I would be. That made me feel marginally better. I started to cry for the first time since being admitted. I had done so well putting on a brave face. But that all came crashing down when I knew that a D&C was inevitable.
Somehow we managed to sleep a little bit that night and then we headed to the hospital bright and early the next day. After checking in, I put on a hospital gown. It was then that I really felt like a patient. I sensed all of my autonomy and confidence slowly drain out. I suddenly had so much empathy and respect for patients I had looked after in the past. I never truly realized how powerless and frustrating it was to be a patient, especially in a hospital setting. In the whirlwind of crap that I was dealing with, I felt a small pang of gratitude to have had that experience. The nurse in me knew that this experience would probably make me a better nurse down the road. Maybe it’s strange to have felt that just from the folds of an uncomfortable, snowflake-patterned hospital gown, but that’s what I felt.
As an aside, who decided that snowflakes were a good pattern for like every hospital gown ever? Ew.
The gynecologist who was going to do my D&C came in to speak with us regarding the surgery. His smile was nice, but his eyes and body language said that he didn’t really care all that much. He wanted to do another ultrasound, as I had bled a considerable amount last night, just to make sure the D&C was still necessary.
Sure enough, the abdominal ultrasound showed small patches of white in my uterus, indicating that there were still tissues present.
As I began to ask him questions about the procedure, I quickly discovered that he had no interest in informed consent. I asked him when my period could be expected to come back and about the risks of the procedure. He said he didn’t know when my period would come back and that there were no risks to a D&C. I asked about Asherman’s Syndrome, which is a rare complication leading to infertility, and he just waved his hand at me dismissively at me saying that it was nothing to worry about. He also said that I could just as easily take another dose of the pill and not have the D&C at all and that it was up to me. He left the room for a few minutes to let us decide.
For the umpteenth time in this whole process, I was glad to be a nurse. I was already decently informed of the risks of a general anesthetic and had done my own research on the D&C procedure. But I kind of wanted to discuss it with a real live doctor who specialized in gynecology to make sure that I was making a good decision. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen today. It’s no wonder people regularly turn to “Dr. Google” and message boards on the internet. If you get stuck with a doctor who doesn’t care about you, unfortunately you don’t have anywhere else to turn.
My wife and I talked about what we were going to do. I was really scared of the D&C.. Though it was irrational, I kept having horrible thoughts of never waking up from anesthesia. Any surgery is risky and I wanted to avoid those risks, if possible. Still, but clearly the pill did not work for me the first time and I really did not want to go through all of that again. Again, I was stuck choosing the lesser of two evils.
The gynecologist came back into the room and asked if we had decided because the anesthesiologist was on her way and if we weren’t going with the D&C then she wouldn’t bother coming. His tone made it very clear that we were at the bottom of his priority list. Apparently the schedule of the anesthesiologist was more important than this critical decision to have surgery or not. I looked at my wife and then told him that I would have the surgery.
After an hour and a half wait, I was wheeled to the operating room. The bright white lights and air of sterility greeted me, reminding me of my scrub nurse days. All of the staff were women, which made me feel slightly more comfortable. I walked to the operating room table and laid down as the anesthesiologist started asking me questions. Through a veil of numbness, I felt the hustle and bustle of nurses attaching cardiac and vital signs monitoring to me. I thought of all the times I had prepped a patient for surgery and realized how nervous they must have been, as I put a blood pressure cuff and a warm blanket over them.
I looked up at the ceiling covered with fluorescent lights, a sight that was becoming all too familiar to me, and the anesthesiologists face came into view. Her eyes looked kind and I imagined what her face looked like underneath her mask. She asked me if this was my first baby. Hearing the word “baby” made me burst into tears. Since the miscarriage everyone had referred to the “products of pregnancy”, which while medically useful, is a very dehumanizing term. It was like everyone just wanted to pretend that my baby was never there.
I hurriedly explained through my tears that I really wanted this baby and that I was a nurse and that this was not how I ever imagined things would turn out. The anesthesiologist wiped tears from my eyes with the flannel blanket and said that everything was going to be okay. This happens to a lot of women. You’ll have another baby, she told me. I felt so ashamed of how my body had failed.
She announced that she was giving me a dose of midazolam, which I was so grateful for. Everything got fuzzy and I felt wonderful. All of my worries were suspended temporarily as I unknowingly drifted off…
The next thing I knew, I was flicking my eyes open in the recovery room. The lights were dim and I felt the pressure of the cuff on my arm, as my nurse took my vital signs. She said that my wife was waiting for me at the end of the hall. I was so thankful to have woken up. I felt relaxed and a little dizzy.
I dozed off and woke up to my wife coming in to the room. I was so happy to see her face. She read to me a little bit, as I slowly had some apple juice and the most amazing piece of toast with peanut butter on it. Seriously, guys. That toast was out of this world.
I walked slowly to the bathroom for the obligatory pee before I was able to go home. I got my discharge instructions and felt like a princess as a porter wheeled me down to the front door. I hoped that all of the kind staff I encountered was some sort of nursing karma for the compassion and care I’ve shown my patients over the years. Either way, I was grateful to step into the sunshine and go home.
The next two days were full of sleep, tears, Netflix, cuddles and comfort food. I was anxious about taking too much time off because I wanted to save my sick time for future fertility appointments. I wish I could have taken more time off to really process what happened to me.
I let life whisk me away and I kind of left my emotional health in the dust. I’m dealing with it as best I can now, with meditation and exercise. Everyday is a little bit better, but if I’m being honest with myself I’m far from being in the clear. I put on a smile because I’m pretty good at faking being happy, but I know deep down I have some healing to do. I’ve been more gentle and compassionate towards myself than I ever have been in my life, which is an area in which I’ve been wanting to grow for some time.
People have said to me that everything happens for a reason and that this experience will make me a stronger person. I’ve been told that it will happen when it’s meant to happen. I’ve been told to focus on the positive. I’ve been told that everything has a silver lining if you look hard enough. But you know what?
There is nothing good about my baby dying. There is no positive thinking that will take away the pain of losing her. I did not need this traumatic experience to become a stronger person. I was already strong to begin with.