The good hospital drugs wore off sometime this morning. The pain isn’t horrible, but it’s not ignorable either. This day has been strangely drawn out and dull. Not that it has been boring, but rather muted. Sounds seem muffled. Colors seem less vibrant. Hours have ticked by with sloth-like tempo.
I thought I’d spend my day binge watching tv on the couch, but my mind couldn’t settle on anything, so I chose nothing instead.
I’ve slept a lot. I’ve stared at the wall a lot.
I feel nothing and everything at the same time.
I saw my kids briefly yesterday when my in-laws dropped by so they could have lunch with me. I have missed them desperately. They will come home for good tonight. I need to feel my arms around them, and their small arms around me. I need to hear their laughter.
I know this is a process and I’m at the beginning of it. It’s not scary this time. It’s not overwhelming. It’s not oppressive. It’s just going to take some time. Lots of staring at walls. Lots of silently praying in my head. Lots of sleeping. Lots of healing. I’ll get there.
I’m thankful for the friends that have dropped by, texted, messaged, brought food, run errands, and have taken such good care of me, and for my mom who has worked tirelessly to make sure I’m ok. We are blessed to have you in our lives.
Tomorrow is another day, and with my kids here it will be a better one. Thank you again for your thoughts and prayers.
I knew all the signs, but the signs didn’t happen.
But the scars did. They happened.
For those of you that have followed along on my journey for the past several years, you know the hardest, most heartbreaking thing I have encountered was the loss of our pregnancy in October 2016 due to an ectopic rupture. It shattered my world.
Yesterday I took a pregnancy test. To my shock it was positive. The first positive test in years. A flood of emotions swept over me… joy… excitement… fear… sheer terror I would lose this one too.
I told Tim the moment I saw him and how his face beamed with excitement.
But minutes after taking the test, I started to feel off. There was a pain coming from my abdomen, the left side. I tried to shrug it off, blaming it on my excitement and nerves. I took a Tylenol, changed my clothes, and started helping at the shop.
But the pain didn’t go away. If anything it was getting worse.
I started not being able to stand up straight. There was no let up. And all at once I recognized this pain. This pain was familiar.
I had my sister take me to the ER and by the time I got there the pain was unimaginable. Mercifully they didn’t make me wait, escorted me quickly to triage, and then immediately into a room. They jumped into action, hooking up an IV as I threw up from the pain. Within moments morphine was coursing through my veins, offering some reprieve.
“I doubt it’s ectopic,” the doctor said as we discussed the possibilities. “It’s too early. You aren’t even five weeks. We’ll get an ultrasound and figure out what’s going on. But I highly doubt it’s ectopic.”
But I didn’t need an ultrasound to tell me that it was. I knew that pain. I’m intimately familiar with that pain. In 2016, the hospital I went to didn’t give me pain meds for about eight hours. Eight hours I writhed in bed with that pain. It’s unmistakeable.
They rolled me down to the ultrasound and when I came back the doctor came in almost immediately. “It’s ectopic, but it hasn’t ruptured yet. We are waiting for the OB to take a look at it. He will be here soon.”
They gave me fentanyl. Everything was quiet. I watched the bustle of the ER outside my room as I began to mourn my last biological child. Five hours I knew you. Five hours I loved you.
When the OB came in he informed me that it had indeed ruptured. I was filling with blood. Surgery was imminent.
I knew the drill. I’d been here before. But last time there were warning signs. This time there weren’t. This time happened so fast.
It wasn’t long before they wheeled me into pre-op and I got to meet the OR team. They were kind and comforting. They answered all my questions and encouraged me. My sister never left my side and soon Tim arrived to hold my hand until they rolled me away.
The surgery was successful. They stopped the bleeding. I lost the baby… again.
I woke up in recovery with two nurses watching over me, offering me crackers and ginger ale. As I got less groggy, they called back Tim and Julie. It was after midnight, but if I could get up and start walking I could go home. They guided me to the bathroom and when that was a success, they helped me get dressed in my street clothes- my dusty shop clothes. I was going home.
Today I have felt ok. My pain is minimal. The hospital acted so quickly that I ended up losing only a little blood (much better than last time when I lost a pint.) The recovery should be much faster. It hurts a little when I walk, and I tire easily so I have slept a lot today. I figure I will over the next few days.
I’m still mentally processing everything that has happened, but writing usually helps so I figured I’d share tonight and get the ball rolling. Surprisingly I am typing this with steady hands. I’m sad. I’m unbelievably sad. But I’ll be ok. We’ve walked this road before. I hate it, but at least I know how to walk it. I’ll cry when I need to, mourn as I can. But I know with confidence that I do not walk this road alone. My circumstances do not change the character of God. He is just as good today as He was yesterday morning. I can fall asleep tonight knowing He has entered my pain with me, that He will guide me through it, and protect me as I heal.
To Christ be all glory.
Thank you for all of your prayers, visits, and food!
The kids have been with my in-laws since Thursday afternoon and I expect them home in a couple of days. I hear they are having a lot of cousin time, baking with grandma, and spending their days playing. I am missing them desperately and counting down the hours until they are home.
The other day at Target I bought my first Christmas present of the season. I saw this adorable shirt on the rack and I immediately thought of my girl. More often than not these days, I find her absorbed in a book!
It’s on a bulletin board at our local community center. I think it’s supposed to be referring to diversity and inclusion, which is fine, but why would you use ‘acorns’ as your example… They literally all look the same.
I stared at the metal shelving unit against the wall at the shop. Most of the shelves were empty, but we had recently gotten a delivery and it was my job to check on it. As I got closer, I noticed the bottom shelf was crammed full of jars… of spaghetti sauce… Lots of them… At least 30-40 jars. And on either side of the those, there were also five gallon buckets of sauce.
I got closer to see if I could read the labels so I could make sure they were the correct brand when I noticed a yellow clearance sticker on every single one of them. Oh no!
“Tim! Look at these! This is not good. All of this sauce is about to expire!” I said in frustration. It seemed like such a waste, as we could never use it all before it went bad.
“Don’t worry,” Tim replied as he grabbed one of the five gallon pails. “We can still use them even if they go bad.” And with that he walked off to hook the five gallon bucket of spaghetti sauce up to his spray gun to stain the next set of panels red.
eatingwithsavages 