There are scattered reflections of time I occasionally gaze upon. And sometimes, in my quieter moments, I daydream about the person I would now be had those particular moments not turned my world upside down.
A few months back I announced to my husband I thought I was pregnant. Not that I had any experience to know what it would feel like, but somehow I knew. All I needed was a pregnancy test to confirm it. Well, apparently strong hopes and dreams can make you do, feel, or think funny things because pregnant I was not. And so, after nearly two years of infertility, I decided I no longer wanted to be a slave to my unfulfilled dreams. Attempting to be a rebel, I compromised: I would periodically take my temperature in the latter half of my cycle, but I would abandon the charts.
In early July I again thought my period was late. I was not, however, allowing any mental connections between the words “late” and “pregnant” because, from my point of reference, these two words didn’t tell the same story. Recalling my first false hope of being pregnant, I told myself: “Don’t invite the heartache or waste the money on another test because tomorrow you’ll get your period.” Soon the cramps subsided, and I started spotting. I continued to wait.
Two days later, I developed a gnawing feeling in my gut. Now I knew I was late, but I had never before spotted. The next day I began to question the discomfort in my side — how much of it was real and how much was anxiety. I finally, and somewhat fearfully, got out my calendar and counted. I was 10 days late and my temperature was still up.
After a home test confirmed the pregnancy, I called my doctor’s office. Fortunately, I was scheduled right away for a blood test and back that afternoon for an ultrasound. Waiting in the ultrasound room, I quietly pleaded with the cabinets and walls for reassurance that everything would be okay. Finally, the doctor emerged, the ultrasound performed, and my life took a new turn. It was confirmed. Ectopic.
At that moment, the bottom of my world fell away and my heart crashed to new depths. There, I saw him. My baby, my child, my hopes and dreams. Even though I was pregnant for the first time in my life, there would be no celebration in the knowledge.
My thoughts became illogical. Maybe if I hadn’t ignored everything happening with my body, I could have mentally cheered him on. I could have let him know how wanted he was, and he would have had enough strength to travel the distance; so close to being home free. I looked back on when I first learned of my infertility. The odds would now seem to be in my favor, but fate can deal an ugly hand. Why again, why me?
Back in the patient’s room, I wanted to explode, to curse this piece of hell that had been delivered at my door. But the reality of this threatening situation required my immediate attention. So, instead, I quietly asked the doctor about my options, explaining that I had recently heard of a new treatment called Methotrexate. This was such an emotionally difficult turn in life, and I needed to take the easiest route. I just felt too fragile to undergo another surgery. Fortunately, he was familiar with the drug and it had provided good results. The treatment would consist of one injection of Methotrexate and every-other-day blood draws to follow up on the progress.
I remember, right before the injection, feeling emotionally shredded. Here I was, finally pregnant, and I was now getting ready to eliminate the product of our efforts and dreams. I knew that even today women die from ruptured ectopics, yet knowing I had to undo what we had so purposefully done was killing a piece of me anyway. I saw in my mind a magazine photo which just days earlier made me cry. It was a picture of a kitten being euthanized. I had thought, “That poor thing was never even given a chance.” Now my mental image was not of a kitten but of a young life that would never be. Why was this happening? It was not his fault my tubes were a mess.
Looking at my other options — surgery or a ruptured tube — I cannot begin to express my gratitude at having Methotrexate available during my second worst infertility moment. Had I waited just one or two more days, I could have lost what little natural, self control I have over my fertility. I had considered myself educated on all aspects of the female cycle. Yet hoping to avoid another negative pregnancy test and the lack of daily contact with my charted temperature almost caused me to lose my one open tube. It’s amazing how the blows of infertility can give you a psychological black eye which distorts your vision, even with regard to your own body.
I now occasionally calculate how far along I would be if this story had a different ending. And I can only wonder what it would now be like to be five months pregnant. In my “Infertility” file folder is my first — and possibly only — positive pregnancy test. It’s funny; I thought the coloration would have faded by now. It hasn’t and neither have the memories. Like most mothers I know, I carry with me a picture of my child. Unfortunately, it’s a black and white image, and you have to look close in order to pick him out. But he’s mine and he’s real, even if only for that moment and the few days that followed. I only wish I could have had the chance to meet and watch him grow.
© 1991 HSE
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