My Ectopic Pregnancy

By Katie from Massachusetts

December 3, 2010 was my six-week ultrasound. After two years and 10 months of trying to have a baby, we were pregnant. I was going to see the little baby that I have celebrated and bonded with and cherished since the moment we found out just two short weeks ago.

I remember that day so clearly … I was laying on the ultrasound table, trying to understand the words. The nurse said, “Ectopic pregnancy, the baby is off the to the side, there is nothing we can do, there is no chance.” I sat stunned and shocked with my paper blanket covering my legs. I couldn’t comprehend this or wrap my head around it. After three years, we still didn’t have our happy story? After three years, this joy would also be taken from me?

I got dressed. The technician explained that the doctor would see me soon. In the meantime, I talked to two nurses.. One, whom I had worked with before, held me while I cried in the hallway and I was then suddenly whisked off to a room by myself. My husband was going to come with me but, at the last minute, he couldn’t. I thought, “It’s OK. I am sorry you will miss it, but I will tell you all about my good news after the appointment.” I called to tell him. I love him and we have a strong marriage of 7 years, one that has only become stronger through all of this. I told him he needed to come pick me up and take me to Boston to have a shot. I’ve only seen him cry once and I knew that today would be the second time. I was overwhelmed and my head was spinning. What was happening? Why was there no chance for this baby? Why couldn’t we just move it over a little bit?

We headed to Boston, back to the hospital that I had visited just a week ago. I had come in with awful pains and I was so scared. We had an ultrasound and it looked like I had some cysts that may have burst. There was fluid, but the pain went away. It was still very early - only five weeks - but we saw what we thought was the baby. Crisis averted, baby is healthy, but wait, why was I back?

They explained the options. Everyone in the doctor’s office was nice. I heard that this happens in 3 percent of pregnancies. Three percent, are you kidding me? What are the odds that, after three years of trying, this would happen to me? I might as well play the lottery if those are my odds. All I heard was: “Surgery …the shot … damage to your fallopian tubes … 10 to 20 percent chance of this happening again …” What? Wasn’t I done? Wasn’t I pregnant? Wasn’t this finally going to be the Christmas where I was going to celebrate and know that our baby was on the way? I had just given my mom an ornament that said “baby” as a way to tell her. We just celebrated on Thanksgiving. At that moment, I wanted to take that ornament in my hand and crush it just so I could feel something else besides the overwhelming pain. We decided on the shot. They needed some time with my blood work and then they would administer it.

We went to lunch across the street. It was dark and I was crying. I couldn’t help but think, “If God only gives you as much as you can handle, why have I been given this?” I couldn’t handle this. As with most women going through fertility treatments, this was not my first bit if bad news. The ups and downs are overwhelming to say the least. But somehow, we always pick ourselves up and do it again. I thought I had been through the worst. I thought I had seen the worst, but now this is just the icing on the top. We drudged through lunch, crying. I kept thinking about what a cruel joke it was. This was so unfair and I absolutely do not want to hear about life being unfair. I am well aware of that at this point in my life.

When we could no longer sit at the table and cry, we went to the car to cry some more. We headed into the hospital and got the call that the shot was ready. My sadness was so deep and focused, and I was so lost. I moved through the hallway as if I couldn’t even see straight. It was all like a dream. The nurse took me out back and told me how sorry she was that she had to give me the shot. She prepped me and I realized I only had a second to say goodbye before she inserted the medicine that would protect me, but ultimately kill my baby. I said goodbye just for a second. And suddenly I was walking out the door, crying in the hallway, crying in the elevator, crying in the car and crying in my bed.

All of this is overwhelming. I know I should be finding a new word to use, but “overwhelming” is all I can think of. And now, after the chemotherapy drug runs its course and runs through my body, it won’t be until March 3 at the earliest that I can start my first IVF cycle. My seven failed IUIs that include one ectopic pregnancy and one chemical pregnancy. How will I ever pull myself together to start again?

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