“I was given the worst case scenario by the on-call, emergency nurse. She delicately explained there was a good chance I’d lost the baby.”
It was 2:00 am. Rain on the roof, head on my pillow, blankets over my body, in a matter of seconds, my eyes jolted open into the dark room, my brain recognized horror and I lurched my body into the bathroom. I’d been awake for less than 30 seconds, yet my nightmare was just beginning. Blood. So much blood that there was no question – things were not ok.
What do you do at 2:00 in the morning when your pregnant body gushes blood? How do you tell your husband? How do you reach any sort of peaceful rationale?
The blood seemed to have come like a tsunami – one quick, massive tidal wave that left behind immense devastation.
We decided I’d return to bed and deal with the trauma in the morning when I could reach my doctor, but sleep was no longer an option. I laid there for four hours, mind frantic, eyes wet with tears. My doctor’s office opened at 8:00 am, but at 6:00, I gave up on pretending I’d be able to sleep and willed myself to get ready as if I would go to work that day.
After an hour and a half of mindlessly pacing various rooms of my house and unproductively “getting ready” for work, I called the number for the on-call, emergency nurse. Through teared attempts to swallow the lump in my throat, I explained exactly what had happened and awaited her response. She didn’t need to use words – the tone in her voice could have said it all, but two of her words will forever haunt me – threatened abortion.
The nurse gracefully warned me that our doctor would be referring to our situation as a threatened abortion, that I needed to get an appointment immediately and that there was a good chance I’d lost the baby. Our conversation took us to 8:00 am, when I could call my doctor’s office to make that appointment. By 10:15 am, my husband and I sat in a waiting room, minutes away from learning if our baby was still alive or not.
Our appointment began with the surest way to answer that question – an ultrasound. In a matter of seconds, we let out the breaths we’d held for what felt like minutes. Inside my womb was a baby; squirming, doing somersaults, living.
There was no explanation for the blood. It seemed to have done nothing to our pregnancy other than give it the title “high risk”. My husband and I left that appointment with a nervous reassurance. We parted ways, and went to work as if it were any other Thursday. When we reconvened at home that night, it was as if we’d dodged a bullet. For eight hours, a third of our day, an eternity in the land of worry, we’d wondered at a whole new level if this pregnancy was done.
In the stats:
Gestational Age: 15 weeks, 5 days
Days of blood: 5
Days of bedrest: 1
Doctor’s Appointments: 3
P.S. Again, for those of you relying on Facebook to follow along, thank you for following. However, eventually I will become more selective as to what goes on Facebook as things become increasingly more personal. Feel free to subscribe via email by entering your email address in the Follow Along box to the right of this post (if you’re on a computer) or at the bottom of the page (if you’re on the mobile website). I’d love to share our story with you, but I don’t want to keep sharing it with those who’d rather not hear about it.