An Ectopic Christmas
I’ve always had this love-hate relationship with Christmas. Ever since I was a little girl, Christmas was that holiday I loved and idealised. You grow up watching those magical scenes in the sweetest Christmas movies and wish the same magic to just fall down your chimney. Unfortunately, when you grow up in a dysfunctional home, Christmas is often sadder than a regular day.
As the years went by, I kept being disappointed with the lack of magic, the lack of peace. But I guess I never got used to disappointment. Little did I know…
Later, as an adult, I kept putting these high expectations on this holiday desperately trying to make up for all the past disappointments. Even when things didn’t go wrong there was always something missing, there was always a sadness I couldn’t put aside. At some point I think I resigned with the idea of a perfect Christmas, accepting the blueprint of my childhood traumas. Little did I know…
In 2014, my partner and I moved from Portugal to England. It was the year we had our first Christmas in the city that became our new home, London. And putting aside the initial struggle and the longing for what was known, I remember being fascinated. The decorations, the shining colourful lights, the cute markets and fairs, like the ones in those movies I grew up watching.
And there it was, my love for Christmas wanting to burst out; new hopes; new expectations. Little did I know…
One year went by, trying to settle in a different country, getting used to a second language, being away from everything and everyone, new jobs, new culture, new challenges and some rocks in our pathway.
We had previously delayed the idea of becoming three. After all, our lives faced a massive change and we wanted to settle first.
So, we settled. And as we picked all those rocks that got in our way, we decided we no longer wanted to delay it. If you’re waiting to be ready you’ll never do anything, right? Little did I know…
What did I know? I knew that living with anxiety it would be difficult to deal with all the expectations of trying to get pregnant. I knew it could take a while; I knew about the three-month rule; I knew how much I feared the possibility of not being able to get pregnant; I knew life wasn’t easy and things don’t happen as we plan or idealise. But I still got disappointed when my period decided to show up a day earlier. I felt stupid, not just for feeling disappointed but for feeling pregnant. For some reason I was feeling pregnant, which is something I can’t explain, I just felt it. I told myself that it was probably because I wanted it so much.
Two weeks went by… I was working in a crazy location dealing with crazy customers and a not so great (man)ager. In the middle of a busy day, in a rush to do everything, I felt what I describe as a dull period cramp and some dark spotting. It wasn’t the time for it and at that moment I said to myself I would buy a pregnancy test later.
My body kept telling me something I couldn’t quite understand.
I left work late, as usual, to face over an hour of a dreadful commute.
Later, in the supermarket, I bought two tests, one to do as I got home and another one to do in the morning, just to be sure.
It didn’t take long for a shy pink line to show. For the first time in my life, I was seeing a positive pregnancy test.
What did I know now? I knew I was pregnant, which explained that strange feeling. I knew I wanted to be excited and I knew I shouldn’t be. Something had to be wrong, after all, I had lost blood for almost a week.
The following morning, Thursday, I called the hospital to book an appointment for later that day and as a good employee, I went to work. Throughout the day the mildly uncomfortable cramps became less mild and more uncomfortable. As the pain increased, my anxiety increased with it.
I finally finished work and left. The walk to the tube station had never felt so long. At each step, the cramps got worse. Stairs, tube, another tube, more stairs, more walking and at last, a seat on a train waiting to depart. At this point, the cramps were extreme and not relieved by the rest of being seated.
Before the train was moving I was already moving between online pages, trying to understand what could be happening. Yes, I know this is what we should never do. But it was also how I came across the term “Ectopic Pregnancy”. I remember reading about it; about miscarriages; about women who experienced pain and blood loss and still had successful pregnancies. Thirty minutes on a journey of research.
My partner was waiting for me at the train station. The pain was so severe it was hard to move. We went straight to my hospital appointment.
In the doctor’s office, she didn’t take long to tell me: “You’re likely having a miscarriage, but we need to book a scan to make sure it’s not an ectopic pregnancy.”
I didn’t have to ask what that was so I just burst into tears. It’s one of those moments life slaps you so hard you can’t even breathe properly and everything gets blurred. It’s the thing about trauma, it blurs everything, which explains why sometimes it’s so hard to remember all the details. What I do remember clearly was this excruciating pain as I waited — at home — for someone to call me for a scan.
Friday morning I called in sick. I hate calling in sick but there was no way I could work like that.
Later that day, I got the phone call and went for the scan hoping to get some answers, to only end up with more doubts. They couldn’t see anything and it was either because “there is no longer anything to see” or because “it’s still too early to see anything”.
Next? A blood test to assess the hCG level (the pregnancy hormone).
After some waiting, I was told that the levels were low but again, “it might be because it’s still too early, we have to repeat the test in one or two days to check if it increases.”
More waiting to repeat the blood test and more waiting for a phone call saying the hormone levels had increased slightly. With a miscarriage, the levels decrease. “It might still be too early.”
I don’t know why I was given hope but it was definitely the last thing I needed.
Next on the to-do list: another scan.
That Saturday I had to call in sick again. Oh, how much I hate calling in sick. The pressure and the feeling of failing a commitment when your life is falling apart is quite something. And the pain that I already thought was bad enough got so much worse. I had to ask my partner to take me to Hospital, on a winter Sunday.
This became the most painful weekend of my life.
I’ve never been stabbed but that’s what I imagine one feels when a knife pierces their bodies.
In the crowded emergency department, I was told they couldn’t do anything as I had to wait to be called in for another scan. I would be better off going home, they said. Take paracetamol, they said.
Feeling hopeless, I went home. There was a lot of crying. I didn’t feel comfortable in any position, even lied down it felt like being punched with knives in the abdomen on repeat. I remember thinking to myself: let it be a miscarriage, from the two options, let it be a miscarriage. You have to be in a really bad place to think something like that.
I’ll always ask myself why they couldn’t just do an emergency scan or give me something like an injection or anything to relieve the pain I was feeling. Or even just put me in a bed to be observed or, I don’t know, anything.
Monday morning, my partner went to work, we couldn’t really afford for him to stay home. (Things at his work weren’t going so well.) Or maybe we just didn’t know better.
Hours later, I got the phone call to go for another scan. I was alone, I couldn’t possibly drive in that state and two busses seemed an impossible mission. Uber it was. I remember trying to be nice to the driver and answer to his small chat when all I wanted was to scream and beg him to drive gently as I was being stabbed in the back seat (not literally). I didn’t. It was easier to just keep the pain to myself.
Back in the Hospital, in a different examination room, a different doctor did the scan. Trying to remember everything is like watching a bunch of jump cuts in a flashback of a drama:
- A doctor doing a scan and asking for someone else to have a look;
- The other doctor doing the scan and commenting something I can’t remember;
- The last doctor saying to her colleague that I had an internal bleeding;
- Hearing her mention 400ml;
- Hearing her saying that because of it she couldn’t see exactly if the ectopic was in the tube or in the ovary;
- Putting my clothes back on, in a mix of shock and heartbreak;
- Her telling me I wasn’t going home because I needed emergency surgery;
- Time stopping.
If on Wednesday I saw a positive line, on Monday I become a statistic.
I remember crying all alone in the empty corridor while waiting to be taken to a room, not knowing if my partner would get there on time.
Everything was happening in a language that wasn’t natural to me so the effort to understand everything was a lot, like the 985 flying miles keeping me away from my loved ones. So many different feelings assaulted my disquieted mind. How do you go from trying to bring life to the world to have your life at risk? What kind of imbalance is this? What kind of karma? Why? Why me? Why? Why? Why? I was a healthy 27-year-old who had never had stitches in her life, let alone surgery.
My partner arrived when I was already prepared in a room, terrified, trying to process everything. I remember people walking in and out to explain the procedure, giving me forms to sign. I remember the surgeon, a young woman, coming to my room to explain what was going to happen. I remember her saying that all the excruciating pain would go away. That the pain I was experiencing was the worst pain I would feel in the entire process. Questions asked, questions answered.
Even though they tried to assure me I was safe and in good hands, I still asked my partner to look after my loved ones in case I didn’t wake up. It doesn’t matter how successful the rates may be… if you’re going into surgery that thought will assault your mind.
The surgeon was right. When I woke up the pain was gone. In fact, I couldn’t feel anything. For someone who has never tried recreational drugs, that sedation was something else. And that’s how I wanted to be, sedated. The first thing I remember when I opened my eyes was this nurse forcing me to wake up. But why? I thought. Why can’t I just sleep? Why can’t you just let me be? Apparently, I was taking too long to wake up and that’s not ideal. Although that forced rest was a place I didn’t want to leave.
I went home the next day, on the 22nd of December at night. The hospital was quiet, strangely deserted. And there I was, navigating a corridor decorated with Christmas garlands and a small Christmas tree with its colourful blinking lights.
Christmas definitely didn’t love me back.
It was a dark Christmas… It wasn’t joyful, it wasn’t merry, it wasn’t happy. If hope is the fuel that keeps us moving forward, at this time, mine was running low.
Every Christmas I think about those who might be running low on this precious fuel. I wish I could send them a hug or just a bit of hope. I wish I could tell them that when you reach the dark bottom, the only direction you can go is up towards the light. And if you allow yourself to gaze at it again, you’ll find that it shines brighter.
Merry Christmas, if it’s the case. If it isn’t, feel free to leave a comment and talk about it. ❤
