All In Perfect Timing

The Story of our Ectopic Pregnancy

It was 3:25pm on Friday August 7th when I laid face down on an examination table so that two nurses could administer the medicine into my back that would terminate our ectopic pregnancy. I know the time because they instructed me to lay there for five minutes to ensure I did not have any reactions to the medication and therefore gave me permission to leave at 3:30pm. As those needles went into my lower back, I tightly clutched Laine’s hand, tears streaming down my cheeks, as we mourned the loss of our first ever pregnancy.

Sure, it wasn’t viable. But the hope in your heart does not know that. The yearning mama deep down in your being doesn’t remotely care. In that dreadful moment, while the medicine is making its way into your system, all you can feel is the sadness settling in right along side it.

It feels nearly impossible to describe the pain that follows the termination of a pregnancy when you are desperately trying to conceive. To say it feels counterintuitive wouldn’t scratch the surface. Even when you know the pregnancy wasn’t healthy. Even when you tell yourself it would have never become your baby anyway. Even when you are acutely aware that the continuation of growth would have lead to severe damage and potentially your death. Still, you mourn that embryo. The second you see that positive test, you begin to dream. Even though the nurse is concerned about how low the hCG hormone numbers are. Even though the internet offers you no comfort after you googled said low numbers. Still, you dream. Even though you tell yourself to stay cautiously optimistic, your subconscious doesn’t obey. Your mind wanders to how you will tell your parents, whether it will be a little boy or a sweet baby girl, which room of the house will we transform into a nursery, what kind of interests will they have, what kind of little person will they be. My last hCG level, the fourth that we drew before termination, was a 30; not even high enough to be considered on the low side of “healthy”. And still, we dreamt.

It feels even harder to explain the devastation when each attempt costs a lump sum of money. We are not only pouring our hopes and dreams into expanding our family, we are pouring our wallets into it as well. Being a lesbian couple, we always knew that expanding our family would not only be emotionally taxing, but financially strenuous as well. With the purchase of sperm, the fertility medication to prepare my body for higher odds, as well as the IUI insemination procedures to attempt to conceive, we have spent nearly $10,000. We did not have the luxury of pulling up our boot straps after this loss and continuing to try again in the bedroom. Each attempt required medication, monitoring, and a large chunk of change for a ten to twelve percent chance at conceiving. Yes, you read that right. An IUI procedure only offered us a twelve percent chance, on a good day, of being able to celebrate what we call in the fertility world a BFP — Big Fat Positive.

For days following the administration of the methotrexate to end the pregnancy, I dealt with a small twinge of pain on the right side of my abdomen. My doctor felt strongly that it was my right fallopian tube housing our little ectopic embryo, so the dull discomfort on this side was to be expected. And although the physical pain was bearable, the mental reminder was brutal. Every time I would find myself in a bright spot, one where I wasn’t mourning the loss of our conception, that little twinge would flicker in my tummy and I would crumble. I would repeatedly cry to Laine, begging the seemingly bearable, yet inexplicably unbearable, pain to stop. The reminder felt so unfair, so cruel, as if my body knew just the right time to send me the crushing cue. Just in case I was beginning to forget.

As I slowly but surely emerge from a deep valley of devestation, I have been able to let my guard down and truly absorb what can be taken away from this experience. First and foremost, I have never been more solidified in the woman that I chose to marry. It is forever etched on my heart how tightly she squeezed my hand while the nurses prepped the termination medication, ensuring I knew I was in no way alone. I will never forget how safe and protected I felt when we looked down at the clock to see that it read 3:30pm and she whispered, “let’s get the hell out of here”, making certain that I did not have to sit in that room one second past the five minutes they suggested we wait. She maintained her gentle disposition even when I didn’t deserve her kindness. She has kept hope and optimism revived when she sensed I was letting both slip from my grasp. I am eternally grateful that she is mine and I, hers.

I also gained a deeper connection with people in my life who have walked a similar path. Some of these people are my friends, others are acquaintances, while a small portion are simply virtual friends whom I’ve met through internet communities. What it has offered me is a window of hope; not only for our future as parents but for humanity as a whole. I am floored and overwhelmed by the kindness of both friends and strangers alike. This experience has brought about an immense amount of pain, while in that same breathe, it has filled our lives with so much joy.

That hope has only expanded following the launch of our IVF fund campaign. We have received more love and support than we ever thought we would experience in our lifetime. There have been many tears and feelings of overwhelm with the notification of every single t-shirt purchase. As of today, we have sold 196 shirts and received countless texts, comments, and messages with some of the most thoughtful sentiments we have ever read. It has shown us firsthand that kindness, something that can currently be hard to find, is certainly alive and well in this world. It is buried deep in the hearts of both those that we know and those we do not. It has reminded us to practice gratitude for the incredible friends and family in our lives and has proven beyond doubt that one can truly love a stranger. Our hearts are overflowing and forever changed.

And although our hearts are full of thankfulness, I can still be shaken from my joyful slumber and swept off my feet with sadness. It happened just last week. I was playing music in my kitchen while I cooked breakfast one Saturday morning when a song I’ve never heard before stopped me in my tracks, bringing a flood of emotions that I thought I’d shelved. Like a statue in a park, I stood there frozen as I listened to the lyrics:

I let myself want you
I let myself hope 
I let myself feel things I know that you don't
You're not mine anymore 
But I'm still a little bit yours.

The song is about loving someone that you cannot let go of, and albeit I am sure not intended, I felt strongly that anyone who has dealt with pregnancy loss would also find themselves frozen from such lyrics. I stood in my kitchen and I wept. I heard the words and I could not help but make a direct connection with the valley we just traveled through. I now know that the loss of a pregnancy is not something that you simply get over and move past. Although this is something that I had always heard, it is of course not something that I had ever experienced myself. I am learning that this is something we will carry with us, even as our family expands. Even as we welcome future children into our life. There will always be the first. The one that sparked the inaugural dreams. The one that surfaced our deep desire to be moms. The one that tested our hopefulness. I only thought I was pregnant for a total of five days. Less than one week. I’ve been on vacations longer than that. I’ve done juice cleanses longer than that. Five days in any other scenario would seem like a blink. But five days means 120 hours. It equates to 7,200 minutes. And every single one of those hours was filled with cautious optimism. With every passing minute we allowed ourselves to want this; for it to be the start of our growing family. We let ourselves dream, and although we found ourselves in a nightmare, we have decided that it certainly won’t keep us from laying our heads down to sleep each night. We will clutch onto hope and the promise that everything happens just as it should. All in perfect timing.

To the parents that find themselves in this same club; the one that so many are a part of but not many speak out about. I am you. You are me. I feel your deep devestation. I know your pain. I can resonate with your frustration that you ever allowed yourself to be so hopeful, while I can also understand your confusion as to why you can’t just get over it. I can hear every thought: I was only five weeks. It wasn’t even a baby yet. I only knew I was pregnant for a few days. How can I mourn a clump of cells? This club that we find ourselves in is one that I hate. But it is full of some of the strongest and most resilient women on the planet. I hate the club, but I am so thankful for the members.

To our sweet ectopic embryo that we dreamt would be our first baby: we are uncertain of so much, but this we know for sure.

You’re not ours anymore. But we’re still a little bit yours.

I assume we always will be. You are the hope. You will serve as the motivation that keeps us marching forward towards what we now know is our greatest wish: to become mamas. And we know that the timing will be perfect, for no other reason than because it is ours.