My insides were slowly filling with blood.
The pregnancy was over.
I was nine weeks pregnant when the pain got to be too much and I finally went to the ER. I felt bloated and light-headed. I didn't want my favorite dinner "cream of zucchini soup) that Ben had made for me. I left the table and went upstairs to lie down, hoping it would pass.
We put Felix to bed. Ben went to bed. I went downstairs to watch TV and ate a Twix. Things didn't get better. I tried calming down by running water over my wrists. It always worked before when I felt dizzy or lightheaded.
It wasn't until I was on the phone with the nurse, tried to stand up and fell to the floor that I decided it was time to head to the ER. I woke Ben up and he called his mom to come watch Felix. In the time since all this happened I often think about Felix and how I didn't say good-bye to him. What if I had died? How could I not say good-bye?
I'm sure the order of events or what happened compared to what I remember may not match up. Ben remembers more clearly what happened. I just remember pieces, weird ones at that. The pale color of my skin. The cold of the blood. The rolling through dark hallways under the street.
From the time we arrived at the hospital to the time of surgery I call "Let's Figure Out What's Wrong with Christi" time. We went through everything. Blood work, fecal samples, various possibilities, ultrasound orders.
I had two blood transfusions and felt better. I remember joking with the black nurse administering them that she was the one giving me my color back. She loved that. But about twenty minutes after the transfusions I was pale, dizzy and in intense pain again.
In the ultrasound room I remember thinking, "I'm not a doctor, but where are my organs?" They couldn't be seen through all the blood.
The pregnancy had burst my right fallopian tube.
We waited for surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists and techs to assemble. It felt like forever. Right before they put me under I pulled the mask off and said, "Someone needs to tell me I'm going to be okay, even if they have to lie." They did, and out I went.
The next day my surgeon, who I am indebted to for always, came to see me. I'm sorry, came to lecture me. And rightfully so. She said that when they cut me open they were bailing blood clots the size of grapefruits out of my abdomen as fast as they could. That the human body has about five liters of blood on average and I had three of it in my abdomen. She said if I had waited an hour to come in I'd be dead. She said that I need to learn to pay attention to my body. Impressive pain tolerance or not.
The next few days were dark, painful, terrifying and blurry. The next few months weren't much different. I recovered in the maternity ward because they didn't have any rooms elsewhere. The nurses kept telling me my baby (which they thought was in the NICU) would be fine. I was given "New Mommy" cookies. It was a bit of a cruel joke.
My body had betrayed me. My mind was certain my demise was inevitable. I had visions of life around me but without me. I was numb. I felt like I had carried death inside me. I felt nothing. It was...bad. I didn't believe I'd ever come out of it.
But I did. I slowly began to feel. Brain shrinking appointments helped. Family helped. Distractions, projects and goals helped. Ben, my rock and comfort, guided me out of the darkness. But ultimately it was my deciding I wanted to live which changed everything. This experience wouldn't end me. Change me, yes. Affect me and my beliefs, choices and outlook, yes. But not end me. It hadn't made me strong. I was already strong. I just had to feel it. And the only way I could find that feeling was time. God damn, slow creeping, tediously excruciating time.
It's amazing what a year can do. This day this year I have a tiny, week old human sleeping on my chest. Puppies at my feet. A two-year old snoozing upstairs. The love of my life at my fingertips. I am happy. There is life in my life. Fully, chaotically, lovingly.
I'll always remember this day last year but I'm no longer broken.
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