This week marks ten years since the Deep Water Horizon oil spill washed onto Gulf Coast shores. In the days preceding its landfall, we smelled oily fumes in the heavy air of anxiousness and dread, a looming, unstoppable enemy of our environment and the economics of our area at the height of the tourist season. Authorities, unified against a common foe, planned and prepared, and coastal citizens waited.
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I stood on the beaches the day the first oil flats broke apart in the waves, watching skimmer boats attempt to remove flats of thick, foamy petroleum from the surface of the water, and mourning the loss of our beautiful beaches.
Little did I know another disaster was quietly lurking, one my family was not at all prepared for.
The next morning, my husband departed for work, kissing the back of my neck as I stood at the stove in my pjs cooking a hot breakfast for my two toddlers, the summer mornings a contrast to our busy school year ones.
The pain struck quickly, low, and sharp. Usually able to “tough it” through just about anything (a concussion as a child, migraines in college without prescriptions, an epidural that wore off mid labor with BOTH of my deliveries), it surprised me enough to prompt a phone call to my doctor. At that stage of my life, my OB was pretty much my primary care provider given that I had been pregnant more often than sick.
My cycle was irregular, having gone off of birth control hoping to conceive again, so I rationalized that it must be cramps. Per the nurse, “If the pain is bad, it could be something serious, and you should go to the ER,” I was told. Not one to be an alarmist, I was sure I could manage or at least give myself some time to figure out what was going on.
On my way to my bedroom to lay down, a surge of pain sent me to the floor. When I tried to lift myself up, I realized I couldn’t see. A black ring beginning from the outer edges of my field of vision expanded until I was essentially blind.
Worry set in. I called for my son. He was 3 years old, and my only option for help.
Weeks earlier, I taught my son how to use my new iPhone. My concern was that something might happen to my father when he was on the boat with his grandson. So we had taught my son how to stop the boat and call for help. Using photos next to contact names on the favorites menu, “Find the little picture of the phone, then the star, and tap Daddy’s face.”
I was aware enough that I told my son to get my phone. I don’t remember much after that.
What follows has been pieced together from my memory and my husband’s.
Joe received a confusing phone call from our son. “Mama is asleep, and I can’t wake her up, and Mrs. Julie [our next door neighbor] isn’t home.” We still don’t know how he knew she wasn’t home.
Joe was still fairly close to the house when he received the alarming call from our little boy, and we lived mercifully close to the hospital. He did a U-turn, and summoned my mother to meet him at our house. He debated calling 9-1-1, and decided he could assess the situation and get me to the hospital just as quickly if not more so than waiting.
He found me unconscious on the bed, our 3-year-old son quietly playing Legos next to me, our 18-month-old daughter in her bean bag chair watching Sesame Street. Thank God. We later learned that our son had created the distraction for her and set up his toys so he could sit with me. Amazing.
As quickly Joe loaded us all in the car, my mother arrived, taking charge of the kids. Seated in the car, I came to, but still couldn’t see, which was terrifying. I said goodbye to the children and my mother, and told them we would be back as soon as possible. I recall Joe talking nonstop, a nervous chatter. He was retelling the events, discussing plans for the kids, and squeezing my hand.
Since I was conscious, I tried to walk into the hospital. Standing again, supported by Joe, I collapsed. Joe recalls how quickly one is admitted with an unconscious patient. He recalls them looking for and failing to find a pulse at the check-in desk.
When I awoke, my vision was returning, and I was aware of a nurse telling Joe that a pregnancy test was positive and a doctor trying unsuccessfully to perform an ultrasound. “We can’t see anything; her abdomen is full of blood. She needs immediate exploratory surgery to determine the source.”
The suspect: an ectopic rupture, a condition that occurs when an early pregnancy attaches to the fallopian tube prior to entering the uterus. As it grows, it ruptures the tube, presenting a loss of pregnancy and a life-threatening event to the mother.
I was taken to surgery immediately, on the same bed from the ER, ultrasound gel still on my belly. I don’t remember what happened to my clothes. I don’t remember telling Joe goodbye. I remember being aware that I could see him. I remember his attempt at a reassuring smile. I remember trying to tell him I love him.
Miscarriage and even infant loss weren’t new to us. Our journey to our family is a winding road that we have walked together.
But this was different.
I must have passed out again, waking later to the anesthesia mask being placed on my face, a doctor I knew by sight but not name, and her gentle reassurance that, while this was very, very serious, she would take care of me.
Fifteen or so minutes from car to pregnancy test to surgery. Thank God.
Joe paced halls in the hospital, unsure exactly of where I was or where to wait. A friend passed by, another OB-GYN, and asked him why he was there. Joe tried to explain, our friend understanding immediately and promising news as soon as he knew something.
My next awareness is of waking in a hospital room and seeing Joe and my mother and the doctor who had saved my life. She answered some questions for us.
On the way to the hospital, my seated position compressed the rupture and stopped the blood flow just enough to allow my pressure to rise and revive me. Standing or laying down opened the rupture again each time, causing the loss in pressure and consciousness. My temporary blindness was due to how low my blood pressure was. I had lost two liters of blood from a rupture of the left fallopian tube. She had lost patients in similar situations. She gently explained what I already knew, that ectopic pregnancies are impossible to save. Likewise, she had been unable to save the tube, a small loss compared to saving my life. She proclaimed all of our luck that she had been at the hospital for a scheduled C-section when she was summoned to the OR next door for me. We discussed a possible transfusion before my release the next morning. Prior to that morning, we had never met--I was a patient of her partner-- but she squeezed my hand before she left, and I felt a connection to her. I owed her my life. “This could have ended so very differently,” she said before leaving.
Our friend arrived soon after. I don’t think I realized the severity, the dire possibilities of my experience, until I saw the relief on his face at seeing me. We learned how fearful he had been when he couldn't find me on the surgical board. Fresh out of residency, his knowledge of ectopic ruptures had different endings, like my savior surgeon’s. Fearing the worst, he hadn't realized that I was the “Jane Doe” listed, a testament to how quickly I was whisked into surgery without even so much as a name on a chart. We’ve never forgotten his kind concern.
My mama kissed my forehead and left to take care of the children, who knew nothing of Mama’s life threatening event from earlier in the day.
Finally alone with me, Joe wept. Over the very real possibility of having lost me, over visions of being a 30-year-old widower, over raising 2 toddlers alone, over our shared history as childhood friends and the loss of forever love, over the physical pain I had suffered, over the loss of another baby, over the loss of possibilities.
My processing of the event took months and included praising my son for his calm reaction and quick thinking, emotional healing through talks with a few close friends, reassessing our wills and estate planning, securing adequate life insurance for our child-rearing years, and pausing for a time on the hopes of another baby.
Why tell this story 10 years later? Given our family’s story, which includes early miscarriages and a 26 week stillbirth, I’ve never shied away from sharing our heartaches in hopes that my testimony might benefit someone else. But this one happened so quickly--truly a shocking moment of blinding pain in which nearly everything I know might have changed--that many people never knew. And the picture-perfect toddlers and their brother who came along two years later obscured the story and kept me from proclaiming a message.
The message that being a woman of child-bearing years can be dangerous.
In 2020, women still die of ectopic pregnancies. In 2020, women still die in childbirth. These are not tragic events of Victorian novels. They are real, underrepresented events that have life altering implications for their victims. They are especially concerning in regards to data from minority groups and uninsured or underinsured women.
Infertility and miscarriage and postpartum depression are, thankfully, receiving more attention as the stigma of speaking up about these topics dissolves, replaced by the benefit of therapeutic talk and writing about them.
Share your stories, ladies. We are daughters, mothers, wives, friends, and sisters who deserve to be aware of our bodies and the risks posed at different stages of our lives.
At the bottom of this post, you’ll find a list of references for pregnancy and infant loss, as well as specific education for ectopic pregnancies, which are uncontrollable, unpreventable, and continue to be under informed for women’s awareness.
Like our city leaders and the looming oil that 2010 Summer, I thought I was prepared for all possibilities.
But being overly confident in my ability to tolerate pain nearly killed me.
So I say today, 10 years later, listen to your body. Honor what it tells you. Be aware of your pain, and recognize it for the herald it might be. Toughing one out nearly cost me everything.
Thank God for a 3-year-old with a cell phone.
March of Dimes
The Ectopic Pregnancy Trust
The American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology
Little did I know another disaster was quietly lurking, one my family was not at all prepared for.
The next morning, my husband departed for work, kissing the back of my neck as I stood at the stove in my pjs cooking a hot breakfast for my two toddlers, the summer mornings a contrast to our busy school year ones.
The pain struck quickly, low, and sharp. Usually able to “tough it” through just about anything (a concussion as a child, migraines in college without prescriptions, an epidural that wore off mid labor with BOTH of my deliveries), it surprised me enough to prompt a phone call to my doctor. At that stage of my life, my OB was pretty much my primary care provider given that I had been pregnant more often than sick.
My cycle was irregular, having gone off of birth control hoping to conceive again, so I rationalized that it must be cramps. Per the nurse, “If the pain is bad, it could be something serious, and you should go to the ER,” I was told. Not one to be an alarmist, I was sure I could manage or at least give myself some time to figure out what was going on.
On my way to my bedroom to lay down, a surge of pain sent me to the floor. When I tried to lift myself up, I realized I couldn’t see. A black ring beginning from the outer edges of my field of vision expanded until I was essentially blind.
Worry set in. I called for my son. He was 3 years old, and my only option for help.
Weeks earlier, I taught my son how to use my new iPhone. My concern was that something might happen to my father when he was on the boat with his grandson. So we had taught my son how to stop the boat and call for help. Using photos next to contact names on the favorites menu, “Find the little picture of the phone, then the star, and tap Daddy’s face.”
I was aware enough that I told my son to get my phone. I don’t remember much after that.
What follows has been pieced together from my memory and my husband’s.
Joe received a confusing phone call from our son. “Mama is asleep, and I can’t wake her up, and Mrs. Julie [our next door neighbor] isn’t home.” We still don’t know how he knew she wasn’t home.
Joe was still fairly close to the house when he received the alarming call from our little boy, and we lived mercifully close to the hospital. He did a U-turn, and summoned my mother to meet him at our house. He debated calling 9-1-1, and decided he could assess the situation and get me to the hospital just as quickly if not more so than waiting.
He found me unconscious on the bed, our 3-year-old son quietly playing Legos next to me, our 18-month-old daughter in her bean bag chair watching Sesame Street. Thank God. We later learned that our son had created the distraction for her and set up his toys so he could sit with me. Amazing.
As quickly Joe loaded us all in the car, my mother arrived, taking charge of the kids. Seated in the car, I came to, but still couldn’t see, which was terrifying. I said goodbye to the children and my mother, and told them we would be back as soon as possible. I recall Joe talking nonstop, a nervous chatter. He was retelling the events, discussing plans for the kids, and squeezing my hand.
Since I was conscious, I tried to walk into the hospital. Standing again, supported by Joe, I collapsed. Joe recalls how quickly one is admitted with an unconscious patient. He recalls them looking for and failing to find a pulse at the check-in desk.
When I awoke, my vision was returning, and I was aware of a nurse telling Joe that a pregnancy test was positive and a doctor trying unsuccessfully to perform an ultrasound. “We can’t see anything; her abdomen is full of blood. She needs immediate exploratory surgery to determine the source.”
The suspect: an ectopic rupture, a condition that occurs when an early pregnancy attaches to the fallopian tube prior to entering the uterus. As it grows, it ruptures the tube, presenting a loss of pregnancy and a life-threatening event to the mother.
I was taken to surgery immediately, on the same bed from the ER, ultrasound gel still on my belly. I don’t remember what happened to my clothes. I don’t remember telling Joe goodbye. I remember being aware that I could see him. I remember his attempt at a reassuring smile. I remember trying to tell him I love him.
Miscarriage and even infant loss weren’t new to us. Our journey to our family is a winding road that we have walked together.
But this was different.
I must have passed out again, waking later to the anesthesia mask being placed on my face, a doctor I knew by sight but not name, and her gentle reassurance that, while this was very, very serious, she would take care of me.
Fifteen or so minutes from car to pregnancy test to surgery. Thank God.
Joe paced halls in the hospital, unsure exactly of where I was or where to wait. A friend passed by, another OB-GYN, and asked him why he was there. Joe tried to explain, our friend understanding immediately and promising news as soon as he knew something.
My next awareness is of waking in a hospital room and seeing Joe and my mother and the doctor who had saved my life. She answered some questions for us.
On the way to the hospital, my seated position compressed the rupture and stopped the blood flow just enough to allow my pressure to rise and revive me. Standing or laying down opened the rupture again each time, causing the loss in pressure and consciousness. My temporary blindness was due to how low my blood pressure was. I had lost two liters of blood from a rupture of the left fallopian tube. She had lost patients in similar situations. She gently explained what I already knew, that ectopic pregnancies are impossible to save. Likewise, she had been unable to save the tube, a small loss compared to saving my life. She proclaimed all of our luck that she had been at the hospital for a scheduled C-section when she was summoned to the OR next door for me. We discussed a possible transfusion before my release the next morning. Prior to that morning, we had never met--I was a patient of her partner-- but she squeezed my hand before she left, and I felt a connection to her. I owed her my life. “This could have ended so very differently,” she said before leaving.
Our friend arrived soon after. I don’t think I realized the severity, the dire possibilities of my experience, until I saw the relief on his face at seeing me. We learned how fearful he had been when he couldn't find me on the surgical board. Fresh out of residency, his knowledge of ectopic ruptures had different endings, like my savior surgeon’s. Fearing the worst, he hadn't realized that I was the “Jane Doe” listed, a testament to how quickly I was whisked into surgery without even so much as a name on a chart. We’ve never forgotten his kind concern.
My mama kissed my forehead and left to take care of the children, who knew nothing of Mama’s life threatening event from earlier in the day.
Finally alone with me, Joe wept. Over the very real possibility of having lost me, over visions of being a 30-year-old widower, over raising 2 toddlers alone, over our shared history as childhood friends and the loss of forever love, over the physical pain I had suffered, over the loss of another baby, over the loss of possibilities.
My processing of the event took months and included praising my son for his calm reaction and quick thinking, emotional healing through talks with a few close friends, reassessing our wills and estate planning, securing adequate life insurance for our child-rearing years, and pausing for a time on the hopes of another baby.
Why tell this story 10 years later? Given our family’s story, which includes early miscarriages and a 26 week stillbirth, I’ve never shied away from sharing our heartaches in hopes that my testimony might benefit someone else. But this one happened so quickly--truly a shocking moment of blinding pain in which nearly everything I know might have changed--that many people never knew. And the picture-perfect toddlers and their brother who came along two years later obscured the story and kept me from proclaiming a message.
The message that being a woman of child-bearing years can be dangerous.
In 2020, women still die of ectopic pregnancies. In 2020, women still die in childbirth. These are not tragic events of Victorian novels. They are real, underrepresented events that have life altering implications for their victims. They are especially concerning in regards to data from minority groups and uninsured or underinsured women.
Infertility and miscarriage and postpartum depression are, thankfully, receiving more attention as the stigma of speaking up about these topics dissolves, replaced by the benefit of therapeutic talk and writing about them.
Share your stories, ladies. We are daughters, mothers, wives, friends, and sisters who deserve to be aware of our bodies and the risks posed at different stages of our lives.
At the bottom of this post, you’ll find a list of references for pregnancy and infant loss, as well as specific education for ectopic pregnancies, which are uncontrollable, unpreventable, and continue to be under informed for women’s awareness.
Like our city leaders and the looming oil that 2010 Summer, I thought I was prepared for all possibilities.
But being overly confident in my ability to tolerate pain nearly killed me.
So I say today, 10 years later, listen to your body. Honor what it tells you. Be aware of your pain, and recognize it for the herald it might be. Toughing one out nearly cost me everything.
Thank God for a 3-year-old with a cell phone.
March of Dimes
The Ectopic Pregnancy Trust
The American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology
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