I’ve been in two minds whether to write this post for a little while. My blog, by no means up to the standards of my esteemed true blogger counterparts, has always been my little positive corner of the internet to note down my thoughts and musings on just about anything.
But of late, the route to my positive corner took a short, dark and unexpected detour. As a proud mummy of a lovely 2.5 year old little boy, we had been toying with the idea of having another small person for a little while. Whilst my first pregnancy was in no way traumatic it was fairly eventful with high blood pressure, preeclampsia and a stubbornly breach positioned baby dictating a slightly tricky c-section delivery.
I think that due to this, I actually reflected on my pregnancy and birth experience really very positively in that I felt truly lucky to have emerged relatively unscathed with my perfectly formed little screaming bundle of loveliness.
So, when we found out I was pregnant earlier this year just as we were thinking about ‘properly trying’ we were delighted. The first time I found out I was pregnant, my husband was positively petrified. This time, my husband was positively brimming with excitement.
I immediately had those familiar and delightful pregnancy symptoms – sore boobs, bloated tummy to name but a few. All seemed to be progressing as one would expect. My GP didn’t want to see me for a booking in appointment until I was around 8-9 weeks pregnant, even with the issues of my last pregnancy. And so, we told our close family that there would be a surprise addition to the family sometime during October/November.
And then I started to feel really poorly. With an ear infection. What? Yep, I had the most excruciating ear infection and, being pregnant, was very limited on what antibiotics I could have to treat it with. 3 nights of no sleep later and it arrived. The dreaded ‘show’. And the dreaded feeling that something just wasn’t right.
I couldn’t get an appointment with my GP and I couldn’t get to see the early pregnancy unit without a referral from my GP. God bless the NHS and all who sail in her I say. So I paid an extortionate amount of money for a private scan that afternoon. It was immediately evident that I was not the 8 weeks pregnant I thought I was.
We had some time to come to terms with this sad fact during the 4 days we had to wait for an NHS scan. There we were frankly told that the pregnancy was not viable but that it was also possibly an etctopic pregnancy. All pregnancy loss is a sad moment but never did I ever more wish for a ‘straightforward’ miscarriage in my life.
Fast forward a few days and due to my HCG hormone levels and a few other factors, the doctors felt it was safe to treat me with methotrexate, a chemotherapy based drug, rather than surgery. So off I trotted to the chemotherapy suite to sit with a number of the loveliest people facing far more difficult life challenges than me. To say it was all very surreal is quite the understatement.
Whilst I’m still physically recovering from the medication and willing my hormone levels to drop every day (along with the bloody reoccurring ear infection) I am again counting my blessings from this particular experience. I am one of the lucky ones. I didn’t have a ruptured ectopic. I didn’t need emergency surgery. I didn’t lose a fallopian tube. But I did lose a little potential life.
I have my lovely family supporting my and, of course, my ever gorgeous son. Some women are not as lucky as me when they find themselves on this unexpected journey and it has left me with something of a desire to work out how I can make a difference to others who may go through the same thing. There was certainly no emotional support provided in any way from the medical profession and that frustrates me.
So if you happen to stumble across my little corner of the internet and find yourself going through this experience, remember – you are not alone. Feel free to reach out, to have hope and to take really good care of yourself x