Things went rather poorly for me over the weekend, and I’m just starting to put myself back together. (But, the good news is that I’m starting to put myself back together, so that’s what I’m holding onto for the moment).
You see, I spent most of the weekend in the Emergency at our local hospital. Something went drastically wrong with my stomach, and I eventually realized whatever was happening was beyond the realm of I’ll sleep it off and feel better in the morning.
After eating a late lunch on Saturday (around 2pm), I ended up with sever stomach pain, unlike anything I have ever experienced before. As someone who has had gastritis/ulcers in the past, and has been struggling with one for over a month now, I’m used to a certain type of pain that comes along with an attack. And, this pain just wasn’t that. It was literally the worse pain I have ever endured in my life. Then, the diarrhea started, and approximately every 10 minutes for nearly 12 hours I was on the toilet. Again, not normal. But, it wasn’t until I started vomiting every 30 minutes for a few hours that I decided it was time to go to the hospital. By this time it was about 11pm on Saturday evening. (In hindsight, I probably should have gone in sooner).
Of course, it’s just Mr. MPB, a sleeping Little MPB and I at home. I refused to wake up a sleeping baby so that Mr. MPB could drive me to the hospital. At this point I was so sick that we actually debated an ambulance, but ultimately I took a taxi.
The pain would not relent.
I was seen by a nurse almost immediately who began the process of starting all the testing that was needed – gallbladder, pancreases, etc. When I saw the doctor he was pretty awesome. Eventually I was given some IV narcotic (that’s name I don’t remember) but I do recall being told it was stronger then morphine. And something for the nausea. The nausea drugs worked, but the pain killer did not last longer then 30 minutes. Eventually, with the help of some other drugs the pain became tolerable. On the hospitals pain level chart of 10-1, the pain dropped from the 9/10, to a 7, to 5 and eventually about a 2 at about 4am.
At this point the awesome doctor got a bunch of tests lined up for me on Sunday, most importantly being an ultrasound. Of course, every single test came back fine. Which is great because there is no gallbladder issues or pancreases issues, I’m not pregnant, etc. This likely means I am still sitting with the original suspected diagnosis of gastritis and/or an ulcer.
And the only way for that to be confirmed is by a gastrointestinal specialist. Unfortunately the awesome doctor couldn’t arrange that appointment until after the ultrasound which was after his shift was done. Awesome doctor requested the dayshift doctor do this, and I know he made this request because he gave me a print out of the information he was forwarding to the dayshift doctor. Unfortunately the dayshift doctor was a giant jerk who’s priority was to free up my hospital bed for someone he deemed more urgent now that my pain was under control thanks to the aforementioned narcotic. In the end, day shift doctor sent home with 4 Percocet pills to further manage pain and told to keep taking my prevacid. I was also told to check in with my family doctor.
So that’s where I’m currently at. Thankfully the attack has subsided, so I’m not taking Percocet at the moment. But, I’m also petrified to try eating anything again, because I have no desire to ever experience that level of pain again in my life. I’m also not willing to live off Percocet because that’s not really living.
So, basically I ruined father’s day. And I’m now in some sort of starvation mode until I can get into my family doctor and put together a real care plan.
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I don’t even know where to start.
Remember that couple who hurt us more then I think anyone ever has with their devastatingly insensitive first pregnancy announcement? Followed by the ultrasound photo as an announcement for their second pregnancy? Well, as expected, their second baby has just arrived.
As an aside, I wonder, will I ever be excited for fertile people who have babies? Yes, I looked at the baby photos the excited parents send (as I always do whenever any baby arrives) and I send the appropriate excited message back, but I just feel so incredibly detached (unlike for infertile people who manage to get pregnant and have baby, I’m always thrilled for them). Is that part of me just dead now? I hate infertility and loss for what it has done to me. I hate it. I just F&!@ hate it!
Anyways, on to the point…
They chose a lovely name for their little girl. So lovely that it makes me want to puke. Literally. The first name is the name we’ve been saving for if we ever have a girl. And, the middle name, it’s the name of the baby we terminated.
This couple knows most of our loss story, including our termination. But, they did not know either of these names, and neither of them are exceptionally popular names. I fully acknowledge that this is pure random chance.
Yet, I cannot stop crying. And, I’ll admit I’m rather ashamed of my reaction. I feel like I should just be over this by now. Honestly, I know we are probably never going to have another child, let alone a baby girl. So, I know we’ll probably never be able to use that first name anyways. I rationally get this. Emotionally, we’ll that’s another story. I’m devastated to know that we will never be able to use that name if we are fortunate enough to ever find our way to a living baby girl.
And the middle name, we’ll I’m beyond gutted. Of our 5 babies that we lost way too early, we only named one of them. And, it’s also the little girl that I had to terminate at an abortion clinic. This is with me every single day of my life, and always will be. Yes, we lost 5 babies, but she was different, as we chose to end her life in an incredibly traumatizing way (albeit, to likely save my life, but that’s not the point). And now, there’s a little girl who is part of my family who carries her name. How am I supposed to look at this brand new baby and not see what we lost and we could have had?
I’m literally sitting here with crocodile tears rolling down my cheeks. Once again, I’m sitting in the quiet of my home, licking my wounds. I’m just devastated.
But I am also very angry. I’m angry that I lost 5 babies, who never got real names. I’m angry for what we had to live through. I’m angry that our lost babies are basically forgotten by everyone now that Little MPB is in our lives (for the record, I love Little MPB more then anything/anyone in the world, but adoption does not magically cure infertility and/or past loss). And, I’m angry I was forced to terminate for medical reasons at an abortion clinic.
This is all so unfair.
I guess the silver lining in all of this, is that at least I have a friend who gets it and she knows just what to say (sorry for the swearing, but it’s just one of those days):
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My Perfect Breakdown 