Barely Breathing
Monique | Saturday, August 4, 2012 at 11:58AM Below is an account of another harrowing experience at Cayuga Medical Center, and details of the loss of my pregnancy. We thank you for your patience as we muddle through this, and all of your words of comfort. We are hugely and truly appreciative.
Right now Focus is on hiatus, and everything else is just taking me a little bit longer to get to, but it is going to get done. I will respond to the overwhelming amounts of emails as soon as I can.
I thought I was untouchable.
Four healthy, though not totally uncomplicated, pregnancies... I was too confident that nothing would go wrong with my fifth.
But it did.
And I lost our baby on August 2nd.
We'd gotten home from a day of errand running, and a hopeful appointment with Doctor Terrific, at around 5:30pm.
At 6, I discovered blood.
Blood that was much different from what I had already experienced, and I knew this was the end.
Calmly, I told Christian what I found, and asked him to get dinner for the boys finished while I packed a bag. I knew we were going to head to the ER, but I didn't know what would happen there. I gathered what I thought I'd need, and did as Doctor Terrific instructed me to do earlier and called the message service for the hospital.
It took a few minutes for the service to get back to me, but I was immediately transferred to the doctor - who was having a conversation with someone else {in another language}. I said "hello" three times, she didn't acknowledge me until the fourth.
She kept interrupting me when I spoke, leading to miscommunication naturally. Doctor Terrific had clearly told me to go to the ER if I'd experienced bleeding, I was not calling for this Doctor's advice, I was merely informing them to anticipate my arrival - a point she didn't hear.
She told me I was "probably just having an early miscarriage" and that unless I was hemorrhaging, there wasn't anything anyone could do for me.
So I asked her if she was suggesting that I stay home until I began hemorrhaging, and that was the first moment of silence I received on her end. Then she changed her tune - if I felt uncomfortable, then I should come to the ER, but she informed me repeatedly that no one could do anything to save my pregnancy.
I didn't get her name, because she never said it, I hung up and went to talk to the boys.
I explained to them as gently as I could that I had to go back to the hospital, and that the chances of the baby being healthy enough to stay in my uterus were not very good. They understood.
I had intended on asking to be admitted, one I didn't want my children to witness this. Having never suffered a miscarriage before, I had no idea what to expect and I refused to let my children experience this with me. And two, I was scared to death. I don't know what's 'normal' to anticipate, or what the pain would feel like, I wanted to be in a 'safe haven', just in case.
With my mothers in South Carolina, I knew I would be facing this alone. Christian had to be with our sons, and I did not want them sitting in the waiting room for hours, so I instructed Christian to drop me off and go back home. I know leaving me to handle this was not easy for him, it took him a long while to let go of my hand and let me walk away from the car. I kissed all of my boys, told them how much I loved them and that I'd see them later.
The ER was empty when I registered at the front desk, and I was taken to a room quickly. The aide was very sweet and helpful.
Then Nurse G. came in.
He sat across from me, and asked the usual questions, and when I told him I thought I was having a miscarriage, he asked me the one question no one else had asked.
"Was this a wanted pregnancy?"
He didn't ask me if I'd intended on keeping the pregnancy, and didn't automatically assume that I was happy to be rid of it. With the exception of Doctor Terrific, who seemed to understand this was a baby we planned on welcoming into our family without asking us, Nurse G. was the only person who treated me like I was a mother losing her child.
I cried then, as I said that it was.
He consoled me as he apologized and told me that if I thought I was miscarrying, the chances of that being a possibility were very high. He was not unkind, he was not rude, he was not dismissive. Every time I spoke to him throughout this ordeal, I thanked him.
He has no idea what his kindness meant to me.
It turns out that Doctor Bedside Manner was on call that evening and the first thing she asked was if I remembered her. Unfortunately, forgetting her is not a possibility and it is even less so now.
She asked me how I was doing, and I started to answer when she interjected with "Sad?".
I wanted to tell her that this baby was supposed to be the final member of our family, that he had a future, that my husband and I were just talking about baby names. I wanted to tell her how elated we were when we saw the positive pregnancy test, and that "sad" didn't even begin to cover the devastation in my heart and my soul.
But instead, I just nodded. Yes, "sad", that's simple enough for you to understand.
I was wheeled to the ultrasound room, where I asked the tech to please tell me if she saw anything. I didn't need details, I knew she couldn't tell me if the baby was healthy or not, I knew she couldn't give me answers - but I needed to know what she saw.
She obliged me, explaining every step of the way, and showing me on the screen. When she didn't mention the baby, I lost the remaining shreds of hope I'd held onto. I thanked her too.
A few minutes later the pain was intolerable and I had no choice but to request something to dull it. Nurse G. came in with Toradol and let me know that Doctor Bedside Manner would be in soon to do a pelvic exam.
And sure enough, a few minutes later, she'd bolted into the room practically shouting "Well, there's nothing in your uterus!" and without another word, turned on her heels and bolted right back out the door.
As the physical pain was dulling, the emotional torment was just beginning. Every unanswerable question rooted itself in my mind as the reality set in. Our baby was gone.
Our baby was gone, and this was how it was announced to me.
The pelvic exam was quick, but brutal. There was not an iota gentleness involved, my eyes went wide as she shoved the speculum into my body, and as she removed it I cried out in pain. Her response? "Oh, sorry! I popped your cervix there!" I am still feeling discomfort from the exam today, Saturday morning.
She told me that my cervix was closed, and that I would probably stop bleeding {currently, I have not stopped bleeding} and that I'd likely already passed the baby. Nothing with finality, which I didn't expect from anyone. She said she was sending me home.
Another nurse came in with my discharge papers and said "So. You had a miscarriage!" and left the paperwork on the bed as she pulled the tape off, and IV from my arm. She explained that I needed to follow up with Doctor Terrific as soon as possible, but didn't bother to read off any of the other instructions, so I didn't bother to rush myself out of their room.
I sat for a moment and read the sheet, I wiped away my tears and then, full of anxiety I realized I wanted to get as far away from this hospital as I could get, I got dressed and walked out. Nurse G. wished me luck and I thanked him again, and waited to be picked up outside in the parking lot.
I know it wasn't possible but I hoped I'd lost the baby at home, where he belonged with people who loved him and not in this disgusting hospital with these awful excuses for healthcare professionals.
I shouldn't have been treated like I was an inconvenience, I know my loss was not the hardest loss felt in that hospital, but I have a hard time imagining they treat anyone any better. When I think about the way I was disregarded, ignored, dismissed, and made to feel like my miscarriage was causing a problem for everyone - fresh tears stream down my face. This has undoubtedly exacerbated my grieving process, it's all I think about.
Christian is infuriated, my mother who experienced my first night at the hospital, hurts for me. I am not quite ready to deal with this hospital yet, but believe me I am taking it on. Something has to change. I know I can't be the only person who was ever mistreated there in a time of crisis.
Emotionally, I am lost. I know this wasn't my fault, but I don't have any answers to any questions and the easiest thing for me to do is blame myself, lest I start blaming everything and everyone else. I'll never know if this baby was a boy or a girl, I'll never feel a kick, hear a heartbeat or see the distinguishing Caraballo nose in an ultrasound picture.
I told the boys that our baby passed away, and Caesar asked a few questions, one of them included if we could name the baby. I told him we could talk to Christian about it, and make a decision from there, but I don't see why not.
What do I say now? I've seen others say they are a "Mom of two and one angel" but I don't believe in any of that, so what am I the mom of? Do I have five children, or four? Will we try again? Can we? I have so many questions, and so many of them will never be answered, and that's one of the hardest parts for me.
I don't know how to handle any of this, sometimes I forget I'm not pregnant anymore. I wasn't knowingly pregnant for a month, and yet this baby was such a big part of us in so many ways. I start stupidly daydreaming about the day our baby will be born and then reality slams into me like a wrecking ball, and I remember that there is no baby and I begin to weep again. I am completely overtaken by a tidal wave of crushing misery when I catch myself absentmindedly caressing my stomach, embracing a baby that is no longer there.
Some people have said "At least it was very early on." as if that makes a difference. I don't care that I was six weeks along, it's not important to me that my baby was only the size of an appleseed, we feel like we lost a child.
I'm thankful that every breath I take autonomously leads to another, because focusing on living through this is the hardest thing I have ever done.
Reader Comments (17)
I cried (am crying) so hard reading this. I can't imagine being given the news in such an nasty, awful manner. I am so so so sorry for the way you were treated and that what must have been excruciating both in body and in mind was made worse by their shallowness and stupidity. ♥ I am sending you lots of love and positivity and blessing for you and your family!
No words can express my sadness for you and your family. Experiencing three miscarrages myself, I empathize with you. That loved amd wanted child will always be with you. It will never be 'easy', but know there are so many people who love you and are thinking of you and yours. Hugs.
I am sorry you were treated that way. No one should have to go through that. You are a very strong woman. I appreciate you sharing something so heartbreaking with the rest of the world.
Monique, I am so sorry for the way you were treated. Zac and I experienced something very similar. No one understands how hard a miscarriage can be on the parents who wanted more than anything that pregnancy to be viable. My heart hurts for you, as I share your pain and grief. Time will help mend your heart. I also want to add, we did name ours - Diesel.
You're in our thoughts,
Nina & Mo
This is awful, all of it. As a Nurse I feel like I need to apologize for the health care system in general for the terrible experience you had. I suspect that the emotional pain of miscarriage is worse for someone who is already a mother, and knows exactly everything she is losing. I had two miscarriages before we had R, and I was devastated, but I lost something smaller and less tangible. Now, if it ever happened again, I don't know what I'd do. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry.
my miscarriage was one of the hardest things I have ever had to go through. Many prayers for you.
I am so sorry you had to experience this. All of this: the miscarriage, the horrible way you were treated, the lingering emotional pain. I am in tears for you and your baby. Focus on the breath if it makes dealing with pain even a easier.
Sorry, Monique. I don't know what else to say but sorry. :( *HUGS*
Monique, I am so sorry for your loss & how you were treated :(
I am so sorry.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I think, when you are feeling up to it, that you should take your experience to the supervisors of these doctors and/or nurses. That’s what I did when I experienced a horrible encounter with an OB office here in Syracuse. They gave me an official apology and though it didn’t replace comments like “You’re pregnant AGAIN” or “WOW! So SOON” and many many other things, it made me feel like at least my voice was heard.
I know sorry means nothing at a time like this, but my heart breaks for you. I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry for the cruel treatment you received at one of the most difficult times in your life. My heartfelt thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.
I am so very sorry you were treated that way by the hospital staff. There is no excuse for their behavior and insensitivity. You deserved better, and your baby deserved better.
So sorry to hear about your loss. Cry let it all out. Scream if you have to in the bathroom. But remember you have 4 other kids watching you go through something horrible. May things get better soon. Sending you hugs.
Hugs and tears is all I have for you my friend. No words come to comfort you. All I can offer is a virtual shoulder to cry on. If you need to chat about anything, please know I am here.
oxoxox