So I was given the okay to try to conceive once my first period came after Elin was born into God’s arms. Hubby and I decided that we weren’t going to try but we weren’t going to prevent either. If it happened it happened.
Well it happened. Three days before my second cycle was to begin I started feel the wonderful symptoms of pregnancy. I tested. I got two faint positives but a line is a line right? The day after my second cycle was to begin, I started bleeding so I figured we had a miscarriage. I can deal with this. I’m not broken. WRONG! Two weeks later I’m still spotting and still feel pregnant. I go up to the emergency room and they send me up to the emergency gynecology department. I do the normal pee in a cup thing for them. I really hate that by the way. I’m still getting a positive pregnancy test. Which is not abnormal but not too normal two weeks after a miscarriage. We do an ultrasound. I have still a hormonal cyst on my ovary, which is normal during pregnancy, that is telling my body I still need the pregnancy hormones. I’m told that it should resolve itself and I can go home after I leave a few vials of blood.
A few days later, I’m getting ready to leave for T-centralen here in Stockholm to hand over my youngest son to his father as our summer together was coming to an end. I started cramping so bad. The kind of cramps that make you want to curl up in a fetal position on the floor and just cry for hours. I figure that my body was getting ready to start it’s next cycle. I’ve had these kind of cramps when I was younger. WRONG AGAIN! Keep reading I’m getting to the action part, really I am.
The next day we go to a scheduled meeting with the head midwife of the team that was taking care of us during our tragedy. The autopsy results are all in. There was NOTHING wrong with Elin at all. Nothing that should have caused her death. Even the knot in her cord was not the cause as it was not tight enough to stop the blood flow or even slow it down. They found NOTHING! I felt like she died all over again. Even with the slightest thing wrong with her, I could at least eventually make some sense out of all this. Her heart just stopped beating. The midwife equated her with infants who die to S.I.D.S. So I’m sitting there spiraling toward depression, she tells me she was apprised of the miscarriage and I needed to go upstairs to leave another blood sample. So I’m seriously trying not to lose it while they are taking more vials of blood. At least the technician doing it had the decency not to keep talking in Swedish when I told her I didn’t understand her. We talked in pantomimes. Someone walking in would have thought we were both deaf.
We get home. I’m just in shock. Not talking, not doing much of anything. I tell the hubby I’m taking a bath. This had to have been less than two hours after I let the vampires of the hospital take more blood. We get a call from the hospital. You need to come back in, your hormone level has doubled since you were here last. Oh crap! That’s all I could think. Another ultrasound reveled a six week two day gestational baby in my fallopian tube with no heart beat. Damn it all to hell! I seriously feel doomed. I get an I.V. in place, no matter how many times you tell someone that it doesn’t work in one certain place they are determined to make your life worse by putting it where it hurts the most. I’m sent down the hall to my new room for however long it will take me to get on the emergency surgery list. I was told that I had until midnight to eat something, then only clear liquids until six in the morning then nothing. Hubby and I go get some food cause hospital food in general is just nasty, hospital food in a foreign country is worse. He bought me some goodies. He felt terrible doing it but he left me there so he could come home and take care of our kids. The night nurse came in, turned off my light at nine o’clock and told me good night in Swedish. Since when does a grown woman need to be told it was time for bed? She came back in and was talking to me. For the life of me I didn’t understand a word. No matter how many times I told her I didn’t speak Swedish she still when on and on about something. I wanted to slap her. Jag pratar inte svenska. Min svenska inte så bra. How hard is it to get that I don’t speak your language? If she spoke slower I might have understood some of what she was saying but yeah she didn’t understand anything I said anyway so why would she slow down. I mean if it was me, okay she doesn’t speak my language maybe one of the other nurses on the ward speaks her language. ARG!
The next morning I’m denied food or even water and offered a drip to keep me hydrated. After a lot of whining and crying when they told me I couldn’t do something, I was wheeled down to surgery. My body is then completely exposed then covered with a warmed blanket. The male nurse put some saline into my I.V. It hurt and he looked at me strangely telling me it shouldn’t hurt when he injects salty water into my veins. He then moves the I.V. to my arm where I wanted it the day before but was told I couldn’t have it there cause it would hurt worse than the back of the hand. I’m put to sleep, then I’m guessing they put their little guns in the incisions they made and a camera in my belly button. I’m sure I looked like an old atari game. Ms. Claw is going to get that evil offending tube and yank it right out. I’m sure they were more delicate than that but you get the idea. I wake up a few hours later to some guy puking and coughing in the bed across from me. My entire right tube is now gone and the hormonal cyst was punctured to get it to drain. I’m not sure at this point what that means for the future. I was told that my body will compensate and still release an egg every month to be fertilized but I’m not banking on anything.
After being awake for an hour down in recovery, I’m wheeled back upstairs. I snooze off and on for another hour. Waking up every time the beeping in the hall came on, the one that alerts nurses someone is calling for them. I finally get out of bed. I’m restless, overly tired and extremely emotional. I figured I would walk around. I’m told I need to get back into bed. I told the nurses, not no but hell no I was stiff I needed to move. Not eating all day I was hungry. I took my one hundred kronor and figured I would take the elevator down and walk the whole twenty steps to the pressbyran and buy me an apple. Again going with the foreign hospital food is nasty thing. The nurse told me I wasn’t going anywhere, I just had surgery I needed to lay back down. I looked her straight in the face and told her I had surgery hours ago and to find me a doctor I wanted to go home. So more crying and throwing a two year old tantrum, the doctor comes in and says it’s perfectly fine if I want to go home. It was late so most patients want to stay another night. I told her my fat arse is not not sleeping in that bed another night. I wanted to go home. As I was leaving the nurses were all talking under there breath, in Swedish, and giving me weird looks. I’m sure they never want me back in their ward again. I’m not a very good patient.
So I go outside to grab a taxi. I ask in my limited Swedish if the driver speaks English. He said he speaks a little and he would give me a ride. He asked if I had money. I told him that my husband would be waiting for us and would pay him then. The ride home was not easy and the driver asked a few questions. He asked me where I was from and I told him I was from America. He looked overly pleased by that. He was a middle eastern immigrant and for the life of me I couldn’t tell you which country. We got there and my husband paid him. I guess he was doubtful because he told him that he would have given me a ride for free because his country loves Americans. I guess being from the country responsible for ferreting out Sudam Hussain, not sure if I spelled that right, made some countries happy according to this particular immigrant.
I’m now home feeling, once again, like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck maybe a Peterbilt but I can’t be sure I wasn’t looking. I guess the gas they use to expand the abdomen makes your muscles in your upper arms and shoulders feel achy for a few days.
So much has happened in the last forty eight hours. I’m really just not sure how I actually feel yet. I’m still in shock over it all. Elin’s death with no explainable reason, the tubal pregnancy, the surgery, losing hope for the future. It’s all just too much right now. I haven’t even processed it yet. I’m sure I’ll be writing again in a few days about how unfair life is and how much it all sucks.
Am I ever going to get to see the sun again?