I miscarried my first baby at 11.5 weeks. The bleeding started on a Sunday. I went to the emergency room and they really couldn't tell me anything. They scheduled an emergency ultrasound for the next morning.
Ultrasound techs have an interesting job. When things go well, it must be such a joyous experience to point out the little hands and feet to the new mom and dad up on the screen while they debate amongst themselves whether or not they think it is a boy or a girl. But when it goes bad...I'm sure they wish they were in any other job possible.
I walked into the room dreading the worst. I knew...deep down in my gut I knew...it was over....My baby measured 8.6 weeks and there was no heartbeat. I can still hear her words, "I'm sorry" . I asked if I could see the screen, in fact, I begged her. I told her I needed to see my baby...I am not sure if it was protocol or not, but she let me. And there she was (I think she was a she)...an almost fully formed little beautiful baby. She was mine...and I was her mother.
After the ultrasound, a "Doogie Houser" doctor met me and told me that since I had already started bleeding, I should go home and let nature take its course.
Well nature must hate me because I ended up in the ER the following morning and ended up spending the next night in the hospital because "nature" decided to go all Tsunami on my body. I lost way too much blood, had a borderline deadly blood pressure...and could have died. My poor husband was there with me through the entire ordeal.
They sent me home the following morning with pamphlets and pitied looks. I thought that was the worst I could ever feel...but who knew...that was only miscarriage number one.
No comments:
Post a Comment