For Solitude Lovers Only

I’m terrified. I’ve never undergone anesthesia before and it has always been a fear of mine. Thinking about the loss of control is agonizing. What if they give me too much medication? What if my body has an allergic reaction to it? What if I don’t wake up? If that happens, I will die on the same day as the embryo growing in my left fallopian tube. Is there some comfort in that thought? Maybe a little. Tears start to fall from my eyes thinking about the life that will never be. 

The anesthesiologist walks in to introduce himself and instantly reminds me of an uncle who died years ago. Uncle Bob was an anesthesiologist too. A soft spoken, gentle giant who always carried a sweet smile. The man standing beside my hospital bed is also extremely tall with an outwardly quiet and caring disposition. His familiar energy instantly comforts me. He provides me with a feeling of ease that I haven’t felt on this journey until now. I am grateful.

Although I feel a sense of comfort, I have been my best advocate throughout this process, and I won’t stop now. As I rattle off my questions, I emphasize that I am not a “medication person”. I also confirm his awareness of my allergies to two fairly common families of medicine. His gentle demeanor doesn’t crack as he confirms his knowledge of my allergies, and patiently educates me on the technology that will ensure I’m not overmedicated. I instinctively know I am in good hands.

It’s November of 2020 during the height of Covid. This means I am in the hospital alone. I came to the emergency room after getting the results of my latest blood test. It  showed that my pregnancy hormones were yet again increasing, after declining a bit in my previous test. This meant the embryo was still growing, trying to survive in a part of my body that cannot support life. I had hoped the pregnancy would resolve on its own, which does happen in some cases, but clearly not in mine.

Fortunately, the ob/gyn who matter-of-factly informed me that my pregnancy was not viable and was most likely an ectopic pregnancy weeks before was not at the hospital on the night of my surgery. Every single encounter I had with her during the weeks-long agony of worrying that my fallopian tube would burst, getting blood tests every few days, and grieving the loss of a new life was unpleasant. From her brittle voice to her unkind demeanor, she made an already scary and unpredictable experience even worse. I hope to never see her again.

A different gynecologist from the ob/gyn practice attends to me in the emergency room. When this black female doctor walks in, a sense of relief washes over me. Sometimes it’s just that simple when you see someone who looks like you in a space that has not been historically safe, or even presently safe, for a black woman carrying life. Even if that life is not viable. Her energy lets me know she is busy, but still deliberate and thoughtful. She reiterates that I’m most likely experiencing an ectopic pregnancy. This means the embryo is growing outside of the uterus, typically in one of the fallopian tubes. Ectopic pregnancies are life-threatening and can result in a fallopian tube rupture, which could then cause internal bleeding and unspeakable pain. A rupture could lead to an emergency blood transfusion or death if too much blood is lost. I am told that an ectopic pregnancy cannot be confirmed without direct surgical access to the fallopian tubes, hence the most likely phrase I have been given throughout this process. I would later learn why.

The doctor gives me two options. The first option is an injection with the drug methotrexate, sometimes used in chemotherapy treatment, to dissolve the embryo. Thankfully, I have already researched this option on my own and learned that it’s not always a one-time, guaranteed remedy. Some women may need more than one injection, depending on how far the pregnancy has advanced. This option also comes with additional blood tests over the next couple of weeks to ensure pregnancy hormones are decreasing, and during this time, the fallopian tube could still rupture. Through my research, it is also unclear if this medication could potentially cause any medical issues in the future. Online, it states that methotrexate should not cause any future issues, and that should not does not sit well with me.

The second option is laparoscopic surgery. This in-and-out surgery involves cutting one slit on each side of my lower abdomen and directly accessing the fallopian tube to remove the embryo. The doctor informs me that my fallopian tube, depending on the damage caused by the embryo, may also need to be removed.

I don’t need to think about the best option for me for too long. My spirit and my gut almost immediately tell me to go with the more elaborate, but guaranteed option of surgery. And I listen.

I’m having laparoscopic surgery to remove the embryo in my left fallopian tube. I lay in the emergency room processing that by myself. Shortly after I make my decision, I am wheeled into the operating room. The anesthesiologist is back, ready to inject his drugs into my body. And then all time is lost.

As I open my eyes, the nurse is there asking me how I feel, and suddenly the doctor appears. She assures me that the surgery went well and is finally able to definitively tell me that I did, in fact, have an ectopic pregnancy. She also shares that my fallopian tube was on the brink of rupturing and had to be removed. She states that the surgery option was the right choice. I’m proud of myself. I saved myself from further physical, mental, and emotional pain by doing enough research to guide me in the right direction, and by listening to my inner wisdom and body. Again, I am grateful.

As I sit at home a few days later, willing my abdominal muscles to bounce back, I start to fully process what I’ve just experienced. My act of grieving a non-viable pregnancy all while trying to save my life, and prevent further bodily pain for myself, stirred up a mix of emotions. I
was plagued by weeks of fear and sadness. The journey to get through my ectopic pregnancy was so intense that I never had the time or energy to research what other women have
experienced with this type of pregnancy. Perhaps I want to learn about other women’s experiences in order to feel seen, and to honor them with the same visibility.

As I start my research, I’m instantly shocked at the misdiagnoses and horrific experiences I come across. I read about women who were misdiagnosed with miscarriages in the emergency room and callously sent home, when they were actually experiencing an ectopic pregnancy and bleeding internally due to a fallopian tube rupture. Loss of consciousness and blood transfusions, or death, come soon after. Then there are women who have been told they have an ectopic pregnancy, but the embryo is actually growing safely in the uterus, not yet developed enough to see or out of the sonogram machine’s sight. Some of these women get the injection to end the pregnancy and end up miscarrying healthy babies. These cases explain why I was consistently told I was most likely experiencing an ectopic pregnancy by the medical professionals I saw. The liability of it all.

Thinking to myself, I wonder – How are women expected to advocate for themselves when they are given a most likely diagnosis? I had heard of ectopic pregnancies before my experience, but I didn’t know much about them, and I certainly didn’t realize they were life-threatening until I did my own research. Although my fallopian tubes are now halved, and one is gone forever, I realize that I am one of the fortunate ones. I feel immensely grateful.