There’s this stupid Burger King commercial on TV right now where a chicken announces, “French fries and I are pregnant and we’re having chicken fries!” Normally, I wouldn’t even notice a commercial like this. If I did notice it, I would think, “Lame” and wonder aloud how much the ad agency got paid for creating it. But, things haven’t been normal since April 30, when I found out my pregnancy was ectopic (growing in my left fallopian tube). After an emergency surgery, I came home to sit in front of the TV for a week, during which time I saw that commercial about 20 times and hated the f-ing world.

Here’s the thing: I was never sure about having kids. I was on the proverbial fence. Or, actually, that’s not even true. For a long time, I was on the “no kids” side of the fence. I wrote a post for this blog about my hesitations with being a mom. At one point, I was pretty sure that being an Aunt to Hooper and Van would be fulfilling enough, and I wrote a post about that. And then, still wrestling with the whole motherhood thing, I wrote a post with a letter to my future possible child (which makes me kind of teary-eyed now).

What I’m saying is it’s no secret that I spent a good deal of time hemming and hawing about whether or not I should tackle parenthood. My sister said, “You think too much,” and that’s probably true. Then, in the months after I got married in 2014, something shifted and I wanted a family. My husband and I talked about it for hours upon hours over many weeks and months. We didn’t take the decision lightly. It was very thought-out. We couldn’t be impulsive even if we wanted to be because I had to taper off my antidepressant before we could even “try.” That was a grueling two-month process in itself.

All that said, when I took 3 pee-on-a-stick tests and found out I was pregnant, I was ecstatic. Like, I was shaking, which I haven’t done since I was 15 and my crush gave me a ride to school one day. I saved the three tests until just yesterday when I finally decided to throw them away.

My plan was to tell my family on Mother’s Day by showing them the ultrasound picture and saying, “My gift won’t be ready for 7 months.” We had started talking about names and how to convert the guest bedroom into a nursery. I had started fantasizing, big time. I bought the very best prenatal vitamins and cooked awesome meals, saying to my husband, “This baby is gonna love me for 9 months.” I took the cliché “just found out I was pregnant” photo, planning to keep a log showing my growing bump. I couldn’t wait to see that bump grow.

My excitement turned to worry when I had some spotting. Google told me this was fairly common in early pregnancy. Still, I called the doctor and they said, “It’s probably nothing, but we can check your hormone levels with blood tests if you want.” I did want. I needed some peace of mind. The first two tests were fine. My levels were in the normal range and, most importantly, were rising as they should. In fact, they tripled from the first test to the second, which the doctor said was “excellent.” But, the third test was not good. The levels had barely risen. In retrospect, this makes me sad. The levels were still rising, albeit slowly. The baby was trying to grow.

They wanted me to come in right away for an ultrasound. I was expecting a miscarriage. I felt like a ticking time bomb, going to the bathroom every 10 minutes to see if I was bleeding. I wasn’t. I had some mild cramping, and figured that was just the beginning of losing the baby. I tried to comfort myself with, “Well, if you miscarry, it’s probably because there was something wrong with the baby.” That’s what I’d heard. I like to pride myself on being logical.

During the ultrasound, the tech kept sighing and shaking her head. I told her, “I know it’s bad, just be straight with me.” She said, “I think it’s in your left tube.” That was not what I expected to hear. After all, ectopic pregnancies are rare—1% to 2% of pregnancies. Ten minutes later, the doctor was having me escorted to the admitting desk of the hospital to have emergency surgery. I was shocked and scared. I’ve only been under anesthesia once—when I had my wisdom teeth removed. The whole process—getting vials and vials of blood drawn, having an IV inserted through my hand, answering questions about my advance directive—made me feel ill. And then the lights went out at the hospital and I had to wait, lying there on the gurney, for 2 hours before they could operate.

I should consider myself lucky. People die from ectopic pregnancies—not just in the 1800s, but today, especially in countries where medical care isn’t great. I’m fortunate to live where I do. When I woke up, the doctor said I was already bleeding internally so the tube would have ruptured “at any minute” if they hadn’t operated. That would have been bad, very bad.

From the moment I got home from the hospital, I was stubbornly determined to just move on. I was not prepared for the tsunami of grief and sadness and anger that would crash down. I keep looking for a reason why this happened. Maybe it’s because I was wishy-washy about kids for so long. Maybe it’s a sign that I was supposed to stay on the “no kids” side of the fence. My husband thinks it was to test our resolve and prove our strength and resiliency (because god knows you need strength and resilience if you’re a parent). Oh my husband, his glass is always half full, even when I attempt to drain it.

Physically, I could barely move for a few days. It hurt to sit up. I fainted during my first attempt at walking. I ran my first marathon a few months ago and felt so strong and empowered by that. Suddenly, that person was gone and I was completely weak and depleted, unable to even go to the bathroom without help. The only thing that felt okay was lying flat, staring at the ceiling. With my type of surgery, they pump you full of air so they can see around in there. I was so bloated and uncomfortable. In a bit of cruel irony, I looked about 5 months pregnant for several days. My belly still isn’t back to normal.

Physical effects aside, the emotional recovery has been incredibly difficult and humbling. Logically, I know it was barely a fetus, but I can’t stop thinking about how the baby’s heart was beating and the baby had eyes and all of that. It’s sad. It was a healthy union of egg and sperm, just in the wrong spot. That f-ing sucks and really pisses me off. The pregnancy hormones take weeks to go away, so I still “feel pregnant.” If I pee on a stick, it will say I am pregnant. That’s probably why I’m so sad. My body is responding like I lost a baby. I did, I guess. I did.

People try to say the right things. They really do. But when you’re in a certain head space, nothing really helps. It goes something like this:

Nice friend: “At least you could get pregnant.”

My imagined retort: “Yeah and it turned out to be potentially life-threatening. Lucky me!”

Nice friend: “I didn’t even know you wanted kids.”

My imagined retort: “Right, so I guess it’s okay this happened. Thanks.”

Nice friend: “You can try again.”

My imagined retort: “If you went skydiving and the parachute didn’t open, would you go again?”

Nice friend: “I’m sure it happened for a reason.”
My imagined retort: “When our friendship ends, that will be for a reason, too.”

Seriously, folks, I had a days-long, very elaborate pity party. A real rager.

And don’t even get me started on the evils of Facebook when you go through something like this. I follow lots of runners. I hated them for their health. I follow lots of friends who are pregnant or already moms. I hated them for their bliss. Even now that some time has passed, I still feel angry. I know it’s not rational and I know it’s bitchy and unfair of me, but it’s there.

Not even my husband has been safe from my wrath. Frankly, spouses can’t understand. They want to, but they can’t. And that’s frustrating. I don’t know if we’ll try again. Even though I have only one tube left, my doctor says many women go on to have healthy pregnancies after an ectopic. I think we will take the summer to heal and relax and drink some beers and think about what’s next. I see this experience as a microcosm of motherhood itself. It stripped me of so much control and left me feeling so vulnerable, which is probably what it’s like to be a mom a lot of the time. I have to wonder if I can handle that long-term.

We did a small ceremony at the beach, involving some rose petals disappearing into the waves. I cried. My husband said, “That was nice,” which is the closest he will get to crying, I assure you. I’ve been up and around now. I’ve spent time with my family. They’ve made me laugh. It freaking hurts my belly when I laugh. But at least I’m laughing.

To all you women who have struggled with losing a baby in whatever way, shape, or form, I am so sorry. And you are so brave. Stay off Facebook for a while and you’ll be okay.

Author: Kim Hooper | Photos found on Whitney Taylor’s Pinterest, artist unknown 🙁