As my husband and I arrived at Christmas mass, my heart sank seeing the packed pews. We thought we had planned ahead, but we hadn’t anticipated the overwhelming holiday crowd.
Desperate for a place to sit, I approached an usher and explained my recent surgery. Without hesitation, she offered me her chair. However, as I settled in beside another couple, the woman leaned closer and said, “That seat is reserved for the usher.”
I explained my situation, but her husband replied, “I don’t see any stitches. Let me see your stitches.” In that moment, my emotions burst forth in tears.
You see, while you may have perceived a healthy woman in a nice dress, what you failed to recognize was the mask I was wearing. This was my first outing since surgery, and I had finally mustered the energy to wash my hair. The outfit I chose was the fourth I had tried on, as I desperately sought something that wouldn’t tug at my incisions. My makeup concealed the dark circles under my eyes, hastily reapplied after a tearful episode before heading to church.
What you didn’t know was that just two days earlier, I was supposed to hear my baby’s heartbeat for the first time during an ultrasound. Four weeks prior, I had experienced unexpected bleeding and rushed to the ER, where I was reassured everything would be okay. The nurse had told me not to worry about the diagnosis of “ectopic pregnancy,” suggesting it was an unlikely outcome.
But a week later, my OB-GYN confirmed that I had indeed miscarried, and the very next day, I was informed that my HCG levels were still rising, indicating further testing was necessary. After several ultrasounds, it was determined I was facing an ectopic pregnancy. We were advised to take methotrexate shots, which aim to halt the progression of the pregnancy and protect my health.
You didn’t witness the tears shed by my husband and me, nor did you hear my anguished cries over what felt like an unfair fate. We had been trying to conceive for years. You weren’t there when I received the call at work, learning that the shots hadn’t worked. You didn’t see my co-worker comforting me as I sobbed until I could call my husband.
You didn’t sit with us in the ultrasound room for the fifth time, where we finally saw our baby’s heartbeat, nestled in my right fallopian tube. You weren’t there when my doctor urgently scheduled emergency surgery to remove my baby and my right fallopian tube.
You couldn’t know that I was part of the small percentage—1.9%—of women who experience ectopic pregnancies without any risk factors. While methotrexate is effective 90% of the time, I found myself among the unfortunate 10% for whom it didn’t work.
In that moment, all I could manage to say was, “I lost my baby,” while my husband stood behind me, unaware of our exchange but sensing my distress. Your apology felt awkward, and I wasn’t sure if it was meant for my loss or for your insensitivity. Regardless, I forgive you—you simply didn’t know.
This experience has opened my eyes to the fact that many people are unaware of ectopic pregnancies. It’s not something I blame anyone for; it’s a rare occurrence that few will face.
If you find yourself navigating this heartbreak, know that you are not alone. Many, including myself, understand that while physical wounds may heal quickly, emotional scars require more time.
And to you, sir, should you read this, remember that just because a wound isn’t visible doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
For more insights on this topic, check out our other blog posts at Home Insemination Kit, and if you’re considering options for starting a family, Make A Mom offers excellent resources. Additionally, UCSF Fertility provides valuable information on fertility and insurance questions.
In summary, the heartache of an ectopic pregnancy is often hidden beneath the surface. It’s crucial to approach such situations with empathy and understanding, recognizing that emotional wounds can run deep.