WARNING: This is a serious post about a traumatic event in my life, with a smattering of humor. I will return you to our regularly-scheduled hilarity tomorrow.
Today I had a weird moment of clarity as I dealt with my semi-hangover from a night with friends. What if I'm looking at this situation wrong? For almost 4 years I've been cursing the doctor that did this to me & feeling incredibly sorry for myself because of my inability to get pregnant, no matter how many times people tell me to hurry up and have a baby. I've been so caught up in the anger and resentment that it seems I've forgotten a very important thing -- I'm lucky to be alive.
My serious side would like to come out for a moment, and if you will indulge me that much, I would appreciate it. Porch and I have been through a lot of stuff together and been tested at levels that may have pushed other relationships to their breaking points.
In November of 2009, I had the worst side pains of my life. It got to the point where I could not stand up straight and when you're teaching a group of children, mobility is kind of an important thing. I tried to ignore it, tried to fight through it. Then one day at school, while I was hunched over in the classroom talking to my kids, one of them, with a very concerned look on his face asked, "Did you get shot Ms. Danielle?"
I ended up in the ER at UIC the same night because I couldn't sleep with the pain. It was waking me up with its intensity and frequency. Spent a few hours there, hanging out, laughing with Porch as he entertains me during countless tests. The doctors had no answers and I began to feel like they thought I was faking to get drugs because in the end, the doctor just shrugged his shoulders and offered to prescribe me some painkillers and a referral to a specialist. I declined the painkillers as what they had given me in the hospital had done nothing.
I went to my primary doctor the next day. She insisted on testing my urine because CLEARLY I'm an idiot and surely just pregnant and not aware. That week I think 10 people asked me no less than 1,000 times if I was certain I wasn't pregnant. I'm still not sure why they couldn't just trust the 3 tests done at the hospital that said this. Regardless, my primary doctor couldn't find anything wrong with me and sent me to the hospital near by for 23 hours of observation. Poked, prodded, examined, lots of questioning looks... nothing. An ultrasound during which the not-so-polite Polish woman jammed the wand into my stomach without a single consoling word was icing on the cake. 23 hours passed and no one knew what was wrong with me.
I love Grey's Anatomy. I began to feel like one of the cases though, where all of the med students had to come in and observe, take notes, ask the same stupid questions. A week passes and no one knows what's going on in there so they prepare to send me home. Excited to be discharged, though nervous about the lingering pain, I ate a full, regular person meal that morning and eagerly waited for my doctor to say goodbye. Oh, yes, I had been on a liquid-only diet for the week. Dis. Gust. Ing. Though a fabulous weight-loss technique I must admit.
A doctor did come into my room. But then got very angry that I had eaten breakfast. Because didn't I know I was going into surgery in 2 hours?! Say whaaaaat? I freaked. No one had told me or Porch. We called my parents to let them know what was going on and they began the 2 hour drive to meet us. I found out it was going to exploratory surgery, with 2 tiny incisions so they can get a better look at whatever is going on in there. I felt anxious, nervous, and scared. But I also knew it would be a quick procedure, 30 minutes or it's free.
They prep me and insert another IV line "just in case something happens and we need to get you more drugs quickly dear." Those words will haunt me forever.
While in surgery, the doctor attempting to insert the 2nd scope (or whatever, I'm a teacher, not a medical surgeon thank you very much) missed, slipped, messed up, had a bad day, however it happened, an artery was knicked and bleeding commenced. We would later find out that I almost died, that they had to call the chief of surgery who THANK GOD was in the building that day. At a later appointment, I thanked him for being there, for knowing what to do, and doing it without hesitation. Poor Porch sat in the waiting room for over 3 hours, holding my engagement ring and likely freaking out.
I woke up shaking uncontrollably, freezing, and demanding to use the restroom. I demand a lot of things, it's in my blood. The nurses had me in blankets, trying to warm me up, telling me that I didn't need to use the restroom, that they had inserted a catheter (WTF) because of the complications (WTF). My whole body hurt. I couldn't figure out at first why I was so sore. There should have been 2 small holes.
I now have scar that is almost 12 inches long and runs the entire length of my stomach. While I'm the first to admit that I've never been one to wear a bikini, this scar has made it almost unbearable. At this point, the scar is smooth, healthy, and well-healed. I sometimes forget it's there until someone asks about it. I spent another week in the hospital, the first night is one I'll never forget. The blur of the morphine, my parents bringing Wendy's into my room immediately after surgery and standing at the end of my bed, eating. Haha, I remember hearing my dad's voice saying, "Whatever, she won't remember this anyway." More vividly, I remember when they rolled me back into my room from the recovery room. My dad was the first person I remember seeing -- I remember saying, "It's so bad. It's just so bad." I remember pushing the button to call my nurse and her polite and calm response, "Honey, you can't have more yet, it's not time." It felt like it was never time. I probably pushed that button a billion times. She probably should have disconnected it.
The first weeks of recovery at home were torture. I had to take 5 different pills including a ridiculous amount of iron because fun fact: I'm anemic! I found myself in the shower one morning before a post-op appointment throwing up and then crying because the act of throwing up hurt and because it's just sad to be so pathetic. Laughter made it hurt too. And Porch & I are funny people so it was really difficult to get through the day without laughing. My mother-in-law (who was not yet an in-law at the time) spent the entire first day with me and took such good care of me! Slowly, the wound began to heal physically. But I was so upset about the situation.
But now I realize that if this doctor hadn't messed up, they wouldn't have had to open me up and may not have found the mass at the top of my torso. They removed it (it was benign) and the pressure that had been causing my side pains subsided as a result. They also found endometriosis. Such a dirty word, one I've come to despise almost as much as infertility. I went through 6 months of pseudo-menopause during which I basically went through menopause. Hot flashes, no periods, just miserable all-around. I have a new respect for women who go through "the change." It was a very, very low time for me. I was able to stop the medication a month before our wedding. I think the wedding and the planning helped me get through recovery as it was a distraction. In the end, I was just happy to be standing there with my family and friends and marrying this man who had already stood by me in sickness and in health.
And what young newlywed couple doesn't dream of starting their own family? I knew that I had to wait 6 months after finishing my medication. I got the go ahead and what seemed like a bizarre warning from the OB/GYN who had been the one to mess up my surgery (I swear, if I ever see this man again, I will struggle to hold my tongue. Or my fist.) -- "You don't want to wait too long, it won't get easier."
Yeah, okay big guy, no problem. So we started trying. We have seen several of our friends and family members conceive and welcome children into their lives. It's been almost 2 years of waiting and hoping and straight up disappointment on a 30-day cycle. But: We're not giving up. I think that's the important part. I try to stay optimistic and today for some reason especially, I'm just feeling really blessed and thankful that I'm here and healthy and able to celebrate Porch's birthday with him. I've been looking for the hidden message in everything and perhaps my body's demise was part of a bigger plan. Who knows. At some point, I'm certain Los Porchs will have a tiny human and you can all deal with the billions of pictures and stories.
You're welcome in advance.
Well, this has been a bit therapeutic. Thank you.
We're celebrating Porch's birthday today so I'm sure you'll find a post about that later this coming week.
xoxo,
Mrs. Porch
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today I had a weird moment of clarity as I dealt with my semi-hangover from a night with friends. What if I'm looking at this situation wrong? For almost 4 years I've been cursing the doctor that did this to me & feeling incredibly sorry for myself because of my inability to get pregnant, no matter how many times people tell me to hurry up and have a baby. I've been so caught up in the anger and resentment that it seems I've forgotten a very important thing -- I'm lucky to be alive.
My serious side would like to come out for a moment, and if you will indulge me that much, I would appreciate it. Porch and I have been through a lot of stuff together and been tested at levels that may have pushed other relationships to their breaking points.
In November of 2009, I had the worst side pains of my life. It got to the point where I could not stand up straight and when you're teaching a group of children, mobility is kind of an important thing. I tried to ignore it, tried to fight through it. Then one day at school, while I was hunched over in the classroom talking to my kids, one of them, with a very concerned look on his face asked, "Did you get shot Ms. Danielle?"
I ended up in the ER at UIC the same night because I couldn't sleep with the pain. It was waking me up with its intensity and frequency. Spent a few hours there, hanging out, laughing with Porch as he entertains me during countless tests. The doctors had no answers and I began to feel like they thought I was faking to get drugs because in the end, the doctor just shrugged his shoulders and offered to prescribe me some painkillers and a referral to a specialist. I declined the painkillers as what they had given me in the hospital had done nothing.
I went to my primary doctor the next day. She insisted on testing my urine because CLEARLY I'm an idiot and surely just pregnant and not aware. That week I think 10 people asked me no less than 1,000 times if I was certain I wasn't pregnant. I'm still not sure why they couldn't just trust the 3 tests done at the hospital that said this. Regardless, my primary doctor couldn't find anything wrong with me and sent me to the hospital near by for 23 hours of observation. Poked, prodded, examined, lots of questioning looks... nothing. An ultrasound during which the not-so-polite Polish woman jammed the wand into my stomach without a single consoling word was icing on the cake. 23 hours passed and no one knew what was wrong with me.
I love Grey's Anatomy. I began to feel like one of the cases though, where all of the med students had to come in and observe, take notes, ask the same stupid questions. A week passes and no one knows what's going on in there so they prepare to send me home. Excited to be discharged, though nervous about the lingering pain, I ate a full, regular person meal that morning and eagerly waited for my doctor to say goodbye. Oh, yes, I had been on a liquid-only diet for the week. Dis. Gust. Ing. Though a fabulous weight-loss technique I must admit.
A doctor did come into my room. But then got very angry that I had eaten breakfast. Because didn't I know I was going into surgery in 2 hours?! Say whaaaaat? I freaked. No one had told me or Porch. We called my parents to let them know what was going on and they began the 2 hour drive to meet us. I found out it was going to exploratory surgery, with 2 tiny incisions so they can get a better look at whatever is going on in there. I felt anxious, nervous, and scared. But I also knew it would be a quick procedure, 30 minutes or it's free.
They prep me and insert another IV line "just in case something happens and we need to get you more drugs quickly dear." Those words will haunt me forever.
While in surgery, the doctor attempting to insert the 2nd scope (or whatever, I'm a teacher, not a medical surgeon thank you very much) missed, slipped, messed up, had a bad day, however it happened, an artery was knicked and bleeding commenced. We would later find out that I almost died, that they had to call the chief of surgery who THANK GOD was in the building that day. At a later appointment, I thanked him for being there, for knowing what to do, and doing it without hesitation. Poor Porch sat in the waiting room for over 3 hours, holding my engagement ring and likely freaking out.
I woke up shaking uncontrollably, freezing, and demanding to use the restroom. I demand a lot of things, it's in my blood. The nurses had me in blankets, trying to warm me up, telling me that I didn't need to use the restroom, that they had inserted a catheter (WTF) because of the complications (WTF). My whole body hurt. I couldn't figure out at first why I was so sore. There should have been 2 small holes.
I now have scar that is almost 12 inches long and runs the entire length of my stomach. While I'm the first to admit that I've never been one to wear a bikini, this scar has made it almost unbearable. At this point, the scar is smooth, healthy, and well-healed. I sometimes forget it's there until someone asks about it. I spent another week in the hospital, the first night is one I'll never forget. The blur of the morphine, my parents bringing Wendy's into my room immediately after surgery and standing at the end of my bed, eating. Haha, I remember hearing my dad's voice saying, "Whatever, she won't remember this anyway." More vividly, I remember when they rolled me back into my room from the recovery room. My dad was the first person I remember seeing -- I remember saying, "It's so bad. It's just so bad." I remember pushing the button to call my nurse and her polite and calm response, "Honey, you can't have more yet, it's not time." It felt like it was never time. I probably pushed that button a billion times. She probably should have disconnected it.
The first weeks of recovery at home were torture. I had to take 5 different pills including a ridiculous amount of iron because fun fact: I'm anemic! I found myself in the shower one morning before a post-op appointment throwing up and then crying because the act of throwing up hurt and because it's just sad to be so pathetic. Laughter made it hurt too. And Porch & I are funny people so it was really difficult to get through the day without laughing. My mother-in-law (who was not yet an in-law at the time) spent the entire first day with me and took such good care of me! Slowly, the wound began to heal physically. But I was so upset about the situation.
But now I realize that if this doctor hadn't messed up, they wouldn't have had to open me up and may not have found the mass at the top of my torso. They removed it (it was benign) and the pressure that had been causing my side pains subsided as a result. They also found endometriosis. Such a dirty word, one I've come to despise almost as much as infertility. I went through 6 months of pseudo-menopause during which I basically went through menopause. Hot flashes, no periods, just miserable all-around. I have a new respect for women who go through "the change." It was a very, very low time for me. I was able to stop the medication a month before our wedding. I think the wedding and the planning helped me get through recovery as it was a distraction. In the end, I was just happy to be standing there with my family and friends and marrying this man who had already stood by me in sickness and in health.
And what young newlywed couple doesn't dream of starting their own family? I knew that I had to wait 6 months after finishing my medication. I got the go ahead and what seemed like a bizarre warning from the OB/GYN who had been the one to mess up my surgery (I swear, if I ever see this man again, I will struggle to hold my tongue. Or my fist.) -- "You don't want to wait too long, it won't get easier."
Yeah, okay big guy, no problem. So we started trying. We have seen several of our friends and family members conceive and welcome children into their lives. It's been almost 2 years of waiting and hoping and straight up disappointment on a 30-day cycle. But: We're not giving up. I think that's the important part. I try to stay optimistic and today for some reason especially, I'm just feeling really blessed and thankful that I'm here and healthy and able to celebrate Porch's birthday with him. I've been looking for the hidden message in everything and perhaps my body's demise was part of a bigger plan. Who knows. At some point, I'm certain Los Porchs will have a tiny human and you can all deal with the billions of pictures and stories.
You're welcome in advance.
Well, this has been a bit therapeutic. Thank you.
We're celebrating Porch's birthday today so I'm sure you'll find a post about that later this coming week.
xoxo,
Mrs. Porch
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