Blessed Life

I was 32 and had been caring for my disabled mother for 4 years, and my brother (who was my partner in caring for my mother) had just died months earlier. My world was upside down, shattered.  I was 5 weeks pregnant.  In an unhealthy relationship. And I was not ready to be a parent.

I called to schedule my appointment with a local clinic and spoke to a receptionist who scheduled a group phone call for me with a doctor and several other women who were seeking abortions. I was told I must listen to the whole call. I listened to the doctor who proceeded to list the risks of abortion.  Some women asked questions. At the end, I was given a code which I was instructed to give to reception when I arrived at my appointment.  Proof that I stayed on the call to hear the risks, I suppose.

I arrived at the clinic. Put the code at the top of my form. I waited in the waiting room. 

When my name was called, I was ushered into a room to have an ultrasound. The technician couldn’t find the heartbeat. She searched for a few minutes in silence. She told me I was probably too early and that I would have to come back in a week- just in case.  She gave me a piece of paper that had the warning signs of an ectopic pregnancy on it.  With the year I had, I thought to myself, yeah this would happen to me.

I made my appointmentt for the following week.

Before the week was up, I woke up to blood. I immediately called my OBGYN, and the nurse told me that I was most likely miscarrying and to go to the hospital. I called my friend Lydia and she agreed to come with me. 

I was admitted into one of the hospital rooms. “So you’re experiencing bleeding…” The PA confirmed while looking at her intake form.

“Yes,  I had an ultrasound a few days ago and they couldn’t find a heart-beat; I’m scared it’s ectopic,” I explained.

I clearly remember the look of confusion that swept over her.

“Why would you have an ultrasound at five weeks pregnant?” she asks, after re-reading the date of my last period out loud.   

“I was planning to have an abortion.  They require an ultrasound in Pennsylvania,” I explain.

Silence

It was so weird. The air in the room changed.

She continues to tell me that I’m most likely miscarrying but agrees to a vaginal ultrasound. 

I get the ultrasound. I’m left in the ultrasound room for an hour after the tech has finished. Finally, a doctor pokes her head in. “Andrea? Ok, so it is an ectopic. The OBGYN on call is gonna talk to you. We will get you wheeled back to your room.” she says and shuts the door.

I feel like I’m being checked off her to-do list. I stare off into the sterile room filled with medical instruments and brochures.

Finally, the attending OBGYN, comes into my new room. She reiterates that it’s an ectopic in my right fallopian tube. She is kind and caring and human and gives me her cell phone and instructs me to text her if need be. She explains that the first line of combat, to terminate this non-viable pregnancy, is not surgery but rather to take a chemotherapy drug.  She explains further, “An embryo is a rapidly growing clump of cells and similar to cancer, can be dissolved by this drug.”  They will monitor my pregnancy hormone every two days. I have to get blood work every two days to make sure the number is going down. She’s gonna call me and check on me and make sure I go.  She reiterates, “This is very serious. you need to make sure you go every two days.”

I get the shot of the chemo drug. The nurse didn’t look at me. I ask Lydia, “Is it was just me or does it feel like people are judging me? She agrees.  (I take this to heart because Lydia is anti-abortion for herself,  but is accepting and supportive of women making their own choice.) 

We leave the hospital. The bleeding stops. 

I go in every two days for blood draws, with no definitive answers.

I feel like I have a ticking time bomb in me. 

The following Monday, my mom’s friend Ellen is visiting.  I decide I’m going to distract myself by getting things done around my house when I feel this sudden urge to poop.  I rush to the bathroom and before I can unbutton my pants I feel an intense cold sweat come over me. I sit on the toilet. I start to hyperventilate. 

I crawl out of the bathroom and scream for Ellen. I tell her something is wrong. She calls 911. I’m taken by ambulance to the same hospital. They take my vitals and palpitate my stomach. I’m scheduled for surgery. I’m alone. I feel very cold they wrapped me in super warm blankets.

I remember feeling so comfortable in those warm blankets. 

As I’m wheeled into surgery, the nurse asks me “What would you like us to do with the life?”

Wuttttt?!  I then realize that she is trying to be sensitive. I tell her to donate it to science. 

My surgeon saves my tube. He tells me he saw a little endometriosis.

“Ever have painful periods?” he asks. “Well, I cleaned out your tubes,” he tells me as he moves his giant hands in a wishy-washy-wiper motion.. When he said he cleaned my tubes I thought, “Did this burly, jovial surgeon just give me a tune up like a mechanic with a car?”  

The hospital gives me a certificate: The blessed life was donated.

~Andrea Kritz