Saturday night's sleep was a restless one. I went to the bathroom a number of times in the night, probably due to all the water I'd had to drink for the ultrasound the previous evening. There wasn't any blood on the pad I'd worn to bed. When I used the bathroom at 10, there was blood in the bowl, and it was heavier, if that makes any sense. There weren't any clots or lumps, but it was just kind of down in the bottom of the bowl rather than tingeing the water. I didn't want to worry and stress out too much, so I just laid in bed and cuddled E while we (admittedly) watched a cartoon rather than general conference. I believe you would call this an avoidance tactic. You know when your attention is brought to a body part and you start to "feel" things but aren't sure if its real or just your mind imagining things. That what I started feeling in my abdomen; a tightening and pressure. Not necessarily pain, just pressure, again, hoping it was a figment of my imagination. It wasn't until 11:20 or so that I decided I needed a priesthood blessing, because I now saw little, and I mean little clots coming out. We phoned our good friend Chris, who came over during conference and most likely President Monson's talk, to ask him for a blessing, and he quickly arrived. After Chris sealed the anointing, Matthew pronounced the blessing. At the end of it, he became very emotional, which concerned me a lot. We chatted with Chris for a few minutes before he left, thanking him for coming during the morning session. That good man and his family are so important and special to us; they've been a huge support to our family and are such good friends. We love them so much.
Sitting on the stairs beside our front door, I asked Matthew what it was that had gotten him so upset. I had an idea, but I wanted to hear him say it. Being overcome by emotions, Matthew had a hard time speaking aloud what he had felt during the blessing. For those of you who may not understand what a blessing is, it's basically when a worthy man who holds the priesthood of God is able to place his hands upon another's head and, through revelation by the Spirit, pronounce blessings from the Lord for that person, for their specific situation. Blessings are powerful and wonderful gifts.
Matthew shared, that while he was pronouncing the blessing, he had wanted to say that the baby would be fine, but he had felt constrained by the Spirit, and was unable to do so. Instead, he said that the overwhelming feeling of love that the Lord has for me was what the Spirit needed him to say, and that if I just depended and trusted in the Lord, He would provide comfort and peace in this time. Matthew was upset because there hadn't been any assurance that this baby would be okay and that I wasn't going to have another miscarriage, but he was so overcome by the certainty that the Lord would be there for me, providing peace and comfort. I had been hoping the Lord would promise in the blessing that the baby would be okay too, and had been disappointed when it was not given. And then when Matthew started getting so upset, I knew he had hoped for the same thing. I felt so numb. I couldn't believe this was happening again. But I still had hope. Things could still be okay.
In the afternoon, I started feeling more pronounced cramping and my back was definitely beginning to ache. I was bleeding, but it was still quite minimal, with few clots. Dr Z had said to come back to the hospital if I started having cramps or passing clots. We figured we should heed her advice and once more return to the hospital. Erin picked up E to go with her to a family dinner and off we went. Last general conference Sunday had been the same, with E spending the day with Erin's in-laws. For so many reasons, I wish we had been able to have our family dinner and be celebrating E's birthday instead of what we were doing. We had been planning to share the news with my family, even though it was still early in the pregnancy because we were so excited. We still got to share news with them, but it was of a very different nature, sadly.
We arrived at the hospital at 4:53 and proceeded to wait for quite awhile to even see the triage nurse. When we'd first came in, the display showing the wait-time to see a doctor was 29 minutes. Not bad. Right...
The male nurse who assessed me said I would be called over to one of the admitting booths to get registered and my wristband put on. Confused, I asked him why they weren't just sending me right upstairs to unit 76, like they had last night. He said that as soon as a person's bleeding, they're kept down in the ER because there are more medical personnel available to assist me, and if we went upstairs and something happened, they would have to send me right back down to the ER anyways, because everything they'd need to treat me was down here. We were confused, because I had been bleeding last night and had still gone up. He also said I couldn't eat or drink anything in case I would need to have any procedures done, which I understood the reason for the policy, but that had also not been the case last night. Following his instructions, we went back out to the waiting room to be called into the admitting office. When the lady called us, we once again asked if they would send us up to Unit 76. She said she had no control over that, and that we should just ask our nurse as soon as we were called in to be seen. Again, we followed her instructions and went back out to the waiting room to be called. Matthew watched the football on the television, but I'm not sure he was able to get any enjoyment out of it. I looked out the window, frozen and numb inside. Finally, after probably 35 minutes or so since arriving at the hospital, we were called in by a nurse to go into the back, which, let's be honest, is often just a slightly more private waiting room. As we walked into the room and I was instructed to put on the gown, I once again asked if we should be going up to Unit 76 rather than staying in the ER. We just couldn't understand why everything had changed so much for the protocol in a few hours... The nurse said that she would check, but in the meantime, I should get changed into the gown. When she came back in, she said that we were in the right place, and that once it's "over", we're supposed to be in the ER, not Unit 76. In hindsight, I realize that she meant once the pregnancy and miscarriage was over, and since I was still bleeding, I should be downstairs. Somehow the triage nurse had misunderstood what had happened and assumed I'd already had the miscarriage the previous night, but that I'd come back in because of further complications. Please keep this in mind while I relay the rest of the experience. That original nurse had thought I'd already miscarried the baby, when in fact, we had come to have them check and see what was happening, since only 20 hours ago, everything had been checked and pronounced fine. If only we'd known earlier the mistake he's made in his assumption, maybe things would have been different.
So, the nurse was there, taking my stats and getting me settled into my bed in the ER. She had great purple and pink streaks in her hair, which I loved. I thought to myself; "here's a nurse I can relate to". When I asked her her name, she said it was Krista, but that she wasn't my nurse, just helping out. Wow, that was a bummer, that she wouldn't be my nurse. She pulled out a cup and said they needed another urine sample. Not understanding, I asked her why, because I'd had blood taken yesterday, not urine. She said they needed it to check my levels. Okay... She left the blood-pressure cuff and heartbeat thingy on, then left the room. I guess the triage nurse had been concerned about my blood pressure being so low; something around 91 over 59 or something. That didn't seem like a big deal to me, since I have very low blood pressure normally, but they kept a close eye on it. My normal range is roughly mid-90's over mid-60's; nice and low.
So there we were, me strapped up to the machines, in a room off the busy entrance hallway into the ER, with every person peering in as they walked by. I hadn't eaten or drank a whole lot that day because of my nerves and worry; a cookie and banana were it. I asked Matthew if he could get some water for me, since they expected me to pee in a cup. After asking, he came back with the tiniest cup of water and said that was all I was allowed... Really?! Okay. So, I drank the teeny cup, waited a while and decided I would go try and get their sample. I did not have a lot of fluid to fill that cup, but I did as they asked, brought it back to the room, where the monitors had been beeping since I took off my finger heart-monitor-thingy (with apparently no one that concerned about the beeping monitor), and set the cup in its plastic bag on the table and waited... and waited... and waited. That wait seemed to take forever. Sitting in that room, numbly waiting for someone to come and tell me what was happening to my baby and my body. People constantly walking by the room, but never coming in, unless you counted their eyes, then it would be more like everyone came into that room, and into our private hell. After just over 2 hours, the ER doctor showed up and asked me to explain to him what had brought us in. Hearing and actually listening to what I said, he stated that we should have gone upstairs right away, to Unit 76, rather than stay down here (!!!!!!!!!!) We then mentioned that we had asked three different people to go up there right in the beginning but everyone had said no. He was sorry that the mistake had been made. He said he wouldn't do a pelvic exam because they would do that upstairs shortly. He did assess my breathing, lungs, heart and abdomen, and then said he would go call upstairs for someone to get me and that he was sorry for the mix-up. Once he left the room, Matthew and I just sat and looked at each other. I was torn between wanting to cry in frustration, scream in anger and laugh in disbelief, and I'm pretty sure I did a little of all three. We had tried to advocate for what we knew should have happened but no one listened. After 10 minutes or so, a nurse poked her head in and said I could get dressed and leave. Tilting my head, I asked her if she was sure? "Yep". "So," I said, "you want me to get out of my gown, put on my clothes, go upstairs, and then put on another gown that's the exact same as the one I'm wearing?" Cocking her head to the side, she quickly muttered "Good point. Good point." and promptly left. 5 or so minutes after that, another woman came in and said they were going to move me to a blue recliner before sending me up. When I asked why they were moving me from a room to sit in the hall, she quickly said that, no, it wouldn't be in the hallway, but in a blue chair where I would wait until they sent me up. There we were 2 and a 1/2 hours after arriving at the hospital, being moved from a room in the ER to a "blue chair" that was "NOT" in the hallway, still not having been seen by a doctor. When I asked about my urine sample, she said they would take care of it. I bet they just threw the poor, pathetic little sample out.
And there we sat... and sat... and sat. I had thought the lack of privacy was bad in the room, but this was way worse. The "NOT" hall was a large open alcove off of the main walkway through the ER. It had 9 or so blue chairs with various patients and staff coming and going, out of and by, and NO privacy. We had surreptitiously been kicked out of the room to sit in the "NOT" hallway and once again, wait. After probably 40 minutes or so of sitting there with no idea what was going on and no one telling us anything, Matthew asked a nurse if I could eat something. Matthew, my knight in shining armour, was working so hard for me, trying to do all he could to make this experience in any way less stressful, rubbing my back, chatting with me, helping me move, holding my hand, rushing to do any errand. He was just as frustrated and irritated with all that had transpired as I was. I'm so grateful that he was there for me, being strong and advocating on my behalf. The nurse commented to Matthew that she recognized him from last night, and that she would go find out for us. After about 3 minutes, she came back and said yes, I could eat something as long as it was small. And also they would be sending someone to take my blood, as they needed another sample. When I looked at her and asked her to confirm that they would be taking it here, in the middle of all these other patients, she confirmed that they would. I am not a needle person, and I know there are many others like me. I get woozy, sweaty, nauseous and jump when they put a needle into my body; basically I'm a basket of nerves, and with the stress of what was happening, also a basket of messy emotions. The nurse, his name tag read Spencer, wheeled his cart over and proceeded to prep me for the blood sample. The first time he tied the tourniquet, it was WAY too tight; like you could see it cutting into my arm, to a depth of at least an inch, no joke. I thought I could tough it out but no way, I told him it was too tight and he thankfully retied it. I don't think I've ever had one done that tight, and I'm talking about his second attempt, not the first. Ouch. He left a bruise on my arm, for heaven's sake! So, with Matthew's gentle reminder, I tell him I jump and then prepare for the needle. He puts the needle in and says I'm doing great. After about 3 seconds he says that he needs to move it around a little to get more blood and proceeds to start digging it around in my veins which hurt SO bad. I kept thinking that if he needed the blood, why wasn't he taking the tourniquet off? I will admit to ignorance in the knowledge of how to take a blood sample and will hope that he was doing everything correctly. But boy, that needle sure hurt badly, way worse than ones I've had in the past. Feeling him dig the tip around was super unpleasant. When he put the tape on to hold the cotton ball in place, he pulled my skin in, towards the injection site. FYI, when I took the strip off 10 minutes later, there was a bruise already forming from the needle and from where the tape had pulled on my skin. Nurse Spencer walks away with my blood, and I lean forward onto my knees, holding my sore arm to my chest, feeling even more light-headed and nauseous,hugely frustrated, and start to cry. I guess that the ER doctor had come by at that time looking for us to give us an update on what was happening. His concern was obvious when he asked Matthew if I was okay and Matt explained to him what had just happened and how frustrated we were feeling by this whole experience. We had now been at the hospital for over 3 hours. Trying to explain what was happening, the ER doctor said that I was falling in the middle of the criteria the people on Unit 76 had for people in my situation, and that upstairs had ordered the blood test to see whether the human growth hormones (hgh) in my blood had gone up since yesterday, and if they had, they would then allow me to go upstairs. He apologized for the wait and confusion, and I truly believe he was being sincere and meant it. It just sucked so bad. Overwhelmingly, we felt like we had fallen through the cracks and now no one wanted to see me and help me; each department fighting over who would have to take me. It was a horrible feeling, making the experience that much more painful and heartbreaking. We were feeling so raw and emotional, and we were being let down by those we had trusted with mine and our baby's care. It was horrible. And this all happened for everyone to see while we were sitting in the "NOT" hallway.
The ER doctor eventually came back and gave us the first piece of good news we'd had that day; the hgh levels had gone up so he would call upstairs and tell them they needed to take me. He again apologized and I know that he was doing the best he could and felt bad for me. I appreciated his kindness and caring manner. Finally, we were going to get to where we'd be taken care of and looked after, especially considering the amazing service and experience we'd had the night before. Right before the page came, I went to use the restroom. As I went, a clot the size of a quarter came out, and my heart froze. Up until this point, we had hoped things were still okay, and that these little clots weren't a big deal, but we were being responsible and getting it checked out to be sure. The back ache and slight cramping was a little more concerning, but still, it could be okay. That first real-sized clot, shriveled some of the hope left in my heart. But you still hope, right? You still have dreams of holding that newborn baby, smelling it's sweet little head close to your heart and reveling in its pure and perfect little body. You still make plans of the things you're baby will do and become. You still picture how sweet your daughter will look holding her new "baby" and being such a good big sister. You still yearn to hold that little hand in yours. You still look forward to that first giggle, smile, cuddle, word, step, year and life. These are the things you hope for and plan for when you're pregnant, making room in your heart and future life for this little person the Lord has entrusted to you and your husband. That hope that everything will be fine is why you have children in the first place. When you lose that hope, you lose that child. If I lost hope now, I would lose this child, and I wasn't ready. I would never be ready to lose this child because I would never give up my hope for it. Some people don't understand why others find a miscarriage such an upsetting and devastating experience. I didn't fully understand it myself until I experienced it. I wish I didn't understand it on such a personal level.
It had been over four hours and we had finally made it back to Unit 76. But things were not to be the same as the previous evening. I never did catch her name, but the nurse we had was not who we needed, or who anyone would probably ever want or need in a situation like ours. After we explained for the fourth (fifth?) time why we had come to the hospital today and what had happened up until this point, she asked to see my pad. I had been sitting for pretty much the entire time we'd been at the hospital, and when I stood up to slide my panties down, I felt things move around inside. I was so afraid to get blood on the floor, and when I told her that, she seemed very unimpressed, or even appreciating the fact that I had made sure she wouldn't have to clean up a mess on the floor. Instead, not saying a word but raising an eyebrow in irritation, she walked to the door and asked someone to get her a pan to put in the toilet. I stood there beside the bed, not sure what I was supposed to be doing and feeling very hurt by her actions. Why was she being so mean? What had I done to annoy or irritate her in such a short time frame? She came back with a pan and placed it into the toilet. When I sat down, she bent over and removed my pad. I asked her if I should push out what I felt inside and she said "Sure." She then left the room (I think with my pad?) without saying another word while I felt my "hope" slide out of me and into that pan. Looking at it, I knew it was no longer just spotting. I'd seen this before, 6 short months ago. I started sobbing, which I hadn't done this entire time. It just hurt my heart so much. Standing up, I felt my gown touch the back of my legs and it was wet. The end of the gown had trailed into the clean, unused toilet water. It had dripped some water, again, clean toilet water, onto the floor. Without thinking, I took off the wet one, handed it to Matthew and bent over to clean up the drips of water off the floor. Without asking for permission, the nurse walks back into the room and as I hear her coming in, I ask Matthew to hand me a blanket. He isn't as quick as the nurse, who walks into the bathroom where I'm standing in my undies, but basically naked for how I usually dress, who doesn't ask before walking right into the bathroom and begins "inspecting" what had come out of me. Matthew hands me a blanket and I desperately try to cover myself and wash my hands, while hiding my face because I feel so invaded and exposed; naked to her critical, scornful gaze in all ways. I ask her for another gown. She looks at me and asks why. When I tell her that the back had trailed into the water, she gets a disgusted look on her face, doesn't say a word to me, marches over to a drawer and pulls one out, then leaves the room. This hurts. This woman is hurting me. With her cold, uncaring, unfeeling, judgmental looks, attitude and voice she is stripping my defenses and making me feel even more raw and broken and wrong. I'm not trying to exaggerate this or vilify this woman in any way. But I can imagine what a compassionate, caring person could have done or said in this situation. When asked for a gown, one could say "Of course" or "Absolutely" or "No problem", let alone a kind word or comforting gesture such as a smile. Instead I am made to feel as though I'm an inconvenience, a burden, a disgusting person who has no value or worth, let alone the "mess" I just made in the pan. All the layers I'd built up around my heart to be strong and get through this experience were stripped away by that woman. I KNOW that she was unfairly cruel. I can only guess it's because I wasn't wanted up on Unit 76 and they had wanted me to stay downstairs. Maybe they were really busy on 76, with few hands to help, and that maybe they thought if I was miscarrying I should be downstairs instead. And then I come up, making requests for pans for the toilet, new gowns and so obviously miscarrying. Maybe this nurse was annoyed by the situation. I could understand that. But I will never understand how a woman could treat someone who is obviously going through her own personal torment, in such an unkind and unfeeling way. We had come to the hospital for help, to know what was going on and if our baby was alright. After 4 and a 1/2 hours, we still had not had any answers, only people shuffling us around, squabbling over who should take care of me, all the while my baby was dying inside of me, and I felt like I was dying right along with it. Finishing getting dressed, I remember a snapshot of my face in the mirror, pale beyond recognition, with red-rimmed eyes. I looked as unhappy on the outside as I felt on the inside.
And there we sat, waiting for the doctor. I tried to put into words for Matthew to understand how raw, exposed, vulnerable and wrong that woman had made me feel, but I don't know if there are words to convey the depth of feelings and humility I was having. I called Marina, my sister-in-law and she said we just needed to leave. We'd had our own confirmation with the bleeding and clots that I was in fact losing the baby. Being here wasn't going to help anything, and in fact, it was making me feel worse. I was so disappointed. Our experience the previous night was literally night and day from what we were having now. I had hoped for that same, compassionate and supportive environment that we'd had, and instead felt belittled and like I was an inconvenience.
By the time the doctor came in, over five hours after having arrived at the hospital for help, I had shut down. I had no hope left, no desire to be there, but we needed her to release us. She asked me to once again explain everything that had led us up to this point. She raised her eyebrows and said "that's interesting" when she asked for clarification about the fact that the ER doctor did not do a pelvic exam, like she thought he should have done it. At the end of it, I told her I just wanted to go home and that I was done with being there. She said there were some tests she could do, like examine my cervix to see if it was open and send me for an ultrasound. But that I most likely wouldn't be able to get an ultrasound that night because it was so late. The clock read 10:12, and we knew from last night that the technician was finished at 11. It wouldn't have been too late if someone had ordered an ultrasound within the first 3 or 4 hours of us being there! Instead we were waiting, like good sheep, trusting that someone would help us. I thought we'd tried hard to get people to help us; maybe you need to be pushy and unkind, which aren't things Matthew would ever do to someone. She then tried to explain why there was such a delay in getting us up here and described the policies, blah, blah, blah. We hadn't been having an active miscarriage when we first arrived, that happened 4 hours later, so, no, I don't believe what she was saying applied to us when we came. At one point she said that they only send the pregnant people upstairs and that's when the finality of the situation hit me: I was no longer pregnant. I started to tear up and zone out. I think she offered an appointment for the next day for something but I don't remember. I think I just repeated that I was done and wanted to go home.
Once she'd left with the awful nurse, Matt said it sounded like she was just playing the blame game, saying it was someone else's fault and I would have to agree with him. I don't really care whose fault it was, all I know is that I was let down in a big way. I started to get dressed but realized I had to go to the bathroom again. Matt rushed into the bathroom to move the pan out of the way, because he'd seen how much it upset me, and as I went, more clots came out. I tried to hold it together, but my heart was breaking. I asked Matthew if he would go ask for a wheelchair, any pain medication and when I would absolutely NEED to come back to the hospital. He quickly came back saying that the doctor wanted to talk to me again. I needed a moment to wash my face, finish dressing and pull it together for a little longer.
I sat on the bed, unable to look at her, and listened to her answer the questions. She was very careful to not say that this was a miscarriage, probably to save their own butts since she hadn't been able to examine me. She said that in case I was still pregnant, I shouldn't take any ibuprofen for pain and that she could prescribe t3's. I accepted that prescription, as I remembered clearly the sharp, stabbing pains, then dull ache of my last miscarriage. She said to come back if I had heavy bleeding, soaking pads every 15 minutes for over an hour. I think she said to go for an ultrasound in a few days to confirm what was going on, and basically whether everything was out or not. I then asked her why the hgh levels had gotten higher if I was having a miscarriage. She said sometimes the body and hormones are slow to respond and get things through the blood stream and it's too soon to tell since yesterday's blood results. And that was it.
That horrible nurse, as we were waiting for the prescription, tried to hand me a package on miscarriages, still being careful to say that in case it is one, not that it was one. The charge/unit nurse, at least I think that was her title, who had first so warmly welcomed us upstairs, was once again kind and caring as she wished us a good night. I don't think she knew what the situation was or what was going on, but she was kind. I so wanted to respond in kind back to her, let her know her genuine nature was appreciated but I couldn't, and I feel badly. She was young, with long blond hair and a sunny disposition. You will know who she is once you meet her. Maybe things may have gone differently if we'd had her as our nurse...
You may think that's the end, but it's not even close. It has taken me over four hours to write this post and I am exhausted in every way.
Sitting on the stairs beside our front door, I asked Matthew what it was that had gotten him so upset. I had an idea, but I wanted to hear him say it. Being overcome by emotions, Matthew had a hard time speaking aloud what he had felt during the blessing. For those of you who may not understand what a blessing is, it's basically when a worthy man who holds the priesthood of God is able to place his hands upon another's head and, through revelation by the Spirit, pronounce blessings from the Lord for that person, for their specific situation. Blessings are powerful and wonderful gifts.
Matthew shared, that while he was pronouncing the blessing, he had wanted to say that the baby would be fine, but he had felt constrained by the Spirit, and was unable to do so. Instead, he said that the overwhelming feeling of love that the Lord has for me was what the Spirit needed him to say, and that if I just depended and trusted in the Lord, He would provide comfort and peace in this time. Matthew was upset because there hadn't been any assurance that this baby would be okay and that I wasn't going to have another miscarriage, but he was so overcome by the certainty that the Lord would be there for me, providing peace and comfort. I had been hoping the Lord would promise in the blessing that the baby would be okay too, and had been disappointed when it was not given. And then when Matthew started getting so upset, I knew he had hoped for the same thing. I felt so numb. I couldn't believe this was happening again. But I still had hope. Things could still be okay.
In the afternoon, I started feeling more pronounced cramping and my back was definitely beginning to ache. I was bleeding, but it was still quite minimal, with few clots. Dr Z had said to come back to the hospital if I started having cramps or passing clots. We figured we should heed her advice and once more return to the hospital. Erin picked up E to go with her to a family dinner and off we went. Last general conference Sunday had been the same, with E spending the day with Erin's in-laws. For so many reasons, I wish we had been able to have our family dinner and be celebrating E's birthday instead of what we were doing. We had been planning to share the news with my family, even though it was still early in the pregnancy because we were so excited. We still got to share news with them, but it was of a very different nature, sadly.
We arrived at the hospital at 4:53 and proceeded to wait for quite awhile to even see the triage nurse. When we'd first came in, the display showing the wait-time to see a doctor was 29 minutes. Not bad. Right...
The male nurse who assessed me said I would be called over to one of the admitting booths to get registered and my wristband put on. Confused, I asked him why they weren't just sending me right upstairs to unit 76, like they had last night. He said that as soon as a person's bleeding, they're kept down in the ER because there are more medical personnel available to assist me, and if we went upstairs and something happened, they would have to send me right back down to the ER anyways, because everything they'd need to treat me was down here. We were confused, because I had been bleeding last night and had still gone up. He also said I couldn't eat or drink anything in case I would need to have any procedures done, which I understood the reason for the policy, but that had also not been the case last night. Following his instructions, we went back out to the waiting room to be called into the admitting office. When the lady called us, we once again asked if they would send us up to Unit 76. She said she had no control over that, and that we should just ask our nurse as soon as we were called in to be seen. Again, we followed her instructions and went back out to the waiting room to be called. Matthew watched the football on the television, but I'm not sure he was able to get any enjoyment out of it. I looked out the window, frozen and numb inside. Finally, after probably 35 minutes or so since arriving at the hospital, we were called in by a nurse to go into the back, which, let's be honest, is often just a slightly more private waiting room. As we walked into the room and I was instructed to put on the gown, I once again asked if we should be going up to Unit 76 rather than staying in the ER. We just couldn't understand why everything had changed so much for the protocol in a few hours... The nurse said that she would check, but in the meantime, I should get changed into the gown. When she came back in, she said that we were in the right place, and that once it's "over", we're supposed to be in the ER, not Unit 76. In hindsight, I realize that she meant once the pregnancy and miscarriage was over, and since I was still bleeding, I should be downstairs. Somehow the triage nurse had misunderstood what had happened and assumed I'd already had the miscarriage the previous night, but that I'd come back in because of further complications. Please keep this in mind while I relay the rest of the experience. That original nurse had thought I'd already miscarried the baby, when in fact, we had come to have them check and see what was happening, since only 20 hours ago, everything had been checked and pronounced fine. If only we'd known earlier the mistake he's made in his assumption, maybe things would have been different.
So, the nurse was there, taking my stats and getting me settled into my bed in the ER. She had great purple and pink streaks in her hair, which I loved. I thought to myself; "here's a nurse I can relate to". When I asked her her name, she said it was Krista, but that she wasn't my nurse, just helping out. Wow, that was a bummer, that she wouldn't be my nurse. She pulled out a cup and said they needed another urine sample. Not understanding, I asked her why, because I'd had blood taken yesterday, not urine. She said they needed it to check my levels. Okay... She left the blood-pressure cuff and heartbeat thingy on, then left the room. I guess the triage nurse had been concerned about my blood pressure being so low; something around 91 over 59 or something. That didn't seem like a big deal to me, since I have very low blood pressure normally, but they kept a close eye on it. My normal range is roughly mid-90's over mid-60's; nice and low.
So there we were, me strapped up to the machines, in a room off the busy entrance hallway into the ER, with every person peering in as they walked by. I hadn't eaten or drank a whole lot that day because of my nerves and worry; a cookie and banana were it. I asked Matthew if he could get some water for me, since they expected me to pee in a cup. After asking, he came back with the tiniest cup of water and said that was all I was allowed... Really?! Okay. So, I drank the teeny cup, waited a while and decided I would go try and get their sample. I did not have a lot of fluid to fill that cup, but I did as they asked, brought it back to the room, where the monitors had been beeping since I took off my finger heart-monitor-thingy (with apparently no one that concerned about the beeping monitor), and set the cup in its plastic bag on the table and waited... and waited... and waited. That wait seemed to take forever. Sitting in that room, numbly waiting for someone to come and tell me what was happening to my baby and my body. People constantly walking by the room, but never coming in, unless you counted their eyes, then it would be more like everyone came into that room, and into our private hell. After just over 2 hours, the ER doctor showed up and asked me to explain to him what had brought us in. Hearing and actually listening to what I said, he stated that we should have gone upstairs right away, to Unit 76, rather than stay down here (!!!!!!!!!!) We then mentioned that we had asked three different people to go up there right in the beginning but everyone had said no. He was sorry that the mistake had been made. He said he wouldn't do a pelvic exam because they would do that upstairs shortly. He did assess my breathing, lungs, heart and abdomen, and then said he would go call upstairs for someone to get me and that he was sorry for the mix-up. Once he left the room, Matthew and I just sat and looked at each other. I was torn between wanting to cry in frustration, scream in anger and laugh in disbelief, and I'm pretty sure I did a little of all three. We had tried to advocate for what we knew should have happened but no one listened. After 10 minutes or so, a nurse poked her head in and said I could get dressed and leave. Tilting my head, I asked her if she was sure? "Yep". "So," I said, "you want me to get out of my gown, put on my clothes, go upstairs, and then put on another gown that's the exact same as the one I'm wearing?" Cocking her head to the side, she quickly muttered "Good point. Good point." and promptly left. 5 or so minutes after that, another woman came in and said they were going to move me to a blue recliner before sending me up. When I asked why they were moving me from a room to sit in the hall, she quickly said that, no, it wouldn't be in the hallway, but in a blue chair where I would wait until they sent me up. There we were 2 and a 1/2 hours after arriving at the hospital, being moved from a room in the ER to a "blue chair" that was "NOT" in the hallway, still not having been seen by a doctor. When I asked about my urine sample, she said they would take care of it. I bet they just threw the poor, pathetic little sample out.
And there we sat... and sat... and sat. I had thought the lack of privacy was bad in the room, but this was way worse. The "NOT" hall was a large open alcove off of the main walkway through the ER. It had 9 or so blue chairs with various patients and staff coming and going, out of and by, and NO privacy. We had surreptitiously been kicked out of the room to sit in the "NOT" hallway and once again, wait. After probably 40 minutes or so of sitting there with no idea what was going on and no one telling us anything, Matthew asked a nurse if I could eat something. Matthew, my knight in shining armour, was working so hard for me, trying to do all he could to make this experience in any way less stressful, rubbing my back, chatting with me, helping me move, holding my hand, rushing to do any errand. He was just as frustrated and irritated with all that had transpired as I was. I'm so grateful that he was there for me, being strong and advocating on my behalf. The nurse commented to Matthew that she recognized him from last night, and that she would go find out for us. After about 3 minutes, she came back and said yes, I could eat something as long as it was small. And also they would be sending someone to take my blood, as they needed another sample. When I looked at her and asked her to confirm that they would be taking it here, in the middle of all these other patients, she confirmed that they would. I am not a needle person, and I know there are many others like me. I get woozy, sweaty, nauseous and jump when they put a needle into my body; basically I'm a basket of nerves, and with the stress of what was happening, also a basket of messy emotions. The nurse, his name tag read Spencer, wheeled his cart over and proceeded to prep me for the blood sample. The first time he tied the tourniquet, it was WAY too tight; like you could see it cutting into my arm, to a depth of at least an inch, no joke. I thought I could tough it out but no way, I told him it was too tight and he thankfully retied it. I don't think I've ever had one done that tight, and I'm talking about his second attempt, not the first. Ouch. He left a bruise on my arm, for heaven's sake! So, with Matthew's gentle reminder, I tell him I jump and then prepare for the needle. He puts the needle in and says I'm doing great. After about 3 seconds he says that he needs to move it around a little to get more blood and proceeds to start digging it around in my veins which hurt SO bad. I kept thinking that if he needed the blood, why wasn't he taking the tourniquet off? I will admit to ignorance in the knowledge of how to take a blood sample and will hope that he was doing everything correctly. But boy, that needle sure hurt badly, way worse than ones I've had in the past. Feeling him dig the tip around was super unpleasant. When he put the tape on to hold the cotton ball in place, he pulled my skin in, towards the injection site. FYI, when I took the strip off 10 minutes later, there was a bruise already forming from the needle and from where the tape had pulled on my skin. Nurse Spencer walks away with my blood, and I lean forward onto my knees, holding my sore arm to my chest, feeling even more light-headed and nauseous,hugely frustrated, and start to cry. I guess that the ER doctor had come by at that time looking for us to give us an update on what was happening. His concern was obvious when he asked Matthew if I was okay and Matt explained to him what had just happened and how frustrated we were feeling by this whole experience. We had now been at the hospital for over 3 hours. Trying to explain what was happening, the ER doctor said that I was falling in the middle of the criteria the people on Unit 76 had for people in my situation, and that upstairs had ordered the blood test to see whether the human growth hormones (hgh) in my blood had gone up since yesterday, and if they had, they would then allow me to go upstairs. He apologized for the wait and confusion, and I truly believe he was being sincere and meant it. It just sucked so bad. Overwhelmingly, we felt like we had fallen through the cracks and now no one wanted to see me and help me; each department fighting over who would have to take me. It was a horrible feeling, making the experience that much more painful and heartbreaking. We were feeling so raw and emotional, and we were being let down by those we had trusted with mine and our baby's care. It was horrible. And this all happened for everyone to see while we were sitting in the "NOT" hallway.
The ER doctor eventually came back and gave us the first piece of good news we'd had that day; the hgh levels had gone up so he would call upstairs and tell them they needed to take me. He again apologized and I know that he was doing the best he could and felt bad for me. I appreciated his kindness and caring manner. Finally, we were going to get to where we'd be taken care of and looked after, especially considering the amazing service and experience we'd had the night before. Right before the page came, I went to use the restroom. As I went, a clot the size of a quarter came out, and my heart froze. Up until this point, we had hoped things were still okay, and that these little clots weren't a big deal, but we were being responsible and getting it checked out to be sure. The back ache and slight cramping was a little more concerning, but still, it could be okay. That first real-sized clot, shriveled some of the hope left in my heart. But you still hope, right? You still have dreams of holding that newborn baby, smelling it's sweet little head close to your heart and reveling in its pure and perfect little body. You still make plans of the things you're baby will do and become. You still picture how sweet your daughter will look holding her new "baby" and being such a good big sister. You still yearn to hold that little hand in yours. You still look forward to that first giggle, smile, cuddle, word, step, year and life. These are the things you hope for and plan for when you're pregnant, making room in your heart and future life for this little person the Lord has entrusted to you and your husband. That hope that everything will be fine is why you have children in the first place. When you lose that hope, you lose that child. If I lost hope now, I would lose this child, and I wasn't ready. I would never be ready to lose this child because I would never give up my hope for it. Some people don't understand why others find a miscarriage such an upsetting and devastating experience. I didn't fully understand it myself until I experienced it. I wish I didn't understand it on such a personal level.
It had been over four hours and we had finally made it back to Unit 76. But things were not to be the same as the previous evening. I never did catch her name, but the nurse we had was not who we needed, or who anyone would probably ever want or need in a situation like ours. After we explained for the fourth (fifth?) time why we had come to the hospital today and what had happened up until this point, she asked to see my pad. I had been sitting for pretty much the entire time we'd been at the hospital, and when I stood up to slide my panties down, I felt things move around inside. I was so afraid to get blood on the floor, and when I told her that, she seemed very unimpressed, or even appreciating the fact that I had made sure she wouldn't have to clean up a mess on the floor. Instead, not saying a word but raising an eyebrow in irritation, she walked to the door and asked someone to get her a pan to put in the toilet. I stood there beside the bed, not sure what I was supposed to be doing and feeling very hurt by her actions. Why was she being so mean? What had I done to annoy or irritate her in such a short time frame? She came back with a pan and placed it into the toilet. When I sat down, she bent over and removed my pad. I asked her if I should push out what I felt inside and she said "Sure." She then left the room (I think with my pad?) without saying another word while I felt my "hope" slide out of me and into that pan. Looking at it, I knew it was no longer just spotting. I'd seen this before, 6 short months ago. I started sobbing, which I hadn't done this entire time. It just hurt my heart so much. Standing up, I felt my gown touch the back of my legs and it was wet. The end of the gown had trailed into the clean, unused toilet water. It had dripped some water, again, clean toilet water, onto the floor. Without thinking, I took off the wet one, handed it to Matthew and bent over to clean up the drips of water off the floor. Without asking for permission, the nurse walks back into the room and as I hear her coming in, I ask Matthew to hand me a blanket. He isn't as quick as the nurse, who walks into the bathroom where I'm standing in my undies, but basically naked for how I usually dress, who doesn't ask before walking right into the bathroom and begins "inspecting" what had come out of me. Matthew hands me a blanket and I desperately try to cover myself and wash my hands, while hiding my face because I feel so invaded and exposed; naked to her critical, scornful gaze in all ways. I ask her for another gown. She looks at me and asks why. When I tell her that the back had trailed into the water, she gets a disgusted look on her face, doesn't say a word to me, marches over to a drawer and pulls one out, then leaves the room. This hurts. This woman is hurting me. With her cold, uncaring, unfeeling, judgmental looks, attitude and voice she is stripping my defenses and making me feel even more raw and broken and wrong. I'm not trying to exaggerate this or vilify this woman in any way. But I can imagine what a compassionate, caring person could have done or said in this situation. When asked for a gown, one could say "Of course" or "Absolutely" or "No problem", let alone a kind word or comforting gesture such as a smile. Instead I am made to feel as though I'm an inconvenience, a burden, a disgusting person who has no value or worth, let alone the "mess" I just made in the pan. All the layers I'd built up around my heart to be strong and get through this experience were stripped away by that woman. I KNOW that she was unfairly cruel. I can only guess it's because I wasn't wanted up on Unit 76 and they had wanted me to stay downstairs. Maybe they were really busy on 76, with few hands to help, and that maybe they thought if I was miscarrying I should be downstairs instead. And then I come up, making requests for pans for the toilet, new gowns and so obviously miscarrying. Maybe this nurse was annoyed by the situation. I could understand that. But I will never understand how a woman could treat someone who is obviously going through her own personal torment, in such an unkind and unfeeling way. We had come to the hospital for help, to know what was going on and if our baby was alright. After 4 and a 1/2 hours, we still had not had any answers, only people shuffling us around, squabbling over who should take care of me, all the while my baby was dying inside of me, and I felt like I was dying right along with it. Finishing getting dressed, I remember a snapshot of my face in the mirror, pale beyond recognition, with red-rimmed eyes. I looked as unhappy on the outside as I felt on the inside.
And there we sat, waiting for the doctor. I tried to put into words for Matthew to understand how raw, exposed, vulnerable and wrong that woman had made me feel, but I don't know if there are words to convey the depth of feelings and humility I was having. I called Marina, my sister-in-law and she said we just needed to leave. We'd had our own confirmation with the bleeding and clots that I was in fact losing the baby. Being here wasn't going to help anything, and in fact, it was making me feel worse. I was so disappointed. Our experience the previous night was literally night and day from what we were having now. I had hoped for that same, compassionate and supportive environment that we'd had, and instead felt belittled and like I was an inconvenience.
By the time the doctor came in, over five hours after having arrived at the hospital for help, I had shut down. I had no hope left, no desire to be there, but we needed her to release us. She asked me to once again explain everything that had led us up to this point. She raised her eyebrows and said "that's interesting" when she asked for clarification about the fact that the ER doctor did not do a pelvic exam, like she thought he should have done it. At the end of it, I told her I just wanted to go home and that I was done with being there. She said there were some tests she could do, like examine my cervix to see if it was open and send me for an ultrasound. But that I most likely wouldn't be able to get an ultrasound that night because it was so late. The clock read 10:12, and we knew from last night that the technician was finished at 11. It wouldn't have been too late if someone had ordered an ultrasound within the first 3 or 4 hours of us being there! Instead we were waiting, like good sheep, trusting that someone would help us. I thought we'd tried hard to get people to help us; maybe you need to be pushy and unkind, which aren't things Matthew would ever do to someone. She then tried to explain why there was such a delay in getting us up here and described the policies, blah, blah, blah. We hadn't been having an active miscarriage when we first arrived, that happened 4 hours later, so, no, I don't believe what she was saying applied to us when we came. At one point she said that they only send the pregnant people upstairs and that's when the finality of the situation hit me: I was no longer pregnant. I started to tear up and zone out. I think she offered an appointment for the next day for something but I don't remember. I think I just repeated that I was done and wanted to go home.
Once she'd left with the awful nurse, Matt said it sounded like she was just playing the blame game, saying it was someone else's fault and I would have to agree with him. I don't really care whose fault it was, all I know is that I was let down in a big way. I started to get dressed but realized I had to go to the bathroom again. Matt rushed into the bathroom to move the pan out of the way, because he'd seen how much it upset me, and as I went, more clots came out. I tried to hold it together, but my heart was breaking. I asked Matthew if he would go ask for a wheelchair, any pain medication and when I would absolutely NEED to come back to the hospital. He quickly came back saying that the doctor wanted to talk to me again. I needed a moment to wash my face, finish dressing and pull it together for a little longer.
I sat on the bed, unable to look at her, and listened to her answer the questions. She was very careful to not say that this was a miscarriage, probably to save their own butts since she hadn't been able to examine me. She said that in case I was still pregnant, I shouldn't take any ibuprofen for pain and that she could prescribe t3's. I accepted that prescription, as I remembered clearly the sharp, stabbing pains, then dull ache of my last miscarriage. She said to come back if I had heavy bleeding, soaking pads every 15 minutes for over an hour. I think she said to go for an ultrasound in a few days to confirm what was going on, and basically whether everything was out or not. I then asked her why the hgh levels had gotten higher if I was having a miscarriage. She said sometimes the body and hormones are slow to respond and get things through the blood stream and it's too soon to tell since yesterday's blood results. And that was it.
That horrible nurse, as we were waiting for the prescription, tried to hand me a package on miscarriages, still being careful to say that in case it is one, not that it was one. The charge/unit nurse, at least I think that was her title, who had first so warmly welcomed us upstairs, was once again kind and caring as she wished us a good night. I don't think she knew what the situation was or what was going on, but she was kind. I so wanted to respond in kind back to her, let her know her genuine nature was appreciated but I couldn't, and I feel badly. She was young, with long blond hair and a sunny disposition. You will know who she is once you meet her. Maybe things may have gone differently if we'd had her as our nurse...
You may think that's the end, but it's not even close. It has taken me over four hours to write this post and I am exhausted in every way.
 |
| Miss E, once again with her loving dayhome-mommy. Saying "cheese" and having fun with all those crazy kids! This made me happy, to know E wasn't miserable without us. |
 | |
| Sleeping peacefully while we were at the hospital; safe and well-cared for. |
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please feel free to share your thoughts and experiences.