Secondly, I am against hormonal drugs, I am for stimulating the production of my own, but against the introduction of artificial ones. They have a lot of side effects, not very harmful, but compared to the threat of interruption, I chose personal health.
You can throw anything at me, I love myself, and I will never stop.
When the choice is between ruining the lives of already established people in order to save who knows who, or allowing a fertilized egg to fall out if it turns out to be non-viable (while preserving the health and happiness of the mother and father), then for me it is obvious.
After a couple of weeks, the temperature rose to thirty-seven, the stomach and lower back began to feel stronger, my husband and I went to the doctor. It was Sunday six o'clock in the evening. In the toilet of the medical center, I noticed blood on the pad, just a little, but it became clear that a miscarriage had begun.
The ultrasound showed no fertilized egg, the doctor was worried that it was ectopic and sent me by ambulance to the hospital.
I burst into tears. My husband followed the ambulance, trying to support me at such a difficult moment. I cried not from the loss of the baby, but from the horror of the operation. I have never had general anesthesia in my life. I have never broken my arms or legs, or been injured enough to end up on the surgeon’s table. And then suddenly it was ectopic. I knew perfectly well what the dangers were, and that in such cases there was only one way out, an emergency operation, so that there would be no rupture of the pipe and death from massive internal bleeding.
I don’t like anesthesia because I don’t like the altered state of consciousness, who knows how it will end. There are many cases of psychosis after operations.
My mental state worried me no less than my physical one.
Fortunately, the ectopic was not confirmed. But gynecologists do not give up so easily. They began to suspect a potential incomplete release of the ovum and prepare me for surgery in the morning.
— But I do not want.
— We do everything.
— I know, but if it comes out on its own, there will be no need for surgery.
— If something remains in the uterus, infection and sepsis may begin, we will no longer save you.
— Same thing from surgery. You will create a huge wound surface on me, tear off the entire endometrium, the risk of infection is no lower.
— That's the protocol.
— Okay, but can I decide for myself?
— Yes. Before leaving, sign a waiver of claims.
— Okay, now I'm just waiting for it to come out, right?
— Yes. We will give you papaverine and antibiotics. In the meantime, get tested.
By that time, hCG had dropped significantly, which confirmed the onset of a miscarriage and the absence of a tubal pregnancy.
They didn’t inject me with anything, I said goodbye to my worried husband and went to the ward.
My neighbor, a seventy-year-old woman, was lying after surgery and hardly looked at me, we exchanged a few words, but she was lethargic and I didn’t want to take over her mood. I tried to control myself, hoping for the best, and even laughed while watching my favorite TV series. By twelve o'clock at night I wanted to go to the toilet (sorry for the details, to empty my bowels). I think you should know if you encounter something like this.
In high spirits, I pushed. And suddenly I was thrown into a fever from a sharp dull pain in the lower abdomen. I started to sweat and my vision went dark. I didn't feel like defecating anymore. Having barely pulled on my panties, I crawled along the walls to the post. She didn’t scream, the patients slept in the wards, it was night. There was no nurse at the post. And I crawled along the wall to the staff room at the other end of the long corridor.
She burst into the office and collapsed on the table.
— Help. — moaned.
They only looked at me slightly fearfully. They questioned me, understood something, and took me back to the treatment room.
No, can you imagine? Take them! They didn’t take me in a chair, and they also took me along the walls. Fiends. There were strollers, I saw them.
They looked at me on the chair. They confirmed that the pain is cervical, the fertilized egg is expelled. To reduce the pain, I was finally injected with papaverine, which was supposed to dilate the cervix and an antibiotic.
They could have injected me earlier, but no, they forgot, they waited until I howled in pain.
And I really howled, I sat on the cold floor next to the chair and couldn’t even move to a chair. The nurse tried to persuade me to return to the room.
— Am I going to howl there? People sleep there. I'll wait for the medicine to take effect here.
— No. We need to go to the ward.
— Am I bothering you? Am I not letting you sleep? Stay here for those same vaunted seven minutes, during which you say, the antispasmodic will work. Don't drive away.
vFine.
She tried to put socks and a robe on me, I took them off, it was hot and painful, I kept howling. The pain did not subside.
— Inject papaverine into my vein.
— Fine.
The tired nurse was apparently ready to do anything just to get back to the sofa. She complied with the request and after a minute I felt better. I returned to bed. It's not heroin, guys, it didn't let me go. I only reduced the pain by a hundredth part, which was now at least bearable.
Apparently the cervix had dilated.
I woke up a couple of hours later with the sensation of a foreign body on the pad. The thing is that I don’t wear them during my period, the tampon does everything, so it’s so easy to feel them when the dryness in my panties disappears.
In the toilet, in the light, I saw him. The very thing that caused so many problems.
“Thank God you came out. God, I avoided the surgery and the cleanup. Consider half the job done, now hCG won’t let you down.”
The pink-gray two by three centimeter formation was mercilessly flushed down the toilet, and I fell asleep until the morning.
On Monday, my tests showed a sharp drop in pregnancy hormones and I was discharged on my own responsibility. I had to fly to Kazakhstan on business and I couldn’t miss the trip, there was no one to replace me, and besides, I wanted to prove to myself and the world that I was not giving up, no circumstances would break me. My neighbor was very surprised (considering that she was generally incapable of any emotion other than apathy) that I did not give a damn about the doctors’ recommendations to stay for cleaning and rest, and discharged myself. I took antibiotics and antiprotozoal drugs for a week and donated blood. After the business trip, the tests showed nothing. I was completely cleansed. My body coped thanks to the will of the owner who controls it.
A plus that I noted after pregnancy. My breasts have softened and they no longer have pronounced lumps, this is great, the doctors noted that the mastopathy has decreased.
The downside is a slight feeling of disappointment. I firmly believed that I would be able to carry the baby, my body would not reject the pregnancy. I was so self-confident that I even pissed off those around me. The miscarriage knocked my arrogance down. I landed a little, settled down, and became more attentive to people.
No, the minus is not that I have become more sensitive, but that my confidence has been shaken.
I cried, it’s true, I cried for a total of two hours during the entire two weeks after the incident, sparingly, not out loud, without attracting attention from the outside. I didn’t even allow my husband to sympathize with me much, but rather comforted him myself. This is why he appreciates me. For perseverance and courage.