Bittersweet

I awoke in the recovery room to the sonographer ripping the bandage off my stomach. I listened intently. It was nearly impossible to focus because I was in so much pain. But I heard it. The sweet melody of my baby's heart beating. "We have a fetal heartbeat," she said. I said a prayer thanking God. I asked one of the nurses standing over me if I could have something for the pain, and he informed me that he was injecting my IV with Morphine. Then I passed out.

I woke up just as the recovery cot was being wheeled into my hospital room. Doug stood up and hurried over to me. He said some encouraging words, but all I really remember is that he kept repeating "I'm sorry" over and over again. His eyes watered up as he looked over my body. I was whimpering in pain and trembling uncontrollably. The recovery nurse set up a Morphine pump next to my bed and patted my foot before leaving the room. Doug told me everything Dr. R had told him. They had taken my right ovary and the fallopian tube. My ovary had, in fact, torsed and had begun bleeding into itself. It had grown to be the size of a softball by the time they had removed it. In order to remove my giant blood-filled ovary, they had to make a 6 inch vertical incision down my abdomen. But, we still had our baby.

After my oophorectomy, I began having night sweats. I had never had surgery, so I didn't know if it was something associated with the recovery process. The day after surgery, I slept more than I ever have in my life. The only time I woke up was to vomit. The nurses kept coming in and asking when I wanted to take my shower for the day, but I didn't know where I would get the energy to just get out of bed. I passed on the shower that day and the food. The next day was somewhat the same, except the nurses told me I had to get out of bed at least a few times and walk down the hallway. I was high risk for blood clots, so I needed to avoid being completely sedentary. Each time the nurse would peek her head into the room, I would try to find the motivation to sit up, but it just wasn't there. The thought of walking all the way down the hallway, seemed almost as absurd as running a marathon. I decided I would wait until Doug returned to the hospital after work that day to take my first walk. When he arrived, he helped me from the bed and my legs almost collapsed beneath me. I was in a full blown sweat before we even reached the door. When I peered down that hallway I felt completely overwhelmed. I decided I would take it one step at a time. Just the way I had taken everything so far. One step at a time, with Doug by my side, holding my hand. Reaching the end of the hall, I almost expected a medal. Doug and I turned around to go back to my room and my legs gave out again. Doug held me while I regained my strength to keep going. One step at a time.

On the day I was supposed to be discharged, I actually didn't want to go home. The place that had been like a prison before, had become my haven. Doug worked long hours, which would mean I would be alone to take care of Meredith and myself. I was terrified. I couldn't muster the energy to get out of bed, let alone tend to someone else's needs. I would also have to begin giving myself shots. I had somehow avoided it up until that point. I had also avoided eating for the past week, as everything that passed my lips, came right back up. I had been on numerous anti-nausea medications, which had helped me to keep down water, but that was all. Not only that, but I didn't have a stool to sit on in the shower and I would need to stand the entire time. This seems insignificant, but at the time, it was unimaginable. That day, I stayed in bed up until the last possible minute, before I crawled into the wheelchair to head home.

The first day home was rough, even with Doug's help. I had planned on taking a shower as soon as I got home, but I was worn out from the discharge process and the drive home. So instead, I thought I would take a short nap and shower later. It was 10 o'clock at night before I finally made it in. I felt much better after, but that didn't last long. I woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. Much worse than what I had experienced with the pulmonary embolism. I couldn't even go back to sleep because I felt so gross. The sheets and my clothing were stuck to my body. Each time I would drift off, I would wake up shortly after in a puddle of sweat. I googled "night sweats after oophorectomy", but all the results were from women who had both ovaries removed and were thrown into early menopause. "Maybe my body is going into menopause," I thought. "Maybe my other ovary isn't doing what its supposed to do. Maybe I have another PE. I better Google that. Or could this still be a result of the OHSS, since my remaining ovary is hyperstimulated?" So I typed "night sweats after unilateral oophorectomy pulmonary embolism OHSS". No matches. When I found out that we would need to undergo IVF, I found numerous websites, message boards, support groups and medical websites. I found information about the procedure and its risks. I found comfort in reading message boards and blogs written by other people who were going through the same thing I was. They all had the same feelings I had. These people knew exactly what it was like to deal with negativity from "friends" during such a difficult time. It made me feel good to know that other people out there were also being stabbed with needles on a daily basis. And instead of conceiving our child in the privacy of our bedroom, our baby had to be put together in a lab, then given a safe place to grow inside my uterus. This time I couldn't find comfort. Nobody online was discussing having to do shots for a year longer than planned. No one was talking about seeing a pulmonologist for the rest of their life. Or the strange feeling of loss knowing that an ovary was missing. I felt alone. And as much as I tried to be thankful just for having my baby growing inside, I was feeling angry and sad. I felt angry that instead of a normal pregnancy, I had to go through IVF. And instead of getting to celebrate my positive pregnancy test or seeing my baby's heart beating the first time, it was all overshadowed by complications. I felt sad when I thought about everything my little tiny baby had endured. A tiny person was counting on me for everything. To provide a safe home. To give nourishment. I felt I was failing miserably.