On March 1, 2020, I woke up in the middle of the night in terrible pain. I was sweating, doubled over, and could barely speak. I told my husband, “We have to go to the ER.” He knew it had to be serious, because normally I avoid the ER at all costs. I could hardly walk from the bedroom to the car, and by the time we were halfway there, I was throwing up from the pain. My mind was racing, trying to figure out what was happening to me.
When we finally arrived, my husband had to grab a wheelchair because I couldn’t even hold my head up. At the registration desk, I tried to answer their questions, but everything went black, and I slumped over. I thought that was the end I truly believed I was dying.
They rushed me back and somehow managed to get me into a gown and onto a bed. The nurses and doctors kept asking questions, but I could barely respond. They asked if I might be pregnant. We had been trying for five months, and just two days earlier, I’d gotten my first positive test. I told them yes, but that I didn’t think I was far along.
They ran ultrasounds, first on my abdomen, but nothing showed. Then a tech was called in for an internal ultrasound. As she wheeled me through the halls, the IV bag of Tylenol they had given me shattered on the floor. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Without my glasses, everything was a blur, but I shuffled onto the exam bed, praying I wouldn’t step on glass.
The technician was cold, telling me she couldn’t show me the screen or explain what she saw. When she finished, she looked at me and said words I will never forget: “I think you’re having an ectopic pregnancy, and it may have ruptured.” My body started shaking. She wheeled me back, and as soon as I saw my husband, I broke down. I could barely explain through sobs that the baby was growing in my fallopian tube and that the tube had likely burst.
Everything moved quickly after that. An OB came in and explained I was about eight weeks along, but my left tube had ruptured. They would have to remove it in surgery. I called my parents, who came right away and cried with me. At around 4:30 a.m., I was taken into emergency surgery, where they removed my baby, my left fallopian tube, and half a liter of blood I had lost.
Waking up afterward was awful. The pain was intense, and because of the gas used in surgery, it was hard to breathe. Thankfully, they decided to keep me overnight instead of sending me home right away. My husband never left my side, and my parents stayed too.
Recovery was slow, and the ride home was painful, every bump reminding me of what I had lost. Just weeks later, COVID hit, and I lost my job. My husband needed knee surgery, so I became his caretaker while also trying to heal emotionally. Eventually, I landed a job at a fertility clinic, something that felt strangely meant to be, considering our journey.
By October, doctors recommended a procedure to check my remaining tube. After two attempts, we finally got good news, it was open. I was also ovulating on the correct side, which gave us hope. But then they discovered a fibroid that could complicate things. We prepared for more testing, but before I could schedule it, I found out I was pregnant again.
This time, the pregnancy was in the right place. At first, the ultrasounds weren’t clear, and we feared another loss. I even passed a clot and was convinced I was miscarrying. But after a terrifying week of waiting, the doctor smiled and said, “There’s your baby.” My husband and I cried tears of relief.
Months later, on July 6, 2021, at 6 p.m., our miracle arrived. Our son, Finley, was born healthy, weighing 6 pounds, 6 ounces. After so much pain and loss, he was our rainbow after the storm.
Looking back, I see both the heartbreak and the blessings. We lost our angel baby, Carter, but gained our rainbow baby, Finley. If I could share one piece of advice, it would be this: hold close to the people who support you, lean on your faith, and never lose hope. Bad things happen, but after the storm, there can be rainbows.
