*If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, this post contains sensitive content that may be triggering. Please proceed with caution.*
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself penning an article like this. For years, I’ve maintained a private stance on my personal life, especially regarding pregnancy and family planning. My desire was never to publicly chronicle such intimate details, nor did I ever foresee a scenario where pregnancy loss would become a part of my narrative. Yet, here I am, compelled to share a story I once believed would never be mine.
The truth is, despite the unsettling prevalence of pregnancy loss, it remains an experience you never truly expect to confront yourself. It casts an immediate and profound sense of unreality over everything, and even now, weeks later, I find myself grappling to fully process the depths of what has transpired. The journey has been an arduous one, marked by shock, uncertainty, and an overwhelming feeling of isolation.
However, I hold onto the belief that every profound experience, no matter how painful, carries the potential for purpose. My hope is that by sharing my story, I can transform this deeply personal struggle into a source of comfort or understanding for someone else. Perhaps, it might offer a glimmer of solace, making one person feel a little less alone than I have felt throughout this past month. Because the solitude, amidst everything, has been truly immense.
In the wake of my diagnosis, I found myself spending countless hours delving into online forums and communities. I scoured Reddit message boards, desperate for any shred of relatable experience from women navigating ectopic pregnancies. My Google searches, often frantic, yielded page after page of sterile, clinical websites, detailing risk factors that didn’t apply to me and statistical outcomes that only served to deepen my anxiety. What I craved was not data, but a human voice – a real person’s account of what this felt like, rather than a mere statistic.
At one particularly vulnerable point in this bewildering saga, as I braced myself for an upcoming D&C procedure (more on that shortly), I stumbled upon a blog post from a woman who bravely laid bare her own D&C experience. Her words were a lifeline. She didn’t just recount the medical events; she openly shared her emotional landscape, the fears, and the physical sensations. Her candor provided invaluable mental preparation for what lay ahead for me, and in that moment, I resolved that if I ever emerged from this season, I would strive to be just as helpful to others as she had been for me.
So, this is my account of the last month of my life, a period that unfolded against a backdrop of unprecedented global challenges. We’ve been living through a pandemic, witnessing the devastating impact of raging wildfires and perilous air quality on the West Coast, and grappling with ongoing protests against racial injustice. Adding to this personal turmoil, my business, The Healthy Maven, suffered a not-so-fun hacking incident that brought operations to a standstill for five agonizing days. Indeed, this month has been incredibly tough. But I feel ready to articulate my experience, not just as a means of personal catharsis, but to contribute to the ongoing conversation around pregnancy loss and body autonomy.
The Start of the Unexpected: Discovering I Was Pregnant
While the title of this post already reveals the ultimate outcome – an ectopic pregnancy – it took a full ten days of anxious waiting and testing before this devastating diagnosis could be confirmed. To truly understand the gravity of the situation, it’s essential to rewind and recount our story from its very beginning. Let’s flash back to August 12, 2020.
Just a week and a half prior, I had experienced what I believed to be a perfectly normal menstrual period. I am incredibly fortunate to have a regular, predictable cycle, a fact for which I am profoundly grateful and never take for granted. My period typically adheres to a consistent 28-29 day cycle, with the first day usually being the heaviest and most uncomfortable, followed by about four days of light spotting before it completely subsides.
However, an unusual pattern began to emerge. A full week after my period *should* have concluded, I was still experiencing persistent spotting and mild cramping. This deviation from my norm struck me as odd, prompting me to err on the side of caution and contact my OBGYN. Our conversation, conducted over the phone in true pandemic fashion, led to her suggesting I come in for some tests. She also advised me to take a home pregnancy test if I had one available. I admit, I initially scoffed at the idea. I had just had my period; the possibility of pregnancy felt astronomically low, almost laughably so. Yet, driven by a nagging curiosity and the doctor’s recommendation, I rushed to CVS and picked up a test.
Not an ounce of me anticipated a positive result. So, when the word “pregnant” starkly appeared on the test stick, C and I were utterly speechless, a mixture of shock and burgeoning joy washing over us. The happiness was immediate, but it was quickly tempered by a perplexing realization: something wasn’t quite adding up. We knew we shouldn’t get too excited just yet. I messaged my doctor immediately. Her congratulations were cautious, underscored by the urgent need for me to come in for additional testing that very afternoon.
Upon arriving at the clinic, I underwent a blood test to measure my Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (HCG) levels – the hormone indicative of pregnancy – and an ultrasound. My HCG level registered at 1024, a seemingly healthy number. However, the ultrasound yielded a concerning result: nothing could be visualized on the screen, neither within my uterus nor anywhere else. This lack of visualization, coupled with the HCG level, was deeply unsettling. I was instructed to return in 48 hours for a repeat HCG test to see if the levels had doubled, a key indicator of a viable pregnancy, along with another ultrasound.
Those initial 48 hours of waiting were excruciating. This was the only window during which C and I truly clung to the hope that this could still be a normal, albeit early, pregnancy. If what I had perceived as my period in late July was actually not a true period, then I would have been in the very early stages of pregnancy (around five weeks). In such a scenario, it was plausible that it was simply too early for anything to be detected via ultrasound. But without confirmation, all we could do was wait, trapped in a limbo of uncertainty.
Two days later, on Friday, I returned to the doctor for my follow-up. My HCG levels had indeed doubled, reaching 2131, a trajectory that was still medically considered healthy. Yet, once again, the ultrasound revealed nothing. To be absolutely thorough, I was sent to radiology for a more advanced ultrasound, but even there, no pregnancy could be located. Given that I was not experiencing any pain and my vital signs were stable, my doctor advised another 48-hour wait and re-test.
When I went back, 48 hours later, my HCG had not doubled, but it had increased by more than 50% to 3214. While not ideal, this increase was still within a range that could indicate a developing pregnancy. The current medical guidelines suggest that a gestational sac should typically be visible on ultrasound when HCG levels reach around 3500. Since mine were still slightly below this threshold, and considering this was a desired pregnancy, we collectively decided to endure yet another 48-hour waiting period.
I must confess, I am not a patient person by nature. While a growing sense of dread had begun to settle in, suggesting this journey would not have a positive outcome, these prolonged waiting periods were truly pushing me to my limits. Compounding our anxieties was a massive heatwave, leaving us without air conditioning, coupled with pervasive smoke advisories from nearby wildfires that made outdoor activities impossible. Simultaneously, my body began to manifest the initial, undeniable signs of pregnancy: extreme bloating, aching legs, and painfully tender breasts. Suffice it to say, my mood was far from cheerful.
After another 48 hours, we faced yet another round of testing. Again, my HCG numbers didn’t double but rose to a still-healthy 4900. And still, to our growing despair, nothing, absolutely NOTHING, could be seen on the ultrasound. At this point, I received an official diagnosis: a “pregnancy of unknown location” (PUL). It remains, and likely will forever be, the strangest diagnosis I have ever received. I was definitively pregnant; they just couldn’t pinpoint where.
For those unfamiliar with the term, an ectopic pregnancy fundamentally refers to a pregnancy that develops outside the uterus. A healthy, viable pregnancy can only successfully grow within the uterine cavity. If implantation occurs elsewhere, the pregnancy is not viable and poses significant risks. Ectopic pregnancies are relatively rare, occurring in about 2% of all pregnancies, with 98% of these typically located in a fallopian tube. In my particular case, the situation was even rarer: I was among the 2% of the 2% – an ectopic pregnancy that simply could not be visually located. With this, it became clear that critical decisions had to be made, and we needed to move forward.
And for anyone wondering, yes, I absolutely did get my period despite being pregnant with an ectopic pregnancy. Most medical professionals initially denied this was possible (and no, I am not crazy!). The only reason I know this to be true is because I have since heard from numerous other individuals who experienced an ectopic pregnancy and also reported having what they believed to be a period. So, anecdotally, it can and does happen.
The D&C: A Painful Necessity
Because my pregnancy remained stubbornly undetectable via ultrasound, the next step in the diagnostic process was a D&C (Dilation and Curettage). This procedure was crucial to definitively confirm whether the pregnancy was *not* within my uterus. A D&C involves dilating the cervix and using a curette (a spoon-shaped instrument) to gently remove tissue from the inside of the uterus. Sadly, many women become familiar with the term D&C in the context of miscarriage, as it is often performed to ensure all pregnancy tissue is removed. While there are several ways a miscarriage can be managed, a D&C, though the most invasive, is often the fastest and most definitive option for tissue removal.
My D&C, however, was not performed because I had miscarried in the traditional sense. It was a diagnostic tool. The goal was to extract and analyze tissue from my uterine lining. If no pregnancy tissue was found within the uterus, it would provide further evidence, virtually confirming, that my pregnancy was indeed ectopic.
Now, I want to preface this by saying that every woman’s experience with pregnancy loss and medical procedures is deeply personal and unique. My intention is not to frighten anyone. However, I must honestly state that, by an overwhelming margin, my D&C was the most intensely painful experience I have ever endured in my life. While some women are placed under general anesthesia for this procedure (an option I would have wholeheartedly chosen, 100%), due to the ongoing pandemic, a desire to minimize hospital time, and the medical team’s expectation that little to no tissue would be found in my uterus, local anesthesia and oral pain medications were suggested as an alternative to full sedation.
At this point, we were nine days past the initial positive pregnancy test. C drove me to the hospital, but heartbreakingly, he had to wait in the car due to COVID-19 restrictions. I spent roughly 1.5 hours inside. I was administered pain medication and anti-anxiety medication and told to wait 15 minutes for them to take effect before the procedure began. I won’t sugarcoat it: facing such a deeply personal and potentially painful procedure entirely alone was incredibly difficult. I was skeptical that a mere 15 minutes would be sufficient for the medications to fully kick in, but I was also desperate to get out of the clinic and back to C, to simply have the entire ordeal behind me.
In hindsight, I deeply regret not insisting on waiting longer for the pain medication to work. Ultimately, neither the oral pain meds nor the local anesthesia (despite them administering a double dose) proved effective. My doctor had assured me that the procedure would likely feel like “heavy cramping.” What I experienced, however, was unlike anything I have ever felt in my entire life. I lay there, openly weeping (and I am not one to cry easily; it takes a lot to unleash the floodgates), as it genuinely felt as though she was stabbing my insides with a knife. I remember asking her if this was what severe cramping felt like, to which she replied it “shouldn’t be too painful.” When I bravely managed to tell her it felt like I was being stabbed, she could only offer repeated apologies, attempting to complete the procedure as swiftly as possible.
When it was finally over, I simply lay on the table, sobbing uncontrollably. Somehow, I managed to gather myself, walk to the pharmacy to pick up my prescribed pain medications, and then find C waiting anxiously in the car. By the time we arrived home, the accumulated effects of the pain and anxiety medications finally took hold, and I promptly passed out for several hours.
Even to this day, the intense pain I experienced during the D&C remains a mystery to me. Everything I had read, and everything my doctor had conveyed, indicated it should not have been that agonizing. So, I pose this question to anyone who may have gone through a similar experience: If you had a D&C, what was your experience like, particularly regarding pain? Sharing your story might help shed light on this.
Treating the Ectopic Pregnancy: The Methotrexate Protocol
Following the D&C, an agonizing 24-hour wait ensued for the pathology results, which would confirm or deny the presence of pregnancy tissue within my uterus. When the results finally arrived, they were unsurprising to anyone involved: no pregnancy tissue was found in my uterus. This delivered a confirmed diagnosis of an ectopic pregnancy, or, in my specific and rare case, a “pregnancy of unknown location” (PUL), a variant that presents unique diagnostic challenges.
Most women unfortunately discover they have an ectopic pregnancy only when it ruptures, a typically excruciating and potentially life-threatening event requiring immediate medical intervention. Fortunately, I remained stable throughout this period, meaning surgical intervention was not immediately necessary. When an ectopic pregnancy is caught before rupture, the standard course of treatment often involves a drug called Methotrexate.
Methotrexate is a powerful medication, classified as a chemotherapy drug, administered via injection into the bloodstream. Its purpose is to halt the growth of the rapidly dividing cells of the pregnancy, allowing the body to then naturally break down and absorb the tissue. Methotrexate acts as a folate antagonist, meaning it depletes the body of all folate, a nutrient absolutely essential for the healthy growth and development of a baby. This is precisely why doctors strongly encourage pregnant women, or those trying to conceive, to take prenatal vitamins rich in folate.
In my situation, I required one (or potentially two) injections of Methotrexate, typically administered in the gluteal muscle. Following the injection, I had to adhere strictly to a low-folate diet. For me, this was particularly challenging, as folate is abundantly present in almost all healthy foods, especially vegetables, which form a significant part of my usual diet. A folate-free diet was, to put it mildly, not enjoyable. I was also strictly advised against consuming alcohol, as my liver would be working overtime processing the medication. Furthermore, I had to eliminate all strenuous activity, including exercise and heavy lifting, to minimize any risk of rupture while the Methotrexate took effect. This is a critical point: even after Methotrexate treatment, the risk of rupture persists until HCG levels drop completely to zero, a process that typically spans four to six weeks.
Consequently, I found myself on mandatory bed rest. This might not have been so bad under normal circumstances, but we were trapped indoors, with severe smoke from wildfires rendering outdoor activities impossible. The confinement only added to the mental burden.
I consider myself relatively fortunate in that my reaction to Methotrexate was not overly severe. The first 48 hours were the most uncomfortable, characterized by a low-grade nausea and a peculiar metallic taste in my mouth – symptoms I was informed are common with chemotherapy drugs. Approximately four days after the injection, I experienced some heavier cramping, but nothing that reached the level of excruciating pain.
The Methotrexate protocol involves rigorous follow-up monitoring. This typically includes blood tests on day 4 and day 7 post-injection, followed by weekly check-ups thereafter. It is common for HCG levels to initially rise on day 4 (mine reached 10,295). However, the key indicator of the drug’s effectiveness is a drop of at least 15% in HCG levels between day 4 and day 7. Luckily, my HCG levels fell by 20% on day 7, signifying that the Methotrexate was working and sparing me the need for a second injection. At that point, I remained on bed rest, continued my low-folate diet, and simply hoped for the best, praying for a smooth resolution.
The Rupture: An Unexpected Emergency
My deepest hope, of course, was for the Methotrexate to be fully effective, leading to a gradual decline in HCG levels and a return to some semblance of normalcy within a few weeks. However, life rarely follows our preferred scripts. Thirteen days after my initial Methotrexate shot, and a mere six days after my HCG levels had shown that reassuring 15% drop, I was suddenly struck by a searing, sharp pain in my belly. I had been explicitly warned by doctors to watch for symptoms like sharp, difficult-to-breathe-through pain, or feelings of faintness or dizziness. I was literally lying in bed, doing nothing, on the phone with my friend Meg when the pain abruptly hit.
It was intensely painful, but I found I could still breathe through it and continued my conversation with Meg for another 20 minutes. My initial, desperate thought was that it might just be a severe gas pain. I yearned for it not to be a rupture.
However, after ending the call, I hurried to the bathroom. The agony of trying to have a bowel movement became so unbearable that I instinctively knew: this had to be a rupture. From the upstairs bathroom, I called down to C, telling him I suspected my ectopic had ruptured, but I wasn’t entirely certain. Regardless of my certainty, we both knew we had no choice but to rush to the emergency room immediately.
Ectopic pregnancies are tragically the leading cause of maternal mortality in the first trimester. If unaware of an ectopic, individuals might mistake the pain for something else or delay seeking treatment. But when an ectopic pregnancy ruptures, it releases blood into the abdominal cavity, which can rapidly lead to internal bleeding, shock, and potentially life-threatening complications. Prompt medical attention is absolutely critical.
As we quickly got into the car to head to the ER, I called my clinic en route. Here’s a crucial tip: if you suspect your ectopic has ruptured, have your clinic call the ER ahead of time to inform them of your specific case and your impending arrival. C pulled up to the emergency entrance, and the act of saying goodbye to him and hobbling alone into the hospital was incredibly difficult. The absence of partners or support people during such a terrifying and vulnerable process is a profound challenge.
Thankfully, the ER staff were expecting me. I was swiftly taken in, immediately given an ultrasound and pain medication. The ultrasound quickly confirmed free fluid – meaning blood – in my abdomen, unequivocally indicating that my ectopic pregnancy had ruptured. What’s truly astonishing is that even at this critical juncture, they *still* couldn’t visually locate the pregnancy itself. They strongly suspected it was in one of my fallopian tubes, but definitive confirmation would only come with surgery.
This dire situation led directly to the next, unforeseen chapter in this intense saga: emergency surgery.
Once an ectopic pregnancy has ruptured, there is only one viable option: immediate surgery. Thankfully, I was a suitable candidate for laparoscopic surgery, a less invasive procedure that typically results in only three small scars. The on-call OBGYN (by this point, I’d met six out of the eight doctors in the practice!) had me call C on speakerphone so she could explain the procedure and what we could expect. I would be put under general anesthesia, and they would make three small incisions (one through my belly button) to locate the rupture and remove the pregnancy. Although it hadn’t been visible on ultrasound, based on the internal bleeding, it was highly probable the ectopic was located in my left fallopian tube. While the doctor stated she would attempt to preserve the tube if possible, she also explained that leaving a damaged tube could significantly increase my risk of another ectopic pregnancy in the future.
Based on the limited information I could process in that highly anxious moment, I gave my consent for her to remove the tube if it appeared significantly damaged and beyond repair. Then, quite insistently, I requested Ativan (a moment of dark humor, perhaps) and allowed them to wheel me up to pre-op.
At this point, my memory becomes hazy. The morphine and Ativan had begun to take effect, blurring the edges of reality. The last distinct thing I recall was the anesthesiologist saying, “This will feel like a glass of wine,” and my somewhat groggy response, “Haven’t had one of those in a while!” And then, I was asleep.
When I awoke, I was profoundly disoriented and anxious. It was late at night, around 11:00 PM, and I was the sole patient in the large post-op recovery room. C couldn’t be there, and I could vaguely make out two women sitting at a distant desk. From what I’ve been told, I began to experience intense panic, repeatedly yelling for Ativan. I suppose my subconscious knew precisely how to manage my anxiety, which is somewhat ironic, as prior to this entire ordeal, I had only taken Ativan three times in my life, with one of those instances being just before this very surgery.
The nurses compassionately helped me get dressed and then wheeled me out to the parking lot, where C was patiently waiting. He drove me home and gently helped me into bed, ensuring I took my post-operative medications. My mouth felt incredibly dry, prompting me to repeatedly insist on spoonfuls of coconut oil – honestly, much of that initial recovery period remains a blur.
When I finally became fully coherent, C informed me of the surgery’s findings: the pregnancy had indeed been located in my left fallopian tube. It had grown to approximately an inch (3 cm) and had severely damaged the tube. As a result, my left fallopian tube, along with the pregnancy, had to be removed. The surgical team also removed half a liter of blood from my abdomen. Despite my HCG levels having dropped quite substantially to 3451 (from 8250 just the week prior), the rupture still occurred. It’s all just so incredibly surreal and, honestly, beyond comprehension. That’s truly all I have to say about that.
Ectopic Pregnancy Recovery: Navigating Physical and Mental/Emotional Healing
My recovery journey from the ectopic pregnancy and subsequent surgery has unfolded in two distinct, yet interconnected, phases: the physical healing and the mental/emotional processing. Each has presented its own unique set of challenges.
Physical Recovery: The Road Back to Baseline
The first 48 hours immediately following the laparoscopic surgery were undoubtedly the most challenging. Movement was incredibly difficult; I could barely walk, my appetite was non-existent, and C had to literally assist me with every basic need. A surprising, yet common, aspect of laparoscopic surgery that I quickly learned about is the intense shoulder pain that often accompanies it, even though the procedure itself is performed on the abdomen. To create space and enhance visibility during surgery, carbon dioxide (CO2) gas is insufflated into the abdominal cavity. This gas can become trapped and, for reasons not entirely clear, often irritates the diaphragm and refers pain to the shoulders. For those initial two days post-surgery, my shoulders ached immensely. Rolling from side to side was painful, and as I’m not naturally a back sleeper, the discomfort made rest incredibly difficult.
Gradually, the shoulder pain began to dissipate, and I slowly regained my ability to walk. Within a week, I was even managing short hikes in Tahoe, a testament to the body’s incredible resilience. For the most part, I started to feel like myself again physically.
However, one particularly annoying physical challenge has lingered (we are now a little over a month out from the initial diagnosis and two weeks post-surgery): a terrible rash that developed on my hip bones. Through my own research and conversations, I’ve discovered that this is something *no one* seems to talk about, yet it’s surprisingly common to develop an allergic reaction to the mesh underwear provided in hospitals. After the surgery, I experienced quite a bit of bleeding, so I went home outfitted in mesh undies, a giant pad, and a few extras of each. I diligently changed them daily. While I had no issues for the first five days, I then began to experience intense itching. Subsequently, a full-blown rash erupted on the outside of my hips and abdomen. This has been utterly frustrating – just another unwelcome layer of discomfort I hadn’t anticipated. Thankfully, with a combination of cortisone cream, ibuprofen, and antihistamines, the itching has significantly subsided, and the rash is slowly but surely healing. So, consider this a fair warning: you may react to hospital mesh underwear. Has anyone else experienced this? Please share your insights!
*Edited to add: Since initially sharing this, I have heard from so many of you who also reacted to your hospital mesh undies! The reaction is indeed contact dermatitis. To this day, I’m not entirely sure if it’s the material of the mesh undies themselves or a chemical they might have been treated with. Either way, here’s what ultimately helped clear mine up: applying 1% cortisone cream at least three times a day and taking a daily antihistamine (like Claritin or Zyrtec, if you want to avoid drowsiness) to manage the itching. I also avoided super hot showers or baths for a few days, as the heat seemed to exacerbate the rash. Once the initial irritation calmed down, I did find that Epsom salt baths helped in the final stages of healing, after the itching had stopped. I sincerely hope this information proves helpful to anyone else navigating this unexpected discomfort!*
Beyond this persistent rash, I’m slowly but surely reclaiming my body. I’ve been cleared to resume indoor exercise in a few days, which feels like a godsend, especially with the persistent poor air quality outside rendering any outdoor activity impossible. It will likely be weeks, or perhaps even months, before my menstrual cycle returns to normal. For now, it’s all a waiting game, a test of patience as my body recalibrates and heals.
Mental and Emotional Recovery: Healing the Invisible Wounds
I anticipate that the mental and emotional healing from this experience will be a much longer, more intricate process than the physical recovery. While I have intellectually come to terms with what has happened, a part of me remains in profound shock that this entire ordeal unfolded. As I mentioned earlier, I had absolutely no inkling this would ever happen to me. I believe I was, perhaps, more emotionally prepared for the concept of a miscarriage in the general sense of pregnancy loss, but an ectopic pregnancy was an entirely foreign and devastating territory.
Part of what makes this so incredibly difficult to accept is that I didn’t fit any of the commonly recognized risk factors. I am not over 35, I don’t have a history of endometriosis, nor have I ever had STIs or Pelvic Inflammatory Disease. In essence, I was simply, profoundly unlucky. And sometimes, accepting that pure, unadulterated bad luck is the hardest pill to swallow.
I believe that for many women, pregnancy loss is invariably followed by a deep, palpable sense of grief. I certainly feel this, but my grief isn’t for a baby I never truly had. I don’t feel like I have an “angel baby” or a “rainbow baby” in the traditional sense. This pregnancy never felt like a “real” pregnancy to me, or something I could allow myself to fully dream about or become excited for, given the constant uncertainty and eventual devastating diagnosis. Instead, my grief is largely for my body – for everything it has endured, the violation it felt, and the loss of its innocence regarding pregnancy. I am also deeply saddened that my very first experience with pregnancy has been so thoroughly tainted by fear, a fear I suspect will linger and resurface whenever C and I decide to try again in the future.
Yet, amidst this complex tapestry of emotions, I am also strangely filled with a profound sense of gratitude. While I would never, ever wish this experience upon anyone, I am unequivocally and forever changed in the way I view pregnancy and the prospect of having children. This newfound perspective, born from adversity, is something I wouldn’t trade for the world. It has reshaped my understanding of life’s precious fragility and the sheer miracle of creation.
I now completely understand why some women grappling with pregnancy loss and infertility experience such overwhelming feelings of jealousy, sadness, or anger when they learn someone in their life is pregnant. While I don’t personally feel jealousy in any way, I do feel an intense, almost irresistible urge to gently shake these women and implore them to understand what an absolute, mind-boggling MIRACLE pregnancy truly is. I want women who do not struggle with pregnancy or fertility to grasp, deep in their bones, just how incredibly lucky they are. I want them to feel that profound gratitude and recognize that they, just as easily, could have walked in my shoes.
However, my wonderful therapist often reminds me that I don’t know everyone’s full story, and many people choose not to speak openly about their experiences with loss. So, perhaps, I shouldn’t be quite so quick to judge or project my own feelings onto others. 😉
Beyond these introspective reflections, I’m actively doing my best to prioritize my mental health. This involves ample snuggling with our beloved pups, immersing myself in comforting TV shows, and consciously practicing self-compassion. Healing is not a linear process, and I’m striving to be patient with myself as I navigate its complexities. Sharing this deeply personal post with all of you is a significant and therapeutic part of that ongoing healing journey.
My current uniform: C’s basketball shorts, because everything else rubs my hips and makes my rash incredibly itchy. Ugh!
* * * * *
So now, here I am, an unwitting member of a club I never wished to join – especially the ectopic pregnancy club, which feels particularly exclusive due to its rarity. I wish desperately that I had more women in my immediate circle to openly discuss this with. So far, friends have told me about acquaintances, or a sister who went through a similar ordeal, but no one I know personally. My deepest hope in sharing this post is twofold: not only to facilitate my own healing process but also to connect with other women who have navigated this incredibly challenging and often isolating experience.
Against the backdrop of a global pandemic and the various societal upheavals happening in the world, I’ve felt an intensified sense of isolation throughout this ordeal. I am profoundly grateful to our friends and family whom we’ve confided in; their unwavering support and generosity have been unbelievable. However, there’s a unique solace in connecting with others who have truly walked a similar path. I would genuinely love to hear from any of you who have experienced something akin to this.
Years ago, when I suffered from shingles (on my face, no less!), I courageously shared that experience here on the blog. Even 2.5 years later, that post still receives daily comments from individuals currently struggling with shingles. It brings me immense peace of mind to know that my personal story can offer support and guidance to others as they navigate their own challenging health journeys.
Ectopic pregnancies are even rarer, so perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but if any part of my story resonates with you, I genuinely implore you to reach out and share your experience. Perhaps, together, we can forge a supportive community within this undesired club, helping each other heal and feel less alone.
Sending you all so much love and solidarity. -D