I don’t know why I’ve suddenly decided to do this but, after over a year on this site and nearly three years since my ectopic, I thought I’d tell my story in one place. Maybe it’s just me being selfish or maybe it’s just that I know I won’t be coming off this board anytime soon and I just need to have my full story here. Maybe it’s just cathartic. Or that I’m feeling that, as time goes on, I’m forgetting the details of what happened to me and need to have it down in writing.
Ok, deep breath. I found out I was pregnant for the 9th time in my life in April 2008. I’d had 8 previous miscarriages. I was scared and happy at the same time. All I ever wanted was to be a mum. But I was in a complicated relationship with Mr Complicated (Mr C) so the situation wasn’t ideal. Mr C was severely unimpressed that I was pregnant (he’d been even more unimpressed about my pregnancy a year before that resulted in a miscarriage) but said he would support me. On the Saturday i had a bit of spotting so I called the NHS helpline who told me it was normal and not to panic. The spotting continued so on the Sunday night I took myself to A&E. Even now, I don’t know why I did that. If it was a miscarriage, I knew that nothing would save it. Anyway, I got triaged after an hour or so and was then left alone in a freezing cold cubicle. I approached the nurses’ station and asked the four nurses there who were chatting about their holidays for a blanket. One of them pointed to dirty pile. After another hour, I asked if I could wait by the nurses’ station as the wailing from people in surrounding cubicles was getting a bit much to deal with and I was feeling really alone. They agreed but, as I sat there, a guy with a stab wound was brought in and left alone while the paramedics joined in the holiday conversation. I seriously thought he was going to die by my side. So, I discharged myself and got a cab home. When I got home, I realised that I had a connecting hub for a drip in my arm. As a needlephobe, it took me two days to pluck up the courage to pull it out.
I got a call from the hospital inviting me to go for a scan. A few days later, I had an external and internal scan and was told it was a complete miscarriage. I also had blood tests but was never told the results. A week later, I started bleeding again but it was a very different sort of bleeding to my miscarriages – lighter, a different colour and with no clots. I went back to my GP and he referred me to the EPU. I had another scan but they only scanned me externally. Again, a complete miscarriage, together with a pat on the head.
After a week or so, I started to feel really ill. I was getting excruciating abdominal pains, hot and cold sweats and was passing in and out of consciousness. Somehow, I managed to go into work but I would spend half my day hiding away in the toilets in agony. And when I got home, I was doubled up on my bed. I felt like I was going mad because everyone was telling me this was a miscarriage, including my GP who I continued to visit. One Sunday afternoon, I begged Mr C to take me to A&E but he refused, saying I was being a drama queen and he had to look after his children by his marriage. I couldn’t ask a family member because we were going through a massive family bereavement at the time.
Two nights before the funeral, I couldn’t take the pain anymore and asked my dad to take me to A&E. I was seen by a junior nurse who took blood tests that came out as positive for pregnancy. I was shocked as I’d stopped taking hpts. She said it was perfectly normal after a miscarriage (even though this was weeks after my “miscarriageâ€) and that the pains were probably from a urine infection. She sent me home with antibiotics and told me to take another hpt in 10 days. If that was still positive, I’d probably need a D&C. I found that weird because the scans had apparently shown that I’d had a complete miscarriage. I’d had a D&C with a previous miscarriage and knew the protocol. So, I decided I’d had enough of the NHS and made an appointment with a private gynaecologist in ten days time. I will never forgive myself for having to put my dad through that night either as he had to go straight home with no sleep and arrange the funeral (we’re Jewish and we’d only just found out that the funeral was happening the next day). I continued to faint my way through the next few days, including at the funeral. Not a good look. Everyone was cross with me and thought I was attention-seeking.
A week later, my mum spent a night googling. She’d just lost her youngest brother and was scared she was going to lose her daughter. She turned up at my door and basically frog-marched me back to the hospital, convinced that I was having either an ectopic or a molar pregnancy. I was furious as I didn’t want to take more time off work but, thank god she did what she did. I was finally scanned by a competent sonographer who deigned to look at my tubes, unlike the previous sonographers who looked at my uterus only. He told my mum not to leave me alone for a second and sent me for immediate surgery, even though I had coffee in my system. I had a 14 week pregnancy removed, together with my right tube. The consultant told me I wouldn’t have survived another two hours, let alone the three days until my private appointment which would have also been the time that the previous nurse told me to take another hpt.
It’s taken me a long time to get over this and I’m not sure I have or ever will. Being so close to dying is really life-changing. I also feel incredibly guilty about how much it’s affected my parents. As some of you do know, I have a lawsuit out against my hospital for medical negligence. I’d never advocate doing this. My story is extreme and, fortunately, most women don’t have this sort of experience.