When I try to target the source of my anger, I'm instantly
taken back to the days leading up to my second salpingectomy (the operation to
remove my 2nd fallopian tube). I had already had to have my first
fallopian tube removed just 7 months prior. And so, I was thrown into panic
when I realised I was pregnant again with another ectopic. Having been there
before, I immediately recognised all the symptoms and had already diagnosed
myself before any tests or scans were even carried out.
I presented my self-diagnosis to the doctors and nurses at
the Early Pregnancy Unit, but of course, as before, I knew that a diagnosis
could not be 100% substantiated until bloods were taken over several days in
order to establish a pattern. And, as before, a scan could not be accepted as
concrete proof of an unviable
pregnancy until my hormone levels had reached a certain level, by which time
the Methotrexate injection was unlikely to perform successfully. Methotrexate
is a powerful drug that is used to try and dissolve the embryo so as to prevent
the necessity of surgical intervention. However, if it is not administered in very early stages, it usually fails to
work effectively. I felt utterly trapped and exasperated and given the fact
that I never had a chance to savour a single moment of this pregnancy, I felt
emotionally numb towards the little embryo that was burrowed inside me –
somewhere! But who was I kidding? I was of course tormented by the prospect of
having to endure another miscarriage.
We had no choice but to lay low and take the ride. Several
days ensued of hormonal analysis and internal scans, ultimately leading me back
within the confines of the Gynaecology Unit awaiting the results of another
Methotrexate injection following the unsurprising discovery of an ectopic
pregnancy in my right fallopian tube. The result of this Methotrexate was
everything. If it had been successful, my hormone levels would have decreased
or at the very least reached a plateau. But if, like last time, it had failed
to work, my hormone levels would have increased, signifying that the pregnancy
was still on going and the only choice would be surgery.
I remember in the course of this waiting period, one doctor
in particular – a young, Australian bloke who went to great lengths drawing us
diagrams to explain the surgical procedure he would perform (if required)…whereby
only half or part of the tube would be removed. He seemed to take great pleasure
in flaunting the skills required to carry out this tricky but entirely do-able
piece of surgical craftsmanship. And then, he concluded by saying, that if all
else fails, we would be wonderful candidates for IVF once my damaged tubes were
out of the way. I was shocked and incensed by his ability to casually talk
about assisted reproductive treatment as if we were discussing a handy
short-cut through the park as opposed to the destruction of my natural
fertility!
I felt sick with fear as we waited for the doctors to come
and tell me my fate. Eventually, they arrived to inform us (to our utter
surprise) that my hormone levels had indeed plateaued. I was safe. This time
I’d thankfully managed to escape the knife and my fertility was preserved. We
were immensely relieved. The whole experience had really taken its toll on us
so we planned a little trip to Ireland to visit my family. My hormone levels
continued to slowly decrease and so the doctors were happy to discharge me and
our failing embryo.
While in Ireland, I started to experience quite severe,
sharp pains in my right side. The pain was intermittent so I managed to just
ignore it, reassuring myself that it was probably just the side-effects of the
drug at work. Upon our return home though, we decided to get it checked
out at the hospital, more as a precaution than as a genuine concern. Following
another internal scan, we were told that in fact a large mass was present in my
upper right fallopian tube and that emergency surgery would be the only option
now. We were so shocked and confused. The Methotrexate had worked. How could this happen? How could the embryo continue to
grow when the blood results reflected otherwise?
I didn't even have a day to compute the facts and the
inevitable consequences of the impending operation. Before surgery, we were
visited by the surgeon who told us that she would do her best to preserve at
least part of the remaining tube. As I drifted into unconsciousness, these
words provided me with my one last thread of hope that my fertility might be
saved. I awoke alone in recovery, breathing through a mask, parched for water
and morphined to the eyeballs. Within minutes, the surgeon appeared and
proceeded to inform me in a somewhat robotic manner that my second fallopian
tube had been fully removed and that,
judging by the photographic images (which she thrust in front of my bleary
eyes), my ovaries and uterus were in fine condition. That was it! There was no
“I'm so sorry….We did everything we could….”, nor even the compassion of a
gentle touch. Her words were brief and her delivery was brutal. For a few
hours, I had the blissful fogginess of morphine to subdue the mental torture
that was there, lurking and ready to descend upon me at any moment. But as the
morphine wore off, the reality of what had just happened threw me into utter turmoil.
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