Four scars and a positive pregnancy test: these are all the memories that will have left behind this little-potential-baby-who-never-blossomed. This time, I was the almost impossible statistic, the 1% represented by ectopic pregnancies, where the embryo, or at least the pregnancy cells, settle elsewhere than in the uterus (a tube in my case ).
From the start of my pregnancy, nothing was really right. The doctors said I was an “atypical case”. I had had what I thought was a period, but no, I was actually pregnant. And then, more small bleeds a week later. And still cramps. Not cramps that can be doubled over, but cramps that prevent you from concentrating at work.
For weeks, I had to go to the clinic and then to the hospital to try to figure out the bleeding, the cramps, the pregnancy hormones that were going up a little weirdly, but going up enough to make you believe for a big 4 days that my pregnancy was progressing well, finally.
And four ultrasounds later, we finally saw a little being appear in the wrong place. While I was alone, without my husband (COVID requires), I was told that it should be removed by surgery, that my pregnancy was “too advanced” for a drug.
I was still a little flattered on the shoulder, to hell with COVID. But cuddly, I never thought I would have to announce such news to the father of my children over the phone. Ask him to come urgently so that he can finally cry in someone’s arms and not just behind a mask, in front of strangers who give me permission to remove him to blow my nose.
Fortunately, even though they were physically distant, many of them were remarkably empathetic (Not so much the surgeon who told me directly when I arrived in his office that this was good news because my proboscis had not yet burst and that I was not yet in excruciating pain. Suuuuper.). I greet them, this nurse with the warm smile, this technologist, this gynecologist, this nurse in the recovery room who made me watch a video of Lady Gaga to clear my mind and help me get out of the haze of the room. general anesthesia, this nurse who was so careful changing my bandages.
Now, barely a week and dust later, I’m getting better, I’m recovering from the surgery. I wiped the ” at least ” people : ” at least your trunk did not burst », « at least you have two other healthy children », « at least you can get pregnant again one day ».
But sometimes I drive, on an endless highway, and the void catches up with me a little. Time to cry for a few minutes over a song that was a little too sad which was playing on the radio at the time.
Farewell, my baby 3 whom I never had time to love, but for whom I will always mourn. I will not forget you.