I woke up on my husband’s side of the bed in a puddle of my own sweat. It was dark. Though, I could see the flickering light from the television illuminate the hallway.
7:30pm
Shifting my body to get out of bed, I realized that the intense pain had subsided. Quickly, I hobbled over to the bathroom.
Knock, knock, knock
“Kate, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so”
I opened the door to see my husband standing and staring at me, next to the doorway. Worried and unsure of what to do, he asked if he could hug me. I agreed and felt his warm embrace.
Disassociation enveloped me. We ordered pho and spent the rest of the night avoiding conversation about what had happened earlier in the day. While we didn’t cry that night, we certainly did in the days and weeks following.
Over the next week or two, disassociation wasn’t as effective. Online teaching was tough. Talking to friends and family was tough. Engaging in hobbies was tough. In a small spark of optimism, I was thankful to have the pandemic. No need to explain myself. I could just hide away.
During that time period, I knew something was wrong. Why didn’t anyone from the OBGYN practice follow up with me? I didn’t get a call or message from my doctor. No blood draw appointments to monitor my HCG. No wellness check-ins for mental health. Nothing. I was alone and felt isolated. The ultrasound debacle was the last point contact we had. Months later, the medical group sent a letter of apology and how they would be restructuring their practice. By that point, I had enough.
I found another obgyn practice and happy that I did. 2-3 weeks post miscarriage, I did a blood draw.
“Your hcg levels are still really high and suggests retained product leftover. We need to resolve this soon before it turns into an infection or sepsis.”
After multiple rounds of medication, and with little to no improvement, my OBGYN referred me to a specialist for a hysteroscopy for “retained product.” Finally, this can be done and over. I scheduled for early December.
Maybe my body didn’t want to say goodbye. But by that point, I needed to part ways for my mental health.
My husband drove me to the hospital. It was a crisp, dark morning. I hopped out of the car and headed to my appointment. This particular hospital is a maze at its best, and a lithograph print by M.C Escher named Relativity at its worst. I eventually made it to my appointment. The nurses offered Motrin for slight discomfort.
Walking into the procedure room, I was instructed to remove part of my clothing and sit on their chair. In one corner, there was a monitor wedged between the ceiling and wall. With dimmed overhead lights and a slight hum from machines, I removed part of my clothing and draped a white sheet over my lap.
“Hi, I’m the doctor for your hysteroscopy. We are going to insert a catheter to flush water as I look through the lens and remove the retained product. Do you have any questions?” This particular doctor gave the aura of Miss Honey from Matilda. She was very sweet, kind, and had the same hair color and cut as Miss Honey. We began to engage in small talk. I’m a teacher, so naturally the doctor began to talk about her own kids being in school.
Now, it was time to begin the procedure. Everything went smoothly until I saw the medieval-looking instrument. Think of a really thin metal rod, about the size of your forearm, with metal graspers at the end. As soon as the procedure began, I was in immediate pain.
My uterus was sensitive to all of the rounds of medication, and tissue ripping from my uterine wall for months. Either way, Motrin didn’t help at all. So instinctively, I began cursing out everyone and their mother during the 5 minute procedure.
I profusely apologized afterwards and tried to make it clear that it wasn’t them. It was the pain.
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My husband picked me up in front of the hospital doors. After I got inside the car, he asked me how the procedure had gone. “I think that I cursed out Miss Honey..”
Dear Rosita 