constantly pulling, there was some chills and body aches. An incomprehensible feeling, as if my period was getting ready to come, but couldn’t, it lasted two weeks before the test, and I was pretty tired by that time.
My husband and I tried to be happy, but at the same time, we both didn’t want to spend nine months in agony.
Pregnancy was not my goal in itself. I didn't want to just get pregnant. I literally wanted to “conceive a boy, carry her without problems for my health, without toxicosis, complications, give birth myself easily and without pathologies to a healthy, strong, handsome, happy boy who will live a long and happy life and make this world a better place.”
Yes, I really screwed it up. But here I am writing all this to you, being in quarantine and thinking “thank God that I don’t have a month-old baby in my arms right now.”
May the millions of mothers who have it now forgive me. This is your happiness and the sun, take care of it. I'm happy being away.
So, we tried not to be too happy, because the pathology was obvious. Although, of course, I already told everyone and accepted congratulations from my mom, dad, and friend.
The gynecologist forbade us from having sex and prescribed Duphaston.
I refused both of her recommendations.
Firstly, I won’t be able to not have sex with my husband for the entire pregnancy, and if the child already needs us to abstain, then what will happen later, forgive me.
Secondly, I am against hormonal drugs, I am for stimulating the production of my own, but against the introduction of artificial ones. They have a lot of side effects, not very harmful, but compared to the threat of interruption, I chose personal health.
You can throw anything at me, I love myself, and I will never stop.
When the choice is between ruining the lives of already established people in order to save who knows who, or allowing a fertilized egg to fall out if it turns out to be non-viable (while preserving the health and happiness of the mother and father), then for me it is obvious.
After a couple of weeks, the temperature rose to thirty-seven, the stomach and lower back began to feel stronger, my husband and I went to the doctor. It was Sunday six o'clock in the evening. In the toilet of the medical center, I noticed blood on the pad, just a little, but it became clear that a miscarriage had begun.
The ultrasound showed no fertilized egg, the doctor was worried that it was ectopic and sent me by ambulance to the hospital.
I burst into tears. My husband followed the ambulance, trying to support me at such a difficult moment. I cried not from the loss of the baby, but from the horror of the operation. I have never had general anesthesia in my life. I have never broken my arms or legs, or been injured enough to end up on the surgeon’s table. And then suddenly it was ectopic. I knew perfectly well what the dangers were, and that in such cases there was only one way out, an emergency operation, so that there would be no rupture of the pipe and death from massive internal bleeding.
I don’t like anesthesia because I don’t like the altered state of consciousness, who knows how it will end. There are many cases of psychosis after operations.
My mental state worried me no less than my physical one.
Fortunately, the ectopic was not confirmed. But gynecologists do not give up so easily. They began to suspect a potential incomplete release of the ovum and prepare me for surgery in the morning.
— But I do not want.
— We do everything.
— I know, but if it comes out on its own, there will be no need for surgery.
— If something remains in the uterus, infection and sepsis may begin, we will no longer save you.
— Same thing from surgery. You will create a huge wound surface on me, tear off the entire endometrium, the risk of infection is no lower.
— That's the protocol.
— Okay, but can I decide for myself?
— Yes. Before leaving, sign a waiver of claims.
— Okay, now I'm just waiting for it to come out, right?
— Yes. We will give you papaverine and antibiotics. In the meantime, get tested.
By that time, hCG had dropped significantly, which confirmed the onset of a miscarriage and the absence of a tubal pregnancy.
They didn’t inject me with anything, I said goodbye to my worried husband and went to the ward.
My neighbor, a seventy-year-old woman, was lying after surgery and hardly looked at me, we exchanged a few words, but she was lethargic and I didn’t want to take over her mood. I tried to control myself, hoping for the best, and even laughed while watching my favorite TV series. By twelve o'clock at night I wanted to go to the toilet (sorry for the details, to empty my bowels). I think you should know if you encounter something like this.
In high spirits, I pushed. And suddenly I was thrown into a fever from a sharp dull pain in the lower abdomen. I started to sweat and my vision went dark. I didn't feel like defecating anymore. Having barely pulled on my panties, I crawled along the walls to the post. She didn’t scream, the patients slept in the wards, it was night. There was no nurse at the post. And I crawled along the wall to the staff room at the other end of the long corridor.
She burst into the office and collapsed on the table.
— Help. — moaned.
They only looked at me slightly fearfully. They questioned me, understood something, and took me back to the treatment room.
No, can you imagine? Take them! They didn’t take me in a chair, and they also took
