I’ve come to accept that pregnancy brings discomfort. Round ligament aches, nausea and vomiting, and the true pain that can only be known when you experience your breasts leapfrogging three cup sizes in a month.
So when I started to feel uncomfortable one night after dinner I didn’t necessarily ignore it, but I did chalk it up to a normal pregnancy “thing,” be it indigestion, acid reflux or just growing pains. I’d been getting used to these types of maladies becoming more common as I neared the end of my second trimester. They were easily treatable and often resolved on their own, so I went to bed assuming I’d feel better in the morning.
But when I awoke it was actually worse. And as the day progressed I went from wincing any time I moved to outright moaning from the pain. It was the weekend and I couldn’t see my doctor, so my husband wanted to go to the emergency room.
I was unsure of how to proceed. This is my first pregnancy and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was normal “wear and tear” and I was simply being too sensitive. So I stayed home.
I wasn’t trying to be negligent and my first thought was of my baby. He seemed fine. He was kicking and moving around as normal, and the pain was radiating from my ribcage, well above the baby danger zone. But when I tried to sleep that night I couldn’t. Things weren’t getting better and the pain continued to progress. We knew we had to do something and by 7 a.m. we greeted the staff at our local urgent care as they opened for the day, and I was ushered into an exam room.
The attending physician attempted an examination of my upper abdomen but stopped short, telling us, “It may be appendicitis or an infected gallbladder and you need to be seen at an emergency room. Now.” Until this point I had tried to be tough, but hearing this caused pure panic to set in.
We rushed to the hospital which, luckily, was less than a ten minute drive. I felt each second tick by, physically and emotionally. I was keenly aware how badly the streets of San Francisco needed repair as each bump and dip sent me into a new pain spiral. And my heart was aching with fear that my baby could be in danger from whatever was ailing me.
I sobbed to my husband as he drove, “It’s too soon. He can’t come now.” I felt I was failing at motherhood before it even began. I spent the drive reading as much as I could on the treatment of my potential diagnoses with pregnant women, hoping knowledge would empower me. It didn’t…it terrified me.
When we arrived at the hospital I was attached to a fetal monitor as a team surrounded me. I heard one of the many voices say, “Her blood pressure is low and there are a few contractions.” I had no idea what this meant, and when I asked if my baby was okay I was told, “so far.”
So far? What does that even mean? He’s okay right now, but we may have to bring you into a delivery room within the hour? Or, he’s absolutely fine and you can go home soon? There was a wide expanse between the possibilities of what that answer meant, all too great for me to comprehend at that moment.
I was examined multiple times, had two ultrasounds and blood work was drawn. Eventually the contractions stopped and my blood pressure stabilized. Finally, after 8 hours I was diagnosed with sciatica and rib fractures. Pain medication was offered but not recommended (I refused) and we were at last discharged.
An emergency room visit in any situation is scary, during pregnancy it is downright terrifying. But I didn’t once worry about me, my only thought for my body was how it would affect my son, and if it would be able to keep him safe.
I was lucky. While my condition was uncomfortable (okay, excruciating) for me, my baby was healthy and I was able to go home. But those 8 hours of not knowing were worse than any physical pain I felt.
With pregnancy everything is stronger -the love, the pain and the fear. And I know it’s only a tiny indication of what motherhood has in store for me, but it sure is doing a good job of preparing me.
