A’s Story

“When the doctor departs, my Catholic mom says, ‘Do not tell anyone about this.’ This is shameful to her.”

I am at work, and I am in pain. A constant, sharp stabbing pain. It's in my abdomen. I feel it in my ribcage and in my neck. I am in the bathroom crying at work. This has been going on for days, weeks, and later, months. I haven't seen a doctor because I am poor and my full time job provides no health insurance. I finally break down and tell my mom, who is a nurse. She was taught by nuns during the 1950s in a Catholic hospital in Montana. She and I aren't getting along very well because I am unmarried.

I have a boyfriend, with whom I live. He is ten years older than I am. I am 23. I take birth control pills. They are my only medication.

My mom makes an appointment for me at the office she works at. The practice specializes in Internal Medicine. I see a female Internist. She guickly decides to do an ultrasound in the office. The test shows fluid in my abdomen. She says that I must have had an ovarian cyst rupture which explains the abdominal fluid. She changes my birth control medication.

I continue having severe abdominal pain. It is nearly constant now. I drag myself to work. My co-worker tells me that I don't look good.

It's Friday, and I have the day off. I am home alone. Something terrible is happening within my body. I keep fainting, regaining consciousness, and crawling toward the phone. It is the mid-1980s. The phone is in the kitchen. I call 911 and ask for help.

The ambulance arrives and takes me to the hospital, about one mile away. I am greeted by a nurse I know. He is married to the doctor I recently saw. I have babysat their daughter. I tell him what his wife said, a ruptured ovarian cyst. He looks very concerned.

I am brought into surgery. I am bleeding to death internally. I don't have an ovarian cyst. I am having a blood transfusion while the surgeon is trying to figure out the source of my internal bleeding. He finds a strange looking tumor, which was connected to something in my abdomen and has become dislodged. I receive liter after liter of life-saving blood. He stops my bleeding, and removes the tumor. He sutures my abdomen. I look like a woman who has just had a cesarean surgery. He sends the tumor to the lab. He doesn't tell me about the tumor. I wake up enough toward the end of the surgery to ask the doctor. "Can I still have babies"? He assures me that yes, I can. I remember this conversation. He holds my hand, and is kind to me. I remember feeling cared about.

I still don't understand what has happened to me. I wake up in a hospital room. My life has been saved. I spend a week in the hospital. When I go home, as soon as I am physically able, I will move out of my boyfriend's home. He didn't come to visit while I was in the hospital. He claims that he couldn't handle it. My boss visits me. He says, " You will be paid for the time you had to take off. That is our sick pay policy."

A week after the surgery, the doctor comes into my hospital room. He has three photographs from the lab. He says, "We know what happened now. This was a pregnancy. An abdominal ectopic pregnancy. Here are the photographs. It could never have been a baby." I have never heard the words "ectopic pregnancy" before. The photos look like nothing I have ever seen. It is unrecognizable. When the doctor departs, my Catholic Mom says, "Do not tell anyone about this." This is shameful to her.

I tell my boss. He says, "I am not going to pay you for your time off. I am not paying for anything pregnancy-related." I talk to my dad. He controls all of the money in my parents' home. I have bills. I am scared. He says, "I won't help you. This isn't my problem."

I send a letter to my ex-boyfriend. I ask for help. He sends a $20 check, twice. My bills from the hospital are enormous. The surgeon is once again extraordinarily kind. He writes off his portion of the bill. He can't do anything about the hospital bill. He tells me to see him in his office in a month. There won't be a charge. It takes me years to pay off the hospital bill.

I cease dating. I have lost trust in men. Four years later, I am introduced to a wonderful man, through a mutual friend. He is trustworthy. He is kind. Both of his feet are planted firmly in the camp of superior men. He was raised in a home ruled by science. When I tell him my story, his response is, "Poor women, how they suffer." I speak to him of my fear of not being able to have children. He reassures me that I can rely upon him. I have none of the factors that lead to ectopic pregnancy. The doctor has assured me that my fertility is intact. Nevertheless, I am apprehensive.

But I feel safe with him. We marry within months of meeting one another. We are soon expecting our first child. Another child follows three years later. The doctor who saved my life is my obstetrician. Both children are born in the same hospital where I nearly died.