Updated: Feb. 1, 2016
In November, I unexpectedly joined the one percent. But I’m not talking about the wealthy elite—rather, I’m now part of the small fraction of women who experience ectopic or molar pregnancies.
My husband and I were overjoyed to learn we were expecting after trying for a while. We had grand plans for a heartwarming family reveal over Thanksgiving, complete with Pinterest-worthy announcements for friends. I even started a wishlist of baby products on Amazon.
Then, at around eight weeks, everything took a turn. I noticed some bleeding and rushed to my doctor, fearing I was miscarrying. The painful ultrasound revealed that our embryo hadn’t made it to the uterus; instead, it had implanted in my fallopian tube.
As my OB explained our options, I felt detached from reality. I muttered a frustrated “No,” followed by an apology for my outburst—though looking back, it seemed ridiculous to apologize. Ectopic pregnancies are not only nonviable but can also be life-threatening, necessitating prompt action. Thankfully, my tube hadn’t ruptured, giving us two choices: a chemotherapy medication called methotrexate to end the pregnancy or surgery, which often involves removing the tube. Hoping to conceive again in the future, we chose the medication.
It’s surreal to grapple with the reality of terminating a deeply desired pregnancy, knowing it’s the only safe option. Logically, I understood that this pregnancy wasn’t viable, but emotionally I was devastated. I sobbed, repeating how sorry I was to a child I would never meet.
Forty-eight hours later, I felt unbearable pain. My OB had warned that the medication could cause discomfort, but this was excruciating. Even a moment’s delay in taking painkillers felt like torture. My husband had to assist me to the bathroom; I could barely stand. A follow-up visit revealed the medication had failed to work, and I would need surgery after all—another agonizing decision.
Compounding my emotional turmoil was a visit to an anti-choice website where I read that ectopic pregnancies could somehow be continued and warned I was selfish for choosing otherwise. Such misinformation was bewildering and painful, leading me to question my choices. Thankfully, the surgery was straightforward—an outpatient laparoscopic procedure—and I began to physically recover quickly.
The emotional aftermath, however, was a different story. Sharing the news of our loss with family felt like a huge weight on my chest. It seemed as if something precious had been taken from me, while life continued on around me.
Statistically, between 10-20% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage, while 1-2% are ectopic or molar. Many families go through this experience at least once. Although I wish I weren’t part of that statistic, those who have faced similar losses have opened their hearts to me. While some people minimized our pain or seemed uncomfortable acknowledging it, others offered genuine support.
If you’re navigating a loss, know that you are not alone. Your baby was cherished and held immense value. Don’t suppress your feelings; there are many of us who understand and stand with you in solidarity. For further support, consider joining The Hummingbird Network on Facebook, where you’ll find a community ready to listen and share resources.
While I still feel sadness, each day becomes a bit easier. There are still moments that hit hard—like discovering someone with the same due date I would have had—but I continue to move forward, as that’s all we can do.
For more information about pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource on fertility treatment. And if you’re interested in at-home insemination options, you might also explore the Cryobaby at-home insemination kit for a more personal approach.