As my husband and I arrived at Christmas mass, my heart sank at the sight of a packed congregation. We thought we had come early enough to find seats, but the crowd was overwhelming.
Seeking assistance, I approached an usher and explained my situation — I had just undergone surgery a week prior. Without hesitation, she offered me her seat.
However, as I settled beside a couple, the woman leaned over and said, “That seat is meant for the usher.” I shared my recovery story, but her husband interjected, “I don’t see any stitches. Let me see your stitches.”
In that moment, my tears began to flow.
Your words cut deeply, sir. While you saw a woman dressed neatly, hair styled, and makeup applied, what you failed to recognize was the mask I had worn to hide the turmoil beneath.
Here’s what you couldn’t see:
You didn’t know this was my first outing after surgery, my first effort to rejoin the world since that day. I had washed my hair and dressed for the occasion, but it took multiple outfit changes to find one that didn’t tug at my incisions.
You weren’t aware that my makeup concealed the exhaustion etched beneath my eyes, hastily reapplied after a fresh bout of tears. Just two days earlier, I was supposed to see my baby’s heartbeat for the first time during an ultrasound appointment.
Four weeks prior, I had started to bleed and rushed to the ER, where I was assured everything was fine. The nurse who handed me my discharge papers told me not to worry about the words “ectopic pregnancy” she had written, as the chances of that were slim.
When I returned the following week, my OB-GYN delivered the devastating news of my miscarriage. Yet, the next day, a call revealed my HCG levels were still rising, prompting further testing. After four ultrasounds, I learned I was experiencing an ectopic pregnancy. The recommended treatment was methotrexate shots to prevent any further health risks.
You didn’t witness the tears my husband and I shed, nor did you hear my cries of anguish over the unfairness of our situation; we had longed for a child for years.
A week later, I received the disappointing news that the shots had failed. You weren’t there to see my co-worker comfort me as I sobbed until I could call my husband.
You didn’t sit in the ultrasound room for the fifth time with us, where we finally saw our baby’s heartbeat — located in my right fallopian tube. You missed the moment my doctor informed us that she was calling for emergency surgery, instructing us to head to the ER immediately.
You didn’t see the look exchanged between my husband and me before I was wheeled off to surgery, where they would remove my baby along with my right fallopian tube. You didn’t know I was part of the 1.9% of pregnant women who face an ectopic pregnancy without risk factors. The methotrexate shots work 90% of the time; I just happened to be in the 10% that no one wishes to join.
In that moment, I could only muster the words, “I lost my baby” as you pressed for proof of my surgery, my husband unaware of our conversation but seeing my tears.
You awkwardly apologized and turned to your wife, who observed my tears streaming down my face. I am unsure if your apology was for my loss or your insensitivity, but I forgive you — you simply didn’t know.
This experience has illuminated a harsh truth: many people are unaware of what an ectopic pregnancy entails. It’s an uncommon occurrence, and I don’t hold it against anyone for not knowing.
But for anyone who endures this heartbreak, know that you are not alone. I, along with others, understand that while physical wounds may heal swiftly, emotional scars take longer.
And sir, if you ever read this, remember: just because a wound isn’t visible doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
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Summary
Ectopic pregnancies remain a misunderstood and painful experience for many. The emotional scars often linger long after physical recovery. In sharing my journey, I seek to raise awareness about the hidden heartbreak of ectopic pregnancies, reminding others that they are not alone in their struggles.