Trauma has a way of lingering, hanging around long after the initial shock has passed. This is me being vulnerable and sharing some of the raw moments of unpacking my trauma from my hospital stay last year as a result of undergoing in vitro fertility treatments. I realized recently that I haven't really healed from it and it still holds a sense of control over my life. So, here goes nothing...
To set the scene, here is a quick timeline from September 2022:
- Sept. 2nd - first day of IVF injections
- Sept. 14th - egg retrieval outpatient procedure
- Sept. 16th @ 1:00 am - ER visit for presumed dehydration
- Sept. 16th @ 2:00 pm - taken by ambulance to Iowa City
- Sept. 17th - admitted to MICU for critical care monitoring for severe OHSS
- Sept. 23th - discharged home with blood thinners for 3-6 months
3 weeks...in just 21 days, my health had taken a 360-turn. It's important to note that mild OHSS affects about 33 out of 100 women in IVF treatments, while only 1 in 100 women end up with moderate or severe OHSS (Source: Royal College of Obstetricians & Gynecologists, 2016). So on September 16th, what seemed like a 'normal' ER visit for dehydration, turned into me being that 1%.
I called my husband, Juan, who was working 3rd shift and told him I think I needed to go to the ER because I couldn't keep water down, so he rushed home to take me. While in the ER, I was put on oxygen right away because my levels were below 85, an IV with fluids was started for dehydration (after almost an hour of trying to find a vein and going through 6 different nurses poking me), and a CT scan ordered for my abdomen because that was the source of my pain/cramping (which was seen as normal from only having the egg retrieval procedure done less than 48 hours ago). Because I have such a short torso, the CT scan caught just the bottom of my lungs as well, which revealed fluid indicating possible blood clots. A doctor came in and asked if I'd be willing to do another scan of my chest because they want to be sure. At this point, it's almost 4:00 am, I'm still throwing up, they've already told me they want me to go to Iowa City since that's where the procedure took place, so I ask if I can wait until we get to Iowa City and she agrees (mostly because I was cramping so bad, laying flat put me into tears, so I stayed in the fetal position). About 30 minutes later, the same doctor comes back in and says she strongly recommends the chest CT because if it is what they think it is, it every minute counts. So I agreed.
The doctor comes back with the results and explains they believe there is a large blood clot in my lungs and they need to start me on blood thinners right away and will be taking me by ambulance to Iowa City as soon as one is available. I'm scared at this point - because I feel sick, but not sick-sick. I almost didn't come to the ER, what if I hadn't? Was this all a coincidence that they just happened to catch the bottom of my lungs through the abdomen CT? Would they have sent me home, should I have come sooner? All of the questions and scary thoughts started to consume me.
We waited...and waited...and waited...so naturally, I'm googling "blood clots in lungs" and "survival rate of pulmonary embolism" and it's not looking good. The first available ambulance got there between 3-4 pm, 14+ hours after we arrived at the ER.
The hospital stay was a surreal experience, really another story for another day. I never imagined I would suffer from infertility and all the bumps in the road we would hit just trying to run through the course of marriage and life. But I'm not alone in that; no one ever imagines the bad stuff will happen to you, until it does and we all have traumas to unpack.
In sharing these raw moments over a year later, I've come to realize that healing isn't about erasing the past; it's about taking back control and embracing the vulnerability, grace, and faith needed to navigate through the traumatic experiences. Our stories, especially the difficult chapters, will hopefully inspire others to not give up, hold out hope, and find community in those with hard stories to share, teaching us that we're never alone.