The Story: What happens next: Pelvic Reconstructive Surgery

The long winding road brought us to rest in the surgeon’s waiting room. It was time to come face to face with reality and lay it all out on the table. My uterus was damaged and surgery was our only saving grace. Whether or not Jeff and I wanted more children, I had to undergo a pelvic reconstructive surgery; I just could not go on living with an unhealed organ.

The surgery would be performed robotically from the outside looking in. Through the use of a minimally-invasive surgical procedure, I was told I would emerge with no more scars on my belly than I already had. Unfortunately, when I was laid on the table and the measurements were taken, three more incision holes had to be created to allow the proper performance of the operation. What I now boast is a bullet-hole belly reminding me daily of my previous hardships.

The operation was performed by the former Vice Chairman and Director of Urogynecology and Vaginal Reconstructive Surgery at Georgetown University Hospital. He is trained in pelvic surgery and experienced in robotics and is widely published. All these qualifications were designed to put our minds at ease that we were in “good” hands. But when you are under the “butcher’s” knife, nothing you are told can comfort you. But we had to push through with the surgery without further delays. So, after checking with the surgeon and my OB’s schedulers we were given two possible dates to choose from. Those then had to be lined up with Jeff’s schedule, my mom’s schedule and his mom’s schedule. I would be in recovery for at least four weeks and needed at-home support and assistance during that time.

On the day prior to the surgery I had some physical, and mental preparations, to undergo.  I was required to cleanse my system with the help of foul tasting drinks and pills, fast for hours before the surgery and come in high spirits. I successfully completed the first two parts of the assignment but failed miserably at the third. The integrity of my uterus was on the table and until it emerged repaired on the other side, there was no rest for me.

The surgery took longer than anticipated. When originally it was supposed to be a “routine” procedure for the surgeon, it apparently proved to be more challenging that he had anticipated. If I remember correctly, I was “under” for over two hours. Did I mention they even had a urologist in the operating room! I had a whole team of highly qualified MDs at my side while I lay unconscious to their presence. Luckily, all the urologist had to do was bill for his time in surgery; his skills were not put to the test that day.

When the surgeon’s role was over, my body’s role began. External intervention and modern medicine had done all they could to grant me future chances at child bearing, now it was up to my body to heal itself towards that end; it had 9 months to do so.

During these 9 months, little and lots happened. JR turned two, I gradually went back to yoga, Jeff got promoted and life carried on. We celebrated small victories and big milestones. We played with friends, visited with family and spent time together doing nothing.

Shortly after the surgery, we packed and left for a family Thanksgiving in MN. It was a wonderful visit and a great gathering. JR “helped” pack our bags and made sure we had all the necessities. During the dinner, she “toasted” a “new” beginning and a year ahead full of hope. She had a great time being the center of attention, and I had an even greater time not being the center of attention. I had received more than my share of being “tended” to in the last couple of years that it was refreshing being able to take a back seat and be a spectator instead of being the lead actor.

Upon our return we put our trials behind us and moved on. We headed to Virginia Beach in December and in January went back to the radiology lab for one final sonohysterogram. When the results of that showed that our journey was marked with success, we marveled at the gift and looked forward to the summer when we could start trying for another addition to our family.

Winter turned into Spring and then Summer brought a fourth pregnancy. It is this pregnancy that leads us back to The Way the Story Ends. How will the story end? We are hopeful that it will end with a healthy baby, a healthy mama, and little or no time in the NICU.  

all packed!

JR toasting a "new" beginning

The Story: What happens next ~ Second D&C

I did not know what happened that day, but heard about it from Jeff and the doctor. A remote part of my brain remembers being in the recovery room once, then twice, but at the time I thought I was being delusional.  Apparently, I was not. I had been taken out of surgery and out of anesthesia only to be put back on both a short while later. I had continued to bleed profusely after my D&C and they did not know what the issue was. In fact, I had bled so much that I needed a blood transfusion, 2 units of someone else’s life serum has since been running in my veins.

When back under and in the operating room, the OB did not know firsthand what was causing the bleeding. His first thought was that he has ruptured my uterus my mistake, something that could easily happen during a D&C seeing how the operation is performed by feeling and not sight. To solve the mystery, my, until then, unmarked belly had to take a hit. I had been so proud of how well I had maintained my belly skin during my first full term pregnancy. I had taken special attention to butter it in the morning and oil it in the evening. My C-section scar had healed well and was covered with clothes, so I was not super conscious of it. And the times that I did think about it, all I had to do was reflect on what came out of it to make it fade in comparison. The scars left from the endoscope the OB had to insert through various points in my abdomen, however, did not leave a new baby in my arms. Although they did save my life, it is still difficult for me to look at them in the mirror without being overcome with sadness, regret and frustrations. Other people’s D&Cs leave their skins intact, why did I have to take this extra hit?

The scope was in, the monitors were on, and apparently there were a lot more doctors in the room than at the beginning of the day. Jeff recounts how my OB sought him out with fear, and worry, in his eyes; what news could the doctor possibly tell him when he himself did not know what was happening.  “We will take care of her,” was all he could say, “I called for backup.” And, Jeff was left in the waiting room again with his thoughts and fears, while I lay oblivious of everything around me.  When the word came back, we learned that I had had placenta accreta whereby the placenta had attached itself to the C-section scar and decided to cause damage to my uterus on its way out during the operation. The doctors did something or the other to take care of the situation and put a halt to the bleeding. To this day, I cannot recount exactly what they did, although I heard it so many times, all I know is somehow the blood flow came to an end and I was sent back to the recovery room. I think my brain just decided to cloud that information.

Once in the room that was to be my home for the next 48 hours, I was filled in on the details. I was put on pain medications, IV and a catheter. I had been under so much anesthesia that I had to wait hours before I could keep any food down and even longer before I got to seee Jannah-Rae again. Frankly, part of me did not want to see her, or rather did not want her to see me in that condition but she came anyway and I was thrilled about that. My friends came over, called and checked on me and I told the story over and over again and showed them the sketch the OB had penciled for Jeff and me when explaining to us what had happened; I still have that piece of paper.

Then I was given the blow. I was, in no uncertain terms, to stop nursing JR and to start using the stroller. I tried to protest, to voice my opinion, to hold my own, but I was outnumbered and outwitted. I was under too much stress, too many medications, too little strength to be able to take care of both her and myself. I had to make a choice and the choice to my husband, my OB, my friends and family was obvious: I had a responsibility to myself; JR would be fine weaned. But I wish it was that simple. I wish nursing was a one-way relationship and had only to do with weaning JR. I wish giving it up was easy. It was not, and still is not.