One of my tubes was completely compromised, the second one partially compromised and the uterus half covered by adhesions. I was told this was likely a consequence of the (many and invasive) post-birth interventions I had undergone.  

The procedure was scheduled for 9 a.m. on the Friday before Christmas 2020. I was invited for the pre-op consultation days before, with a nurse and an anesthetist. More blood tests and an EKG. I was told to shower the night before and again the morning of the intervention, washing thoroughly my body, gradually advancing top to bottom, with iso-betadine received. I was to avoid any fragrance, perfume, cream, as well as shaving the few days prior. 

I went in at 7 a.m. Little gosling was still sleeping. My husband kissed me goodbye and I took the metro to the hospital. It was still very dark outside and the air was crisp. It felt kind of lonely, but we had no one to ask to babysit. Mr Obama was reading to me from his book in my headphones. I carried a backpack with me (completely pointless, as it would turn out, but I was following the hospital’s recommendations) – phone, charger, Ipad, headphones, a book, a pj, slippers, a towel and a change of underpants. I was, apparently, geared up for boredom :))) during my scheduled one night stay in hospital. 

We had explained to little gosling (2yrs 8 months at the time) that mummy would be away, in hospital, undergoing an intervention whilst asleep for a day and a half. It was the first night we spent apart since his birth. No visits were allowed (COVID safety regulations), but we could talk over the phone. Daddy would be taking him to and fro the nursery, read to him the next book from our book Advent calendar and he could sleep the entire night in mummy and daddy’s bed. He seemed to understand, although he did ask for mummy and for tzatzi a couple of times during the evening/night. 

After a quick registration procedure, I got a white plastic wristband, complete with a barcode (which was scanned every time I was moved and changed rooms) and my photo on it. I proceeded on my own to the extremely quiet maternity ward. I checked into my private room (the only way to guarantee that the intervention would be assigned to my obstetrician of choice) and changed into the hospital gown and panties I was given. A training nurse came in to shave my lower abdomen (at pre-op I was advised to avoid any shaving/hair removal the preceding days) and helped me put on compression socks. I drank the Xanax she left for me with just a small sip of water. I was feeling thirsty and hungry by now. I lied down. I read a bit, but mostly dozed off, waiting to be taken to theatre. I felt quite emotional, with tears coming to my eyes. I put on the new mask given by the hospital, just in case. I watched the short video my husband had sent with my son, delaying getting dressed for school, singing and saying hello to me into the camera. So sweet! 

The scheduled time passed without anything happening. At 9.45, a stretch-bearer took me down, scanned my wristband and “parked” me in the big waiting room of the operatory block. It was a big hall, with mobile beds parked perpendicularly to the wall, separated by curtains. Nurses, doctors and “bed couriers” were coming in and out. More patients came and went almost immediately, their beds pushed by their operating nurses or anesthetists. I stayed put. I kept quiet and still, listening to the chatter next to the other beds. I was drowsy and had no sense of the passage of time. I asked the nurse in charge of the waiting room for the time – 11.15h. Hmmm… No idea when all that time had slipped by. It took a while longer before the anesthetist came, apologised for bringing me down too early and pushed me towards the theater. I climbed onto a higher mobile bed, my wristband was scanned again and off we went. 

In the very well lit theater, the table stopped under a huge light. A nurse put electrodes to monitor the heart rate on my chest and somewhere on the back, the blood pressure thingy, then wrapped my right arm safely alongside my body. The anesthetist installed the drip, whilst telling me a joke from one of Louis de Funes’ movies. I was covered with an extra green blanket – I was cold and shivering. My hand started to hurt when the drip started flowing. The doctor slowed down the flow. He held a mask on my face; my hand started to hurt all the way to my elbow and I lost consciousness before I could finish telling him that.  

Next thing I know is waking up with pain in the lower abdomen, much like strong menstrual cramps. I was feeling heavy. Had this constant need to clear my throat to be able to speak. I was feeling groggy. A nurse was busily moving around my bed, hanging things. I could feel pressuring and letting go of my arm, followed by a beeep, the thingy measuring my blood pressure. I was in a haze for most of the time I was conscious in the recovery room. The nurse kept talking to me. She gave me painkillers and placed a hot water bag on my tummy to ease the pain. At some point, I located a clock on the wall in front of me – 14.15h. I tried to calculate how long I had been under, but found it impossible to be precise. At 11.15 I was still in the waiting room, but my sense of time had already been altered by then. And who knew how long it had taken me to open my eyes after the procedure? 

I thought to check the bandages, to make sure things hadn’t gotten wrong and there was no big cut. I slowly took my hand under the blanket and felt small pieces of bandage here and there on my abdomen. Oh, good! I felt relieved. It had stayed laparoscopic… 

I could feel the hotness of the water bag and kept moving it around my tummy. At one point, my bed was moved to one side, waiting for a stretch-bearer to take me to my room. A different person, chattier, took me back up. He made small talk, but I can’t remember what it was about. It felt like my stay in the recovery room had been very short, but by the time I was back in my room it was past 16.00h. I sent a quick message to my husband. 

My throat cleared out quickly. I still felt the menstrual-like cramps and some stingy sensations alternating between the cuts, one at a time. I pulled up my shirt and counted 5 small squared bandages: 1 in the navel, 3 in the lower abdomen (middle, left and right a bit higher), one above the navel on the left side. I was intrigued: why so many? Why the one above the navel? I suddenly felt hot and I took away the additional blanket they had put on me in the theatre. 

A nagging sensation to pee came to me. A nurse helped me get up slowly from the bed and then waited outside the bathroom door. I pulled up the hospital shirt and looking down, there was suddenly more blood than I had anticipated and it started flowing down my legs, staining the compression socks.. I asked for help, I was too slow… I sat down, but did not manage to pee in the end. The nurse called for help and they helped me back to bed. I felt dizzy and a bit nauseated. “Call us when you want to get up again”, they told me.  

The nurse came in regularly to check my temperature, blood pressure, the bandages for any further bleeding, as well as for any vaginal bleeding. All normal. She warmed up my water bag as well. That helped a lot. 

I called my husband and parents. They had been worried. I had gone into surgery three hours later than scheduled, so my husband had immediately feared complications. He had called the ward to ask after me. I could sense my parents were also relieved. I wrote back to my best friends who had left messages of encouragement during the day. 

At some point, the pain came back. The perfusion got stuck and the nurse could not manage to fix it. She called the anaesthetist to ask whether she could change the whole thing, but couldn’t reach him. He had just passed by my ward minutes earlier and was possibly on his way home. The surgeon told her she could it take off completely and give me pills instead. Dafalgan forte every three hours or so. I also got a pill, good tasting, to put under my tongue and suck it. And, at some point in the evening, the much dreaded anti-clout injection in the belly came upon me. 

The surgeon stopped by to see me in the evening. He gave me a quick summary. He had taken out the right tube. He had saved the left tube, but “it wasn’t exactly beautiful”. He had cleared the adhesions in the uterus and he had spread a gel all over to prevent further adhesions from forming. Half of the uterus was closed; “all sorts of things had happened inside” he said. He told me to drink a lot, stay hyperhydrated. Gave me the medical leave paper and prescribed me antibiotics for the next five days. 

Afterwards, I dozed off, woken up only by the nurse’s visits. The night nurse told me to drink water and call for help to go to the toilet. I had to pee before midnight. I drank 1l and a half of water and waited… two hours until I felt any need to pee, not remotely as pressing as I would have thought after drinking that amount of water in one hour! Victory!!! 

Around the same time, my shoulder started to hurt, around the clavicula. Sharp. Numbing. It came and went. It felt particularly poignant when I stood up and went to the toilet. No more dizziness, but it came with nausea. Keeping it warmly tucked under the blanket helped. I rubbed it with my other arm and put my head on it, kind of like hugging it. Pain in the abdomen was now localized between the five cuts, not anymore focused on the lower abdomen. It was surprising to me to learn this was absolutely common after a laparoscopy, an effect of the CO2 they put inside the abdomen to dilate it during the intervention. It takes a while to make its way out of the system. 

I went to sleep listening to Mr Obama. Between midnight and 6.00 all was quiet. I woke up a couple of times, either to go pee or to adjust my position. My feet hurt, swollen in the compression socks. 

Early morning, after the usual checks (everything was in order, very little vaginal bleeding, bandages same as the previous day, no fever and my usual low blood pressure), I peed again. It seemed like “the” milestone to meet, my nurse was very interested in it. My bandages were changed. I decided it was time to go for an extended walk around the ward. I felt bloated. My shoulder pain kept coming and going, particularly when I stood up. It went all the way from the stomach, with some nausea, through the diaphragm, all the way up into the right clavicula and then through my right arm all the way down to the pinky finger. I had read that walking should help. 

The anesthetist came again and prescribed me a diclofenac for my shoulder pain. A kinesitherapist subsequently came by to check on my shoulder. All was within parameters. 

I left the hospital on my feet right after lunch. My husband and little gosling were waiting for me outside. The little one had fallen asleep in the car seat. My backpack felt heavy. I realised I could have gone with just my phone and headset to the hospital. Anyway, better to be prepared for the worst. 

The laparoscopy was a success. The best result possible had been achieved, no miracles. Out of the hospital, I felt no more pain in my abdomen. However, the pain in my right shoulder was strong and numbing. The worst was between 18 – 36h post-op. During the same period, gases were also quite painful, particularly so when lying down. The second night after the intervention was difficult. Without the adjustable hospital bed, my improvised pillowed backrest was much less comfortable. It was also a struggle to keep little gosling at distance from my tummy. It took a lot of explaining as to why we needed to be more careful for a while.

Later on, together in the bathtub, with the bandages off and the cuts still visible, little gosling would ask what happened. I told and retold him how those many tiny cuts on my tummy had come about on the occasion of our first and only night apart, so far. 

Four days and a half after the laparoscopy, we flew home for Christmas. A two hours and a half flight. I was anxious, as I had read that gases in the intestines dilated at least 30% at great heights, and was afraid of pain and discomfort. The surgeon had reluctantly given me a green light to fly; he would have preferred I waited, but it was already the 23rd of December. The International Civil Aviation Authority indicated on its website it was safe to fly 2 days after a laparoscopy. So, we took a chance. All went well, no sensations whatsoever. I spent two weeks convalescing at my parents’ home, reading books and doing little of anything else, whilst little gosling was enjoying his grandparents and their garden and animals, in the mild winter weather. 

The post My laparoscopy experience appeared first on Mommy Goose Chronicles.

My period properly returned one year after little gosling’s birth. I had felt some cramping from six months post-birth and some light occasional spotting from 9 months post-birth onwards, but it was around 12-13 months that it came back in all strength. 

At around 9-10 months post-birth I had seen a GP. He advised a general ultrasound to check that all inside of me was ok. I had an ultrasound of the abdominal cavity, including ovaries and uterus, and everything was deemed in order. As I had expected, he suggested extended breastfeeding could delay another pregnancy. I had no intention of altering our breastfeeding journey, so I plainly ignored that part. 

I had (and still have) a very positive recollection of my birth experience (shared here), but the negative emotions, the anger and anxiety that surrounded the post-birth complications and the way in which they were medically dealt with (my story here), took a while to fade away. I still remember conversations with my husband the weeks and months after it was all over.. He was seriously considering avoiding a second pregnancy and opening to the idea of adopting instead, just to avoid the risk of reliving the first post-birth experience. The idea of giving birth again brought me to tears.  

I did not see a gynae for a while after the birth experience. The doctor who had followed my pregnancy had not answered my messages after the birth of my little gosling and that had made me feel disappointed and distrustful. I kept recommending her to other women around me, but I did not feel comfortable seeing her again. Neither me, nor particularly my husband felt comfortable going back to the gynae who had managed by post-birth complications. We blamed her for having to go through a second curettage and an abdominal surgery. The expat women around me saw one of these two doctors and I felt uneasy about seeking advice from strangers. I kept postponing seeing a gynae and felt reassured with my GP’s advice.  

With all these in mind, we felt ready to try again. We were quite laid back about it, much like the first time, when we had just stopped using any contraception and let it happen (which it had fairly quickly, with no stress, just a few months later). This time we kept a closer look at the calendar. I was expecting it to happen as easily and naturally as it had then. It did not. 

I remember seeing my GP at around 13-14 months post-birth. He made me pee on a stick, can’t remember why. What I do remember, however, is the deep sense of hope, followed by a huge disappointment when it came back negative. He suggested again that breastfeeding would be an obstacle to a second pregnancy and advised me to start tracking my ovulation to actively help my chances. We did that for a couple of months. I was ovulating each month, but no pregnancy ensued.

I got curious and stumbled online upon the concept of secondary infertility. This is the inability to conceive a child (or carry a pregnancy to full term) after previously giving birth, assuming the previous birth occurred without fertility treatments. Secondary infertility typically is diagnosed after trying unsuccessfully to conceive for six months to a year. No idea whether this timeline holds for parents of all ages (we were both 35+). None of the medical professionals I saw in the past year used that term concerning my situation, but I could not have been very far. It appears to be a phenomenon as common as primary infertility. It was a surprising discovery for me. The fact that it was a medical condition labeled as such somehow reassured me. It was something that happened. I also just had a colleague giving birth to her second child completely unexpectedly in her early 40’s, more than ten years after the first child and without purposefully trying to have a second child. So, we continued trying, more or less organised about tracking the ovulation periods. 

A few months later we moved back to Brussels. Little gosling was 18 months old. I had the intention to see my regular gynae, but kept postponing for until after little gosling was settled into the nursery; after we came back from my grandpa’s funeral; after the one month Christmas holiday with my parents in Romania; after we had settled into our newly rented apartment…. Then the pandemics came upon us and somehow, going to the clinic and seeing a doctor for non-urgent matters became close to impossible for the first months. Ten months passed before I actually got to see my gynae. Little gosling was 2 years and a half by now.  

The check-up was routine-like to me. I shared my story with the gynae – the expression of cautious disbelief on his face upon hearing how it all had happened! I asked whether there were any obstacles preventing me from getting pregnant again, as we had been trying for many months with no result. I remember asking this more out of curiosity and to check a box (since I was there anyway…), than out of serious concern that something could be wrong. We kept trying, without any pressure on us; we wanted a second child and gave ourselves time until we turned 40, but put no pressure on ourselves. 

The gynae very calmly explained the ultrasound revealed something on one of my tubes that needed to be further checked. He had also noticed adhesions in the uterus, a rather common occurrence following surgical interventions like those I had experienced, he explained. He recommended both a hysteroscopy and a hysterosalpingography, which he described as specialised medical imagery tests, one resembling an ultrasound with a telescope going inside the uterus and tubes, the other a localised X-ray of uterus and fallopian tubes with a contrast substance. He also prescribed some blood tests. His tone and demeanour were calm and not a bit alarming. He said we would figure it out. As always, he would only call me if there was a problem with the results. I left the office without any alarm bells ringing. 

I gave blood the same day. The following evening the gynae called me. The blood tests had detected the presence of the pregnancy hormone, but in a quantity that signalled an unhealthy pregnancy. I was shocked and froze on the spot (I had come out of the supermarket to take the call), trying to process it all. I had just had a normal period two weeks before. Gynae said it must have been a false period; the pregnancy was several weeks. And the embryo must have been what he had detected in my tube during the ultrasound. He called me back the next morning to redo the blood tests. If the hormone levels were going up, an intervention could become necessary in order to remove the ectopic pregnancy. If hormone levels were going down, there was a chance I could get away without an intervention. 

I shared the news with my husband. He was equally taken aback. We had not seen this coming. We were dismayed. All I knew about ectopic pregnancies was the experience of a colleague who had undergone interventions to remove both her tubes following two consecutive ectopic pregnancies and had been left unable to conceive naturally. I found the prospect of another curettage daunting. It brought back all the anger and frustration from the post-birth times. It was all I could think about. I felt guilty and blamed myself for waiting so long before seeing a gynae. If only I had seen my gynae upon returning to Brussels! I blamed the gynae who had dealt with my post-birth complications for not alerting us to the risk of uterine adhesions and insisting on regular, frequent follow-ups. She must have known uterine adhesions were a common occurrence and a strong possibility in my case and that they could lead to possible difficulties for a second pregnancy, if left unchecked. Why didn’t she take the trouble of even mentioning this to us? If only she had… 

I shared the news with a couple of my mummy friends for support and alerted my mom – in case of an intervention, we planned on flying her over to help with little gosling. One thing we had learned from prior experience is that one knows how you go into the theatre, but there is no guarantee on how one comes out and how long the recovery takes. 

The next morning gynae did another ultrasound, to check whether there was any change with the tube. Everything looked the same it had days before. He explained the risks carried by an ectopic pregnancy as advanced as mine – more than six weeks. Rupture of the tube, internal bleeding.. And there’s a limited timespan before it ruptures the tube. An intervention, if required, would need to take place within days, to avoid the risk of the pregnancy rupturing the tube and provoking further damage. 

I redid the blood tests. That same evening the doctor called with “good” news. The hormone levels had gone down (from 20 to 1), meaning the pregnancy was dying on its own. No intervention was needed. I felt relieved. And I still had my tube. The embryo would be expelled by the body at the next menstruation that would take place in 10-14 days. He insisted for me to make the appointment for the two medical imagery tests immediately after that. And I did. 

A couple of days before the date for the tests, I started developing COVID symptoms. That week, little gosling’s nursery had been quarantined for a week upon detection of the virus among the carers. It was a Sunday. The on-call doctors told me to continue monitoring symptoms and see a GP if they persisted/got worse. The night before my tests, I developed a light fever. I called the hospital the next morning and was advised to cancel my tests and call back the following month. Both tests need to be performed within a certain interval at the end of the period, so one can’t really plan much in advance. Add to the uncertainty I felt about a COVID infection the frustration of having to delay the tests and wait another month. Luckily for us, we sailed rather easily through COVID, with only mild, albeit disconcerting symptoms. 

35 days passed without any period. No, I was not pregnant. I was worried. What did it all mean? I went to see my gynae again. He confirmed the situation was unchanged, as well as the absence of a pregnancy. He revealed a bit more on the occasion, saying the tube where the ectopic pregnancy had been was dilated and I really needed to do those imagery tests to have a better look at them and decide the course of action. Particularly so if I wanted another baby. But even without it, it would need monitoring. There was the possibility of a rupture of the tube, in which case I risked an internal haemorrhage. According to him, the period delay could have been due to COVID and prescribed me some pills (Lutenyl) to bring about the menstruation. One pill and one day later, there it was. 

It was a difficult period for both myself and my husband. We were feeling discouraged. Angry that all this should have happened to us. My husband was quite affected by the ectopic pregnancy and the idea of pregnancy loss. A chance lost. At the time, I was so shocked and so anxious about the possibility of yet another curettage and losing one tube, that I didn’t even fully realise there was a pregnancy in the middle. My knowledge of being pregnant was too-short lived and overtaken by other kinds of fears and thoughts, that it hadn’t really sunk in. We felt disheartened, lost. Anxious that we were losing so much time to get those tests done and have it fixed. We started thinking of all the other times my period had taken longer than the post-birth average of 28 days, wondering whether some of those had been ectopic pregnancies that just died on their own. After all, if I had gone to see my gynae a few days later, we would have never known about the ectopic pregnancy. 

I had the tests done less than a week later. Another gynae. More shocked looks upon hearing the story of my post-birth complications. Another vaginal ultrasound prior to the tests, to make sure there was no pregnancy anywhere and to have an idea about the baseline. He said something to me that felt reassuring: I still had plenty of ovules left. At least that.. 

I had the hysteroscopy first, in the morning, on the last (6th) day of my period. I had taken some painkillers, as instructed, one hour or so before the intervention. The setup was very much like during a regular consultation, although it was in a special room. I was on my back, legs in the stirrups. Something was placed inside to keep the vagina open whilst the gynae worked his way up to the uterus with the hysteroscope (a tube with a telescope at its end), while watching everything on the screen. It wasn’t pleasant, but it did not hurt. I kept looking at the screen. All I could see was a pinkish tunnel. The gynae was having trouble advancing and said something about the cervix having an unexpected bend. Can’t remember much of the sensations really, apart from a general and gradually stronger discomfort with the tube moving inside me. Finding a way to make the tube advance took a while, maybe one or two minutes, maybe more. It felt very long to me, especially as I was feeling myself fainting. My blood pressure, quite low usually, got lower and both gynae and nurse started fretting a bit, the nurse rubbing my face and hands with something cold, holding my hands and talking soothingly, the gynae trying to speed up the procedure. I was almost out of it, when the doctor said he was wrapping up. He could not see much. Hopefully, the hysterosalpingography scheduled for a few hours later would feel better. In any case, he said, that would go much faster. He insisted not to forget to take my painkillers beforehand. I felt weak, but colour was coming back into my cheeks and a few minutes later I made my way back to the restroom to get dressed. Out of reflex, I locked the door after me, with both doctor and nurse instantly crying I should unlock it. What if I fainted in the bathroom and I needed help?! 

I went back home, weary about the second procedure. Bought the exact painkillers the doctor mentioned and went back in the afternoon. It was during the second COVID-19 lockdown, so patients could not be accompanied to hospital appointments. The hysterosalpingography was done in one of the X-ray rooms and I laid down on my back on one of those big tables, with my feet up. It was super quick, it was done in no time. The contrast substance did not have much space to spread. Same doctor as in the morning told me one tube was completely blocked; the other one was also partially blocked and the uterus was full of adhesions. He spoke in a way that let on that the most likely course of action for a second pregnancy would be a laparoscopy, possibly followed by IVF. But my regular gynae would get the images and his report and would talk me through the options. 

I left the hospital in tears. I felt anxious and hopeless, fearing the laparoscopy and losing my tubes. I could not make out what it all meant for the uterus. I called my gynae a few days later and he confirmed we needed to schedule a laparoscopy to see what could be done about the tubes and uterus. However, due to COVID constraints, he could not be definitive about the date. He was super prudent, not venturing into any speculations about the outcome. He’d only know once he got inside. It did not feel reassuring at all. We were in a state of constant anxiety about it. And impatience. It felt like it was dragging on and on..  

I started reading about IVF procedures, thinking it would help ease my weariness. In hindsight, it was premature and only added to my anxiety. It sounded intrusive (needles would be used), uncomfortable, if not outright painful, the result was by no means guaranteed. It did not sound like something I was prepared to do.  

The laparoscopy was scheduled for a few weeks later. A couple of days before it was moved back a week – the Friday before Christmas. I asked the gynae to give me a call and walk me through the intervention. I was very weary. I wanted to know more about what he expected to be able to do. One of the tubes was dilated a lot and full of fluid, a condition called hydrosalpinx. It was over 6.5 mm in diameter (compared to its original 1 mm) and the chances of saving it were aleatory, according to medical literature. The second tube was also in a bad state, a few mm dilated, but in a better shape than the other one. He would do his best to save them. The uterus was half closed, covered in adhesions. He would clear them and put on a coat of gel to protect it against further adhesions. 

I recounted my laparoscopy experience here. The outcome was probably the best one could reasonably expect. One tube was lost, the second one was saved. He had also managed to recondition the uterus. 

I went back to see my gynae a month later. He walked me through the procedure, showing me photos. I don’t recall much of what I saw, only the distinct sensation that it wasn’t pretty. The next thing he said startled me. He asked whether to send me already to start the IVF procedure. I was not ready to go down this road and my husband was fully supportive. I felt discouraged that conceiving naturally appeared less of a chance than IVF, or so I deduced from the doctor’s advice. I asked him whether it was really necessary at that stage. He said I was in a better condition to fall pregnant than back in August/September, before the ectopic pregnancy. Advised to give it a try for 3-4 menstrual cycles and prescribed pills to help with ovulation. He was also very clear that given my history, it was wise and important to detect the pregnancy early, to make sure it was fixed inside the uterus. 

At this point, I was really discouraged. I saw no reason to hope and thought it unlikely that we would be able to conceive naturally. We decided to try for a few months and then see again whether my feelings about IVF changed. We talked about IVF and decided we were both ok with not going down that road, if I still felt uneasy about it. 

It was end January. I had already had my period that month and lost the window for the pills this time. I tracked my ovulation, but none was detected. I took the pills in February and again in March. Afterwards I stopped. The pills coincided with the surge of painful pimples all around the vaginal area, vulva and area, which lasted quite a long time and were uncomfortable day to day and particularly dissuasive for any sexual activity. In my mind I established a quick causal link between the two – it was hormone-based and the only other time in my life when I had experienced something similar had been in the weeks immediately following the birth, when hormones are supposedly still running crazily wild. Ovulation happened those two months, but I suspect I had started tracking it too late, albeit following the tests’ instructions. 

After my April period, I started tracking my ovulation earlier. After two empty tests, the third one showed the start of the period with optimal chances to conceive (a few days in advance to the calendar). Three days of ovulation in which we applied ourselves to the job :). On the day that should have been the second one of my following period, I did a pregnancy test. It was positive. 

Both my husband and I were cautiously happy. We did not want to get our hopes up before confirming that it was a viable pregnancy. Our thinking was: first make sure it was fixed in the right place; then make it through the first trimester; then wait for the pre-natal genetic screening to come back ok. Only then would we take a breath and allow ourselves to truly enjoy it. 

What followed were two weeks of feeling pregnant in a completely different way than the first time. Small, but constant discomfort was the norm. Tiredness. Anxiety. Imagining all the different ways in which things could go wrong. Finally, a healthy baby girl is growing inside my tummy, with a family of three waiting to meet her when she is strong enough and ready to come out. 

The post My Unexpectedly Bumpy Road to a (Viable) Second Pregnancy appeared first on Mommy Goose Chronicles.