One Saturday about a month after I had the methotrexate shot, I was feeling particularly uncomfortable. I was in a lot of pain—cramping, etc. I called my doctor’s office, but they told me that, unfortunately, significant physical discomfort is part of the process of recovering from a methotrexate shot after an ectopic pregnancy diagnosis. (They did not entirely blow me off—telling me to call back if the pain reached a certain threshold.)
One of my best friends had invited us over for dinner that evening. She just moved in with her boyfriend and it was going to be our first time over to their house. I hadn’t gotten out much in the past month and I wanted to have a life again, so even though I felt like a bag of hell we decided to go.
In retrospect, I should have cancelled dinner.
Usually, I’m the kind of person who dresses up a little bit when I go out. Nothing too fancy--you know, ball-gown, tiara, the usual stuff. But I felt really awful, so I ended up wearing a long-sleeved cotton tee-shirt and a pair of cotton track pants. Pajamas, basically. Not my best look. (My friend told me later that she immediately realized how sick I felt from my physical appearance—namely ashen face and overnight wear.)
On our way to her house, I asked my husband to stop before we drove over every speed bump (there are a few in her neighborhood) because it hurt so much to drive over them.
Because it was our first time at his (now their) house, we brought over a really, really nice bottle of wine. Of course, I was still in the not-allowed-to-drink mode, which sucked. They were making pasta from scratch. Yum. We stood around in their kitchen chatting and nibbling olives and other yummies while they cooked. Everyone was enjoying the fantastic wine. I decided to have a very small glass. Good idea? No. (My husband gave me an I’m-not-your-mother-but-if-I-were-I-would-scold-you look, but said nothing.) I poured myself about 2 shots worth of wine and slowly sipped it, standing next to the counter. I started feeling sick and switched to water. The next thing I knew, I felt dizzy. I thought I was going to throw up and the words “I think I’m going to be sick” were on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t say anything. Time slowed down. I heard the sound like a train rushing in my ears, and then I blacked out.
I’d never fainted before, but this was a good one. Like movie good. The delicate water glass slipped from my hands, shattering. I followed it as I slumped to the floor in a heap. My husband claims he managed to catch me at the very end. I was unconscious, but I’ll take his word for it.
From that moment, the house was in organized chaos. My husband scooped me up and dragged me to the front door. My friend, who was aware that this was a potentially serious situation, followed behind us and helped him put on my shoes and jacket. Her boyfriend grabbed their dog to stop him from running into the kitchen and getting cut on broken glass. By the time we reached the front door I was conscious enough to walk to the car with help. We hauled ass to the hospital, which was—fortunately—close by.
Keep in mind, at that point my poor husband was thinking that my tube just blew and I was about to bleed to death in my friend’s kitchen.
We got to the emergency room and I immediately confessed my transgression to the nurse who first inspected me. She assured me with a laugh that a few sips of wine did not cause me to faint or cause my tube to explode. (Not that her assurances stopped my husband from giving me the stink eye a few more times.) They were pretty sure my tube had not ruptured (I think because I could still walk and talk and was not hemorrhaging blood), but there was a lot of blood in my abdomen so they wanted to keep me overnight just to make sure.
My husband was beside himself. I told him to go home and sleep—otherwise he had to either sleep in my tiny little hospital bed or a really stiff looking chair, but he refused to leave me. He’s such a sweetie. They took my blood every hour or so all night long. I wasn’t bleeding to death.
My hemoglobin level suggested that I had lost somewhere around a quarter of the blood in my body in the past month. (It was 10.7 the night I was admitted to the hospital, compared to over 13 when I was first diagnosed with the ectopic and after I’d already been bleeding for a week.)
The next morning I was discharged. I never did get to try the pasta. The wine was good, though.
No comments:
Post a Comment