You can read the first post in this series here. My disclaimer is this: this is my experience and I don’t expect it to mirror anyone else’s. I am sharing my personal, singular story, in hopes that one woman, who feels like they are the loneliest person on the planet, may read it and feel a slight thread of hope in their despair. It is so important for us to share our story, as we feel led and comfortable to do so, because our stories help other people walk through theirs. I feel called by God to make sure that my story is told, for that one woman. Maybe that woman is you, or a friend or sister or cousin or colleague. Whoever she may be, know that you are walking in a sisterhood and there are women out in the world who want to hold your hand, wipe your tears, cradle you in our arms, and comfort you in any way possible. If this post is the only way you find that out, then I feel my calling has been met.
Walking Through Miscarriage – Part Two, The D&C
So I thought if I shared my experience with the procedure and recovery, it might help answer some of those questions that you might not have a nurse in your family to help walk you through.
Last week I left off with the fact that had decided to move forward with the D&C. In case you don’t know, D&C stands for “dilation and curettage”. It is a procedure in which your doctor dilates your cervix and uses an instrument to remove the uterine lining. I believe it is generally performed in an operating room (I can’t imagine doing it anywhere else but I am not going to pretend to speak for everyone’s experience here) and under general anesthesia.
It is a very simple procedure, especially since there is no incision required or stitches or any of that kind of recovery that you go through. But it is a pretty emotional procedure and given the emotions that the mother is generally going through compared to how you’re treated in the pre-op situation. It can be polarizing. You’re just another outpatient procedure for them that day, and their job is to get you in and out of the OR as quickly and safely as possible. I feel very lucky that I was warned to not take their sterile attitude personally – they are doing their job but their job description probably does not include “console emotional mother before and after D&C”. I’m just guessing here, but I’m pretty sure I’m right.
The Friday before the procedure, I had to go in for a pre-op admitting test. They took my blood (basically everyone who came into contact with me took my blood), asked me 1000 questions about my personal health, medical history, and family history. I signed all the release forms and paperwork. The one thing that struck me like a hammer hitting a gong was on the big book of releases, they list the procedure as a missed abortion. That was a blow to the chest. I’m honestly not sure if that was correct or not, but I didn’t ask. I knew why I was there, and it was not by my ultimate choice. I just don’t want anyone to be as blindsided by that as I was.
One of the pre-op responsibilities I had was to clean myself. By that I mean, just be super super clean. Wash your sheets on Sunday, take a shower and wash your hair Sunday night and scrub with half of a bottle of Hibiclens, wear clean pajamas, take another shower before coming to the surgery center with the rest of the Hibiclens on Monday morning. Hibiclens is a surgical scrub – it is what surgeons “scrub in” with before surgery. The goal was to go in with as sterile of a body as possible to prevent any post-op infections.
So, I had my D&C early on a Monday morning (Monday, August 27th 2018 to be exact). I had talked to my mom about the entire procedure (she is a nurse and is always my first line of defense in a medical situation). Before this procedure, I had never been under general anesthesia in my life. The only major surgery I had ever had was my c-section, and I had a spinal for that so it was a completely different experience than this. So, naturally, I was really nervous about being completely unconscious and not in control of the situation or my body. (Now that it is over, I just try really hard not to think about it).
It was an outpatient procedure, which means that you are not admitted to the hospital for the operation. You are “in and out” in the same day and sent home to start your own recovery process without the need of hospital care. That means that you will need to have someone who can take you in, sit around and wait while you have the procedure done, and drive you home afterwards.
They checked me in to the pre-op room in the outpatient surgery center and brought me back to my room. Of course you have to be naked – oh the joy – so I stripped down to everything but my underwear (because at that point I had started bleeding). They brought me some mesh underwear and a pad (again with having as sterile of a landscape everywhere) so I changed in to that and the lovely gown and sat in the bed. The nurse came in and gave me an IV, which I’m pretty sure she shoved that needle up into my elbow because it hurt so bad. And (surprise) she took my blood too. They do one last check of your hormone levels to be sure they’re going down before going on with the procedure.
After that, I spent a lot of time just waiting around to be rolled in to the OR. Chris was eventually allowed to come sit back with me, which was such welcome company.
I met the anesthesiologist, for whom I had 1000 questions about general anesthesia. A lot of the nurses were shocked I’d never been unconscious before, until I explained that I grew up in the house with a nurse who worked in the ER for most of her career, and basically I had to have lost a limb to go to the doctor. (Seriously – my mom sewed a toe of one of our neighbors back on in our kitchen one day.) He explained that I would be given anesthetic gas in a mask and that I would literally breath in a few times, go to sleep, and wake up remembering nothing. This sounded like the best way to tackle this procedure, so I was okay with that. I was very nervous about being nauseous afterwards, so they gave me a Scopolamine Transdermal Patch, which is a little patch of anti-nausea medicine that goes behind your ear.
Before they took me into the OR, they gave me a dose of what I’m guessing was Demerol or Morphine to help relax me and calm my nerves a bit. The CRNA (certified registered nurse anesthetist) and the scrub nurse (who generally assists the surgeon with the entire procedure) came in and introduced themselves (not that I remember what they look like or their names), but it was nice to at least be spoken to like a person and not a case number, so I appreciated it. They rolled me into the ER, pulled me on to the table, and put the breathing mask over my face.
I distinctly remember the CRNA saying, “Okay Skye, we are going to fill up your lungs with oxygen first and then the anesthetic gas, so I need you to take five deep breaths for me,” and that is the last thing I remember before waking up in the post-op room. I’m guessing had they told me that I was getting anesthetic gas right then, I would not have as readily breathed so much of it in, so I’m on to their little game now.
As I mentioned earlier, I try hard not to think about what they did while I was unconscious. I asked the anesthesiologist why they were going to do general anesthesia and not sleep sedation. He said that one of the reasons was that they have your body placed in such a prone, uncomfortable position for the procedure that they wanted to be sure there was no way I would wake up during it or remember or feel any of it. I force myself not to think about basically having an hour long pelvic exam with a ton of people in a cold room who I could no more pick out of a line up than anything. It is cringeworthy, embarrassing, and humbling to know that your body has been through that. I wonder if I meet people at church or at a coffee shop who have seen some of my most private areas in an OR room, and I just don’t remember it. But I always push it way back, as far out of the back of my mind as I can. Because dwelling on that is just not good for my psyche, and these people are professionals and have probably already forgotten what they saw that day.
I woke up in post-op, under a warm blanket with warm air blowing on me. There was a nurse sitting in a chair next to my bed, on a computer. She immediately checked in on me – are you nauseous, hot, cold, dizzy? Once she had determined I was not in immediate danger of vomiting, she asked if I’d like a ginger ale. I remember thinking nothing on this planet sounded better than a ginger ale. She held it while I sipped on it. I still had an IV in my hand and I didn’t yet have full, functioning control of my limbs. Dear nurses who work in the post-op area: thank you for doing the basic functions of life that post-op patients are unable to do, like sit up, hold a cup, and drink on their own.
I remember thinking that I had missed the whole thing, that somehow there had been a mistake and they had taken me out of the OR. But I got my brain to connect with my hand and reached down, feeling for the mesh underwear. They were gone, and I had something stuffed between my legs. I took a deep breath, another sip of the ginger ale, and leaned my head back. I was thankful that it was over and that I couldn’t remember a second of it. I asked for Chris.
I also remember being worried about the pain. They had given me pain medicine while I was under anesthesia, but the nurse wanted to be sure that I would make it home without starting to cramp so she gave me a half of an Oxycontin. It is funny how things come back to me in random flashes. (I added this little paragraph in once I finished the entire post.)
After about 20 minutes in post-op, once I was really awake and had more of my wits about me, they rolled me back to the pre-op area, into a new room. Then Chris came in and met me, He held my hand and probably said sweet, endearing, encouraging things knowing him. But I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember much of the rest of that day at all in fact. Another 20 minutes went by, full of nurses coming in and out to take out my IVs and the pads used to monitor all my vital stats. I tried to sign my discharge papers, but they quickly reminded me that I was under the influence of narcotics and wasn’t allowed to sign anything like that. So Chris signed it. Then he helped me get dressed and went to get the car. The sweet nurse – Ericka, who’s name I just remembered – got me into the wheelchair and rolled me out to our car. And that was the end of it.
I slept for most of the rest of the day. People brought us meals and I had conversations with them that I don’t remember. I watched episodes of Ozark that Chris has to remind me what was in them. It is all very hazy and that is honestly how I’d prefer it.
This concludes part two. I’ll be back next week to share about the emotional journey that I’ve been through, but I wanted to again say thank you for joining me in this journey as it has been part of the healing process for me.
