That awful procedure didn't wind up terminating the pregnancy, and my hormone levels continued to rise. So there were more days, more needles, more various and sundry beeping objects shoved into my vagina. I was warned not to jump off of anything higher than 24 inches for fear of fracturing the Fallopian tube. They also told me no sex, not even anal (I asked), not to put my legs above my head (you already said no sex), not to lift more than 15 pounds, and, if possible, refrain from riding in off-road vehicles. If possible, try not to race any ATVs. Doctor's orders.
"Dirt bike tests are still inconclusive. Motocross at your own risk."
Then came the final treatment. They injected me with methotrexate, a chemotherapy drug. Methotrexate is poison. The cells were a cancer, and this would kill it. The first injection into my lower back didn't do it, but the second did. The "baby" was dead.
No Matter What, You Still Feel Like You Lost A Baby
For the record, I didn't "lose a baby." I just didn't die from a disorder. Yet when I talk to other women who've had an ectopic pregnancy, they use the "lose" language. We use the b-word as well. After the cells died, my body didn't even expel them out through the vagina -- I reabsorbed them. Yet I kept thinking of it as a baby, no matter how much I tried not to.
From the start, I told myself it was essentially a tumor. One that was going to kill me if I didn't take action. But behind the ability to intellectualize, part of me still believed (and probably still does?) that life begins at conception. I grew up Christian before becoming agnostic. The spiritual part of me kept questioning. That, plus hormones, can really mess with your mind.
Digital Vision./DigitalVision/Getty Images
Goodbye physical discomfort, hello emotional discomfort.
I suffered from postpartum depression. I felt like I'd failed as a woman. I kept thinking that my womb must be some kind of barren wasteland where babies go to die. I couldn't have sex without feeling violated for years afterward, which sucks because sex, if you weren't aware, is pretty great. I got back together with the father during those weeks in and out of the hospital, but we broke up a month later. I don't know how a relationship can recover from that kind of blow.
Sadly, a lot don't.
Yet the experience kick-started my life. I quit my customer service job. I started painting. I walked 400 miles to deliver a rhetorical question to Congress. I began a new career in internet radio, research SEO, and social media management. The ectopic experience changed the specific gravity of each situation I view. The litmus test is "Will this kill me?" If the answer is "No," I figure out how important it is from there.
I'm a better person because of what happened. But I still don't like babies.
Ryan Menezes is an editor and interviewer here at Cracked. Follow him on Twitter for bits cut from this article and other stuff no one should see.
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