True story

Several years ago, I nearly died in an emergency room in Austin, Texas. I was twenty-five years old. I had had a miscarriage two weeks earlier, so when I presented in the early morning hours with shortness of breath and pain in my chest, they assumed I was having a panic attack. "Losing the baby really bothered you, huh, sweetie?" the young resident asked me, patting my hand distractedly and ordering some blood gas work. A half hour later, he was back, staring perplexedly at the veins which would not yield a sample, so matter how many times the nurse stuck me. "She is awfully pale, Doctor," she said.

They hooked me up to a blood pressure monitor and listened to my chest and abdomen with a little more interest this time. "Does it hurt here? And here?" Just as they began to put it all together, the machine started making noise and suddenly there were half a dozen people bustling around me. A nurse tapped rhythmically on my hand, telling me to hang in there, and I felt cold air hit me as they cut my hospital gown and undergarments off me. I heard the clicking of the wheels and the impact of my bed hitting the swinging doors as they rushed me into surgery. I remember struggling to pull the mask off my face to tell my husband I loved him. His stricken eyes burned into mine as he was pushed back and dropped from my view. Dimly, and over the crushing pain in my chest, I realized they were going to put me to sleep and I arched my back in an effort to get to the drugs faster. I honestly had no thought of living or dying. I no longer wanted to survive that pain. I was strangling.

The miscarriage of 1o days before had been a misdiagnosis of what was really an 11 week pregnancy growing on my ovary. A blood vessel had burst and I had proceeded to bleed more than a third of my total blood volume into my belly. My lungs were collapsing, and my organs were shutting down. I was minutes from going into arrest.

But I lived. In the days afterward, I fought with pneumonia and an amazing weakness, but I was soon home again and recuperating. Seven weeks later, I was back at work part-time, pale and tired, but getting stronger every day. But on my third day back, I started having pain and pressure in my abdomen. I called the doctor and spoke with his nurse. "Bladder infection, most likely." I told her I doubted it, and insisted on coming in. When they scanned my belly, they discovered more internal bleeding, this time off of huge cysts which had developed on both ovaries.

Now the doctor was using a soft, soothing voice and telling me that I was going to have to do chemotherapy. Never once did he use the word cancer. Some of the cells from the ectopic pregnancy had settled in parts of my abdomen and were rapidly dividing and reproducing. Very rare, I was told. Another surgery would be required, then several trips to the hospital for IV drips. I might feel nauseous, he told me, fatigued. He called my chemotherapy a "cocktail" and told me that with the particular one they were going to try, only about 30% lost their hair.

I was extremely pragmatic about the whole thing. The only emotional moment I really had was when I went into a little boutique near the hospital. I rooted around, admiring the handmade dolls and animals, choosing a small, black bunny for myself. "Should I wrap it up?" the lady behind the counter asked me. "No," I said. "The bunny is for me. I am starting chemotherapy today." I felt the tears well up, and we were both embarrassed for me. "Good luck," she chirped at me on my way out the door, refusing to meet my eyes.

This is all over 14 years ago. Time has flown and I have three gorgeous little girls. I had them all at home with a midwife, and each was a perfectly ordinary, garden-variety pregnancy and birth. I have so much to be grateful for, and I truly am.