I Am Not A Victim

I work in an industry where writing words like “attempted kidnapping” and “jumped out of a moving car” trigger thoughts of mystery, thriller, and action adventure stories with powerful plots and exciting characters. In my world, I’m the reader, editor, business manager, and book pusher experiencing things through the mind of the author, not the actual person in a story.

Not this time.

This time I’m front and center in a truly surreal situation. I’m struggling to tell the story because I still feel outside of it. Disconnection from an upsetting event allows me to view it from an objective standpoint, and compartmentalizing is my favored coping mechanism in most emotion-filled instances. I dislike drama, so telling a dramatic story about myself is difficult because I want to temper my words and refrain from making people think I exaggerate using sensational descriptions. I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises…

Emily is more than just one of my clients.  We talk, text, or FaceTime nearly every day, and we were meeting in Miami for a business trip. With innumerable things to discuss and plan, we were taking the opportunity to meet in person for the first time. Grasping at the chance to escape winter, we made reservations and waited with anticipation. The night before my flight, a “wintry mix” (screw you, winter) hit our area.

10:30 p.m. February 10^th

I received a text saying my first flight was cancelled for “crew reasons”. *sigh* Phone call to American Airlines secured me a new flight.

2:40 a.m. February 11^th
My eyes popped open hours early, and I checked my phone for the hundredth time. My flight was still on time—YES!

4:30 a.m. February 11th
It was time to leave, but my car was stuck in the garage because my steep driveway sported a slick coat of ice. Wes and I made our way down to his truck without killing ourselves and were forced to wait as the stubborn ice adhered to the windshield. A few minutes later we cautiously pulled away from the house knowing a challenging trip loomed. It was a pretty short trip. Long story short, we slid down the first hill and landed perched halfway in a ravine. Ironically, a danger sign prevented us from hitting the bottom. (Insert picture) The uphill quarter mile walk in the dark without a coat was fun. Fun details: No coat, 18 degrees, pulled my suitcase up an icy hill. At the time I remember thinking, “Wow, that was scary.” I had no idea I’d know true fear before I slept again. Oh yeah, I missed that flight, obviously. *sigh*

11:10 a.m. February 11^th
Another phone call to American Airlines, and my new flight was due at 1:50 p.m. and would arrive—wait…no, never mind. Flight cancelled. New plan, fly out at 6:30 p.m. and arrive at 12:30 a.m. The tricky part was my layover was VERY short, and if I missed it I was stuck in the airport until the next day.

9:30 p.m. February 11th
The flight left relatively on time, and I hit the ground running—literally—and dashed through the airport. I had NO energy, was in an accident that morning and only slept 2.5 hrs the night before, but I stripped off my hoodie while I ran, pushing my suitcase, and carrying a backpack. I wheezed my way skidded to a halt at the gate literally ONE MINUTE before boarding, but I made it and knew I would be with Emily in only a couple of hours.  

12:30 a.m. February 12^th
I’d been awake for 22 hours, but I was IN Miami! YAY! I was cautiously optimistic, but when I look back at the texts as I stood waiting my turn to exit the plane, it gives me a chill.

I called her as I walked through the airport and searched for the taxi stand. I walked out the nearest exit and quickly realized I was in the wrong area, so I went back inside and found signs leading the way to the taxi area. When I found the correct place, I hung up with her.

Whoa! Hang on, don’t go anywhere, it isn’t over. If you’re still with me, do you remember the descriptive phrases in the beginning? Those are coming. In fact, you could title the next part Terror in the Tropics or maybe Taxicab Traitor, and this is the point where I mentally pulled away in order to tell the story. In fact, my hands literally shook on the keyboard typing this because the untapped emotions struggled to break free from the box where I neatly packaged and tucked them away. I’m okay...or I will be. You know why?  I’m not a victim...but I nearly was. Of what exactly, I don’t know, but it was bad, regardless.

I wasn’t scared to leave the airport alone at 12:30 in the morning. I was cautious, but I was determined to finish the trip and finally hug Emily. I’ve never needed a taxi before, but people use them every day, so it wasn’t a big deal. I followed the signs to the stand and found a lone taxi driver waiting.  I approached his car, and he rolled down the window and just stared at me. I asked him if he was available, but he just stared for several long seconds before asking where I was going in stilted English. I gave him the address, and he repeated it back to me one word at a time and nodded. I was already uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to be the idiot who let a language barrier deter me. He got out and tried to put my suitcase in the trunk, but something told me to refuse and insist I keep it with me. I listened to THAT inner voice, but I ignored the one telling me not to go with him. I didn’t trust myself, and that was a huge mistake. I thought I was merely nervous about the late hour and his lack of English, and I didn’t want to be THAT person, you know?

He finally pulled away from the curb and left the airport. A few minutes later he asked if I had cash. WTH? He was suddenly fluent in English. Yes, he had an accent, but he was communicating JUST FINE. He spent a couple of minutes trying to talk me into paying him cash and wanting to take me to an ATM.  I told him I wanted to use my credit card because I only had $20 on me. He kept insisting he needed cash and I made a big show of searching through my bag and finding a $20 tucked away. I knew the fare should only be around $35, but he told me it was going to be a lot more money, and I needed to use my credit card at an ATM. I told him I KNEW how far it was, and I could not do that with my card. He wanted to know why, so I lied and told him my card didn’t allow it. He stopped talking completely again and went back to pretending he couldn’t speak English, hear me, or understand me.

I climbed in, and he spent a couple of minutes fidgeting in the car, not speaking to me—just sitting there and messing with the windows and air conditioning. It was so hot inside the car, and it smelled as though he chain smoked inside. I've asked myself so many times, "Why didn’t I get out?" The answer is pretty simple: I did everything right. I followed the signs in the airport, went outside  the correct door, and found a taxi waiting. I told him where I needed to go, and he nodded after repeating it back to me.  Of course I wish I'd climbed out again, but why would I believe anything was wrong? I did everything I was supposed to.

At some point I told him he was going the wrong way, and he asked the address again.  He (fluently, mind you) told me that wasn’t the address I gave him. That asshole repeated the address back to me before I got in the car at the airport. He knew.

I have a weirdly in tune sense of direction, like a pull in my chest, and I couldn’t shake the apprehension building within me. Everything felt wrong. I called Emily and started talking loudly about where I was, how long it should take, and making sure he knew someone expected me. I knew my tone of voice wasn't normal, and that was my intention.

The true shift from nervousness to fear happened for me when she asked me if I felt safe...and I told her no. No, I wasn’t safe. She asked me where I was and told me to pull up GPS on my phone. I put her on speaker (intentionally) and told her we were on I-95 She immediately responded we should NOT be on the interstate and told me to make him get off. The GPS showed he was getting further away from my destination. He was going the wrong way, and no matter what I said to him, he refused to talk to me.  I tapped his arm, and he ignored me and eventually pointed to his ear like he couldn't understand me.

**Typing this forces me to view this in a way I haven’t yet. My heart is racing, my hands are shaking, and the veil between that reality and this one is so thin I can smell the fetid atmosphere in the cab and feel the terror wash over me in a cold shower of dread. I want to stop, tuck it neatly away, and stay in my protective bubble…but I won’t. Screw him, I’m in control.**

Everything I’ve read or been told about situations a woman might face says to get loud, get aggressive, use extreme and foul language, and don’t go quietly. Make yourself too much trouble to be worth whatever they intend. In a part of my mind, those reminders kept flashing, and I started yelling. I’ll sensor the rest of what I said language-wise, but I told him I did NOT feel safe, and he better get off the highway NOW. Use your imagination for the rest, but rest assured I told him exactly what I wanted in undeniably clear language.

He ignored me. I screamed at him to pull off at the next exit. He moved over like he was going to get off then moved to the far left lane of the highway.
He was playing with me.

I grew louder and more hateful. He kept glancing at me with the strangest look on his face. Looking back, I know I saw an internal struggle in his eyes—could literally see the indecision on his face. He wasn’t sure if he would get off the highway...but he wasn’t expecting me to get aggressive and was deciding what to do next. Emily and I were talking the entire time, and she was a rock. She heard every word and tells the story far better than I do, as a matter of fact. She told me to get his medallion number, and I looked around until I found it. The inside of the cab was so DARK. Things weren’t illuminated very brightly, but I finally found and read the number to her. When I did, I saw him look at me, his eyes wide.

But he didn’t get off the highway.

I repeated I did NOT feel safe, that I wanted him to let me out. I kept screaming at him to get off the highway, and he mumbled a couple of times.  I pointed to the next exit, and he started to move to the right then pulled away again, asininely saying, “I missed it.” I didn’t realize I COULD scream as loud as I did when the next one zipped up. What I said wasn’t remotely nice, but for some reason he finally took an exit.

Keep in mind we passed several exits with me screaming at him, telling him I would call the police, Emily on speaker, and all the while I could see the GPS going further away from her.

7 minutes away…
8 minutes away…
9 minutes away...

At some point during the ride I took off my seatbelt, put my backpack on, and clutched the handle of my carryon suitcase. I was completely terrified, but I wasn’t panicking. I knew I couldn’t. Hope bloomed when he finally took a ramp, but it didn’t last long as he didn’t stop at the first place I pointed to. Then I saw three gas stations to the left and told him to let me out NOW. For a split second, I thought he would pull in and it would be over.

He didn’t.

He passed the gas stations and moved to the left lane, never coming to a complete stop but slowing to go through the intersection. I kept screaming everything I could think of at him.  He argued with me and told me it was okay because he’d take me. 

I wasn’t getting on the highway again. I wasn't, but he wasn’t letting me out of the car. I fumbled with the door, but I couldn't get the door unlocked. I finally managed to get my fingers around the lock, yank it up, and while the car was rolling I started to open it. Looking back at me wide-eyed, he yelled about me not paying him. The opportunity to distract him dawned on me, and I was still clutching the cash in my hand (no idea why, I just was), so I threw it at him.  As he took his foot off the pedal and slowed, I grabbed my suitcase and jumped out of the car. I realized later he said, “Ma’am, are you alright?” like I was a hysterical female, but it didn't sound sincere. It was rude and hateful sounding. As I jumped out with my things, I dropped my hoodie on the ground. For some strange reason, I stopped to grab it, and the only real reason I have is because I wasn't letting him keep one piece of me—not one piece.

BUT I WAS OUT OF THE CAR.

Emily asked me if I was okay or what was happening...it's hard to remember anything in that moment other than the overwhelming relief I was out of the cab. I was out...I was out...I was out...

It was a little after 1:00 in the morning, and I was walking through Miami in a dark neighborhood towards a group of three gas stations, but I was out of the car. Emily was still on the phone asking me what was happening. I remember wanting to sob in relief and almost letting go of all the pent up fear when I gushed something about jumping out and walking away from the intersection towards the gas stations. I could see the lights on and just wanted to get inside. That gas station beckoned to me like an oasis in the desert, but when I pulled on the handle, it was locked. The man just looked at me. I’m a woman outside at night, with a suitcase, and he wouldn’t let me in. I walked over to the window and told him I really needed to come inside, that something bad happened with a taxi driver, and he said, “What, do you want to call the police or something?” Now, you might be inclined to argue he didn't know who I was or why I was out there at that time of night. It's possible he thought I was part of a plan to rob him. You know what?  I don't care. He didn't offer to call the police, and he didn't want me to call the police.

He wouldn’t let me in.

Instead of arguing with him, I turned around and started to cross the parking lot, heading toward the next station across the street. As I started to step into the road, a car pulled up in front of me. At this point, I wasn’t even afraid. I was in shock, but I wasn't afraid of who was in the car.

Because I was out of the taxi.

When the window rolled down, something amazing and beautiful happened. A woman asked me if I was okay because she saw part of what happened and came to check on me. I never saw her while I was jumping out of the car, but she circled around in the middle of the night because she saw something wrong. She could’ve kept going, minded her own business, but she listened to the voice telling her it was wrong and came back. Her name is Dawn, and she’s my other angel.  Emily was my first.

(In a text after the incident, Dawn told me the story of how she ended up on her way home at such a late hour. All I can say is God put her exactly where I needed her, and I'm thanking Him constantly for it.  I thank Him for her, and she ranks up there with one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I'll never forget her.) 

We moved back against the building, and she got out of her car and listened as I quickly explained what happened.  Emily was STILL on the phone with me, and Dawn assured her she would not leave me alone again because it was a very unsafe area. Emily wanted to send a Lyft for me, but we needed a physical address since I didn’t have the app on my phone. Dawn lived around the block, so she gave Emily her phone number and said she would take me to the front of her house and wait until they arrived.  Emily assured me she could track me every step of the way.

It was hard getting in Dawn’s car, but I knew I couldn’t stand there outside the gas station and risk calling attention to us. I climbed in her car, and we pulled away near the intersection where I jumped out. Dawn pointed out he was still hanging around, and when I looked over, his car was still there. A couple of minutes later, we pulled up in front of her house. Emily, every patient on the phone, told me the name of the driver coming, the kind of car, and how close he was. When I saw the Lyft car pull up, I knew I had to get in, but I’ll admit I was scared. I think I might’ve asked Emily if it was really okay, but she calmly reassured me it was. At one point she told me she would get a Lyft ride to come meet me and take me back so I didn’t have to get into a car alone, but that was an important moment for me. Even in my shocked frame of mind, I remember thinking I wasn’t weak, and I wasn’t going to let that taxi driver make me feel that way. I was capable of finishing what I started.

I knew Wes was waiting to hear I was safe, so I created a conference call and added him in with Emily..  He texted a couple of times during the ordeal, but I was multitasking with watching GPS, talking to Emily to stay connected with someone, and screaming at the driver. I couldn’t bear to hang up with her even once I was in the Lyft ride. I very briefly explained what happened, assured him I was safe, and explained Emily was on with us too. Apparently, he tracked my phone when I didn’t answer the texts and saw I was at a Mobile station somewhere in Miami. He asked if I was okay, but he was so quiet while Emily and I explained everything. I knew he felt helpless, and for some stupid reason I apologized for not calling him sooner. Don’t ask, I don’t even know why. I was sorry he was worried, sorry for scaring him, sorry for…*shrugs*

I will never forget the moment we pulled up in front of the house where Emily stood waiting for me. The moment I saw her face illuminated in the porch light is burned into my mind forever. I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, and I don’t think I’ve ever hugged someone so hard. I finally knew I was safe.  When I told her I have never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life, I absolutely meant it—still do.

I wish I could tell you the police came to my rescue and found the guy. Why lie at this point? I went inside with Emily and called 911 only to be repeatedly transferred and forced to tell the story SIX TIMES before someone begrudgingly wrote down a few details and said they’d “look into it.” Each of the six officers said it was the responsibility of another jurisdiction. No one agreed where the crime actually began. They wouldn’t send an officer to take my statement because I was in the wrong district for every officer I spoke to. 

No one was coming. 
No one seemed even remotely concerned. 
It could be someone else next.
No one cared.

I get it, okay? I understand what jurisdictions mean. I understand officers are overworked, underpaid, and stretched so thin. I get they are out there dealing with lots of crimes in a large city.  But you know what? I don't care. I was terrified, and I kept trying to make them understand it could happen again to any other woman. Not one of the people I spoke to in those many transfers showed me the smallest ounce of concern or compassion. I gave up, deflated and let down by the people who we're taught to call when we're not safe. So when people ask why I didn't call the police while I was in the car, the answer is simple. Emily was my lifeline. I couldn't hang up with her, and I had nothing I could SAY to the officers. I didn't know where I was other than watching GPS and knowing I was on the highway going the wrong way. So no, I didn't have faith they could help me, and I obviously wasn't wrong. When you're terrified and shaken, you don't care about jurisdiction—you just want help.

I don’t know what the taxi driver intended to do. Did he plan to take me to an ATM and try to force me to withdraw money so he could rob me? I don’t know. He had plenty of places to get off the highway and do that if so. He was going somewhere specific, but I have no idea where. Did he intend to kidnap me when he picked me up at the airport? I don’t know. Did he intend to take me somewhere with more people like him and do God only knows what?  I truly don’t know. He was weird from the moment I climbed in his car, but I was trying to tell myself not to be judgmental, not to make assumptions about someone based on a language barrier.

I should’ve listened to my instincts, but who would think a taxi driver outside an airport wanted to harm you in any way?  Before you ask, yes the cab was legitimate. Everything inside was what you expect to see right down to the credit card machine on the back of the seat. I know there are 100 other things I should’ve done, but until you’ve been in a situation like it you truly don’t know what you’ll do.  I survived, and that’s what matters. I can already hear some people say, “I told you so.” about being a woman and traveling alone. I’m not going to stop, and I’m not going to let fear rule me. I learned valuable things about myself. I’ll be back to Miami too. Yeah, that’s right, Miami was awesome. One guy doesn’t represent the entire city, so I'll be back.

I didn’t stop shaking for hours after it happened, and I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes it replayed in my head. Images of his eyes glancing back at me, the fear of what if, asking myself what I should’ve done differently…they burned through my mind and coiled in my stomach. I didn't sleep for days. It may be awhile before sleep comes easily. 

From sliding into an icy ravine (Did you already forget?) to grabbing Emily for the first time and hanging on tight, the remaining two days were filled with wonderful memories. We made the most of every moment together. We strategized, made plans for the next few months of our business, and decided we were planning another trip later this year.

That’s right, I’m traveling again as soon as the next need or opportunity arises. Why? 

Because.
Because I’m pissed.
Because screw him.
Because he can’t steal my independence.
Because I didn’t panic, I took back control.
Because I refuse to be afraid or live in fear.
Because my gender does not mean I’m weak.
Most of all...

Because I am not a victim.

It's Not About the Leggings

No seriously, it really isn't about the leggings.  A few years ago I warred with myself about wearing a pair of black leggings with a tunic-length sweatshirt...just to go to the hospital for surgery. I was self-conscious about looking silly.  I saw other women wearing leggings and thought they looked cute, but I didn't think I could pull it off. What does that even MEAN? You know what's silly? Being self-conscious over what you wear to and from the hospital. Who cares? I did, and it was silly.

My first pair of patterned leggings!

Fast forward to a time when someone sweet gave me a pair of leggings because she was absolutely hooked on finding fun patterns.  She insisted I had to try them because they were not only fun but SO SOFT. You know who you are, you beguiling temptress beautiful enabler. I tried my first pair of fun, patterned leggings...I.Was.Hooked. Despite my love for them, I refused to wear them out of the house. They were loud, bright, and very noticeable. I'm a diehard introvert. No, no...don't try to argue this with me. I am. (You can read about that in other blog posts HERE and HERE.) I wanted to blend in, go unnoticed, fade into the background. I didn't like to be uncomfortable or chance seeming different because it called attention to me and left the possibility of scrutiny wide open.

Life took a hard left turn when I accepted my first job within indie publishing doing social media management. I spent the majority of my days interacting with people and doing things making it impossible to stay invisible. I spoke with someone I admired very much who mentioned being afraid but doing things anyway—it resonated with me. A light went off...it's OKAY to be afraid? Yeah, it is. Be afraid...but do things in SPITE of the fear.

"But how does that relate to wearing leggings?" 

I was afraid of being noticed. I didn't want people to SEE me going through life, notice me, remember I passed by. So I wore them on purpose, in spite of the fear. I did it BECAUSE it made me uncomfortable. I did it because I wanted to prove to myself nothing bad would happen just because someone happened to notice, and God forbid, mention my leggings.

"So you don't feel self-conscious anymore?"

I absolutely DO feel self-conscious. Even today I almost swapped the leggings I wore before leaving the house because I was afraid they were too noticeable. I specifically saw a couple of people give me a side eye with a straight line of vision towards my unicorn print leggings. My knee-jerk reaction was to feel uncomfortable, but I'm glad I wore them. Leggings + Unicorns = pure magic! They made me happy today, and I'll wear them again. I might squirm on the inside if someone notices, but I shouldn't back down because someone ELSE may not like them.

"How many pairs of leggings do you own?"

It's a valid question, but confess I have absolutely no idea.  They currently fit into one drawer...all rolled up without a smidgen of room for more with a little room to spare for a few more. I intentionally do not count, but my reasons are valid:
1. I often pass on pairs to my daughter and mom.
2. I'm known to resell leggings if I'm not in love with them.
3. I don't want to lose the magic and fun by counting and turning it into something official.

I don't always remember to take a picture, but when I do, I post them on my Facebook page as well as my Jamie's Leggings Pinterest board and Instagram.

"Do you have a favorite pair?"

Nope.  I'm a terrible favorites chooser. I tend to lean towards whatever I'm wearing at the moment, so it means I'll change my mind the next time I manage to put together something I can wear out of the house. I'm NOT fashionably inclined.  No seriously, I'm really not. The leggings are just fun for me, but if you ask me to pick out something to wear for an event, I'll be stressed and overthink it in classic introvert fashion (pardon the pun).

"Where do you buy them?"

I can honestly say I buy them from lots of places.  I have various brands from various websites.  Some I favor more than others, but my current collection includes (in no special order):

1. Charlie's Project

2. Leggings for a Purpose

3. Agnes & Dora w/ Jennifer Molt (It doesn't get much sweeter than this gal—love her.)

3. Fabulegs 

4. LulaRoe (Admittedly, it's been months since I bought this brand)
5. Amazon (Yep, seriously, just watch the ratings and aim for Prime shipping)

6. White Plum (Another one where it's been quite awhile)

7. Simple Addiction (Only ordered once, but their prices were reasonable)
8. Victoria's Secret (from the Pink or Sport section)

"I can't wear leggings, I'm not the right 'body type'."

Bull—well, never mind, you get the point.  Stop it...right now. Don't give credence to that thought process. I worked retail several years ago, and one of the cutest older ladies came in and bought an outfit with an oversized shirt and black leggings.  She was in her mid seventies, and she rocked them. It's all about HOW you wear the leggings.  I never wear them without a long shirt that covers my booty. I like layers.  I usually have a long tank top or two under tunics and cardigans. The true question is, "Do you WANT to wear them?" If not, don't bother.  If you DO, then don't tell yourself you can't simply because you're self-conscious. 

"So why do you wear them?"

Because I can. I know that sound cliche´, but I'm sincere. I don't want to be the same girl who would do TWO projects in high school because I was terrified of presenting the first one, of standing in front of my peers and being noticed.  I remember burying my head in my arms and wanting to cry while the teacher told the class about my projects. Bless her for being patient with me. I still wanted the A, so I'd do more work just to make up for the points lost from not presenting. Just so you know, dear teacher, the last three years I made that timid girl stand tall and confident even when she had to fake it. She's not backing down and hiding behind her arms any longer.

"Aren't leggings a silly example of facing fear?"

Isn't it silly to to measure what matters when someone is actively working to improve themselves? We all have to start somewhere, and this was just one of MANY things I've done in the past few years to push outside of my comfort zone.

So the next time you back down from something out of fear, ask yourself if you should just be afraid and do it anyway. It might start small, but you never know where your paths will lead once you stop allowing fear to rule your life. You have this, whatever it is!

P.S. I think you're pretty awesome!

P.P.S. If you're curious about other blog posts, check 'em out HERE.

Tales of a Summer Gone Wrong...

Sometimes leaving home is dangerous...

Those of you who know me outside of social media know that I'm not prone to exaggeration. No matter how I tell this story, it does have a melodramatic flair. It's definitely not exaggeration; in fact, I'll actually downplay it because there's no way to truly capture the over-the-top feeling of the events which occurred the last couple of weeks.  I'm also leaving out some details and things that happened just because they don't all need to be told, so trust me when I tell you this is the low key version.

In the week before the real craziness, things at home had been particularly demanding.  One night in particular, I told Wes I had a terrible feeling that I just couldn't shake.  I felt as if something was hanging over me—that something bad was going to happen.  I texted Caleb to be very careful coming home late that night because I couldn't explain the feeling that something was off.  If only I'd known!

I thought, perhaps, the refrigerator breaking, Katlyn breaking the handle on the over-the-range microwave, Caleb's ceiling fan deciding to give up the ghost, or the cat needing to go to the vet would've been enough fodder for a bad feeling since it happened all in one week. I fully admit I was wrong.

Monday, June 12th:

We knew Wes's grandmother wasn't doing well.  We'd received news multiple times in the days prior she only had hours left, but that tenacious lady would never accept being told what to do, and those hours turned into days. Late Sunday night/early Monday morning she passed away, and we made plans to travel to Kentucky.  Katlyn was in the middle of her first high school class (a program they have here to get ahead by a class each summer), and despite very strict policies about not missing any classes, they excused her so we could attend without her losing the credit.  

For those of you who don't know, Wes and I met as teenagers while I was living in Indiana and he was living in Kentucky—about an hour apart. When we travel to the Midwest, we visit both sides of our families. My parents now live in South Carolina, but by unplanned coincidence, they were traveling to Indiana at the same time we were traveling to Kentucky.  My grandmother has Alzheimer's, and they were going to spend the week with her.

Tuesday, June 13th:

The nature of my job allows me to take work with me wherever I go.  I still had full time+ work to juggle while being out of town, but it was all doable. When we travel, I wake up early and go downstairs to the hotel lobby to work.  While working that morning, my neighbor texted to tell me the septic alarm on the side of my house was going off.  This is never good news, but 9 hours from home made it a bit challenging to deal with.  Her husband turned off the alarm while I called a septic company in Arkansas hoping they would go check it.  After some hemming and hawing, he finally said he'd send someone out on their way home that evening—they were just too busy to go during the day.  I found out later that evening it was a faulty alarm from the sensor falling in the water.  A nice fee later, they fixed it.  *sigh* We were thankful it was something that simple.

Fast forward to Thursday, June 15th:

The morning of the funeral, I received a text from my mom very early saying my dad was taken to the hospital in Indiana for severe abdominal pain. They spent the morning trying to get his pain under control and looking for the cause.  After giving him morphine, he had a terrible reaction to it and couldn't stop throwing up. No more morphine for him. They tried twice to put a tube down is nose and throat in order to keep his stomach completely empty because they finally decided a twisted bowel was causing the pain.  Sometimes it can be corrected by letting the bowels rest completely, but it takes time. Since they weren't able to get the tube down either time, they were going to restrict food and water and let him rest for a couple of days to see what happened. If only it had been that simple. 

Friday, June 16th:

I received a phone call very early in the morning that my dad's heart rate and a fever both spiked, so they were taking him to surgery. They feared a part of his bowel was dying, and they would have to remove part of it.  Caleb and I left Katlyn and Wes in Kentucky to spend the day with his family while we rushed to Indiana trying to be there in time to talk to the surgeon.

I'm SO thankful we walked into the surgical waiting room right as the surgeon walked in to report on his surgery.  The surgeon terrified my mom when she came to talk to us.  She was very straight-faced and serious as she asked us to follow her into another room where she shut the door then stood there looking ominous.  I wasn't worried, and I didn't think it was bad news.  She didn't sit down, and she seemed anxious to leave, so even though I could feel the fear radiating from my mom, I was pretty certain everything was okay.  Even though she was very serious, and very dry, she was a great doctor.  She took time to explain things, and she didn't mind answering questions.  We saw her several times over the next week, and she was very good at what she did. Even if she did lack some bedside manners.

When she opened him up, she didn't find a twisted bowel after all.  Instead, she found a very angry, red section of bowel that was still alive. The strangest part was his abdominal cavity was filled with infection—lime green pus, to be specific.  She looked through his bowels, explored the rest of his abdomen, and couldn't find a reason.  In ten years, he was only the second case to happen without an obvious reason.  (Way to be unique there, Mike.  Maybe you should've played the lottery that day.) She called it a bowel translocation. Unfortunately, the level of infection found inside meant she could NOT sew him up right away.  He would have to stay in the hospital, the wound would be covered but left open, and two drainage tubes would allow any lingering infection to drain while they allowed his bowels to rest completely.  

When they brought him back from surgery, he was quite a sight.  The tube was in place to keep his stomach drained, he had a tube inserted in his spine to administer pain medication, and he was hooked up to all the various other things necessary after surgery.  A long recovery lay ahead of him. When I tell you the wound was left open, I'm not talking about a small incision. From near the bottom if his sternum, down the center of his stomach, about 8-10 inches of his abdomen was open. It would remain that way for a week before all was said and done. But that's not the end of the story...

Saturday, June 17th (Also called The Day That Wouldn't End):

I knew my parents needed help with my dad in the hospital, but the boys also needed to get back to Arkansas because Caleb's college registration was scheduled for Monday and Tuesday. Our plan was for me to drive them the 9 hours home, repack more clothes for Katlyn and I, and then return on Sunday.  They wouldn't have to rent a car, and I could grab some extra things from home.  It seemed like a good plan at the time, but life had another idea.

Another side note...

I've forgotten to mention that my parents had their dog with them. The poor thing was relegated to her kennel in an upstairs bedroom of my grandparents' house, and I was going back and forth from one side of town to the next to take care of her so my mom wouldn't have to contend with it. My aunt and cousin offered to take care of her until my parents were back on their feet.  It might seem like a small detail, but at that moment every tiny bit of help made a huge difference.  I'm so thankful they are such amazing animal lovers because although it might seem like a small detail, it truly did make a difference to me.  My cousin picked her up, so I didn't even have to transport her that day.

I received another very early phone call from my mom. She'd been struggling with a migraine for days, and it reached a level she just couldn't take anymore.  The migraine, coupled with the stress causing a flair of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, was beyond her ability to cope with on her own, and she needed to see a doctor. Wes and I decided to stay another day.  We managed to get the hotel to give us another night despite being booked, but it would mean moving rooms.  The kids stayed behind so they wouldn't have to spend the day at the hospital, and Caleb took care of switching our rooms.  Wes and I drove the hour back to Indiana and took my mom to the ER at the same hospital where my dad was staying.  I spent the next few hours running between the 1st and 3rd floors of the hospital.  I needed to be in my dad's room to talk to the surgeon and internal medicine doctor, and I needed to be in and out of my mom's room to talk to her doctor. At one point, the second I stepped into his room, mom texted me saying they needed me to sign a paper.

Did I mention the cell signals wouldn't work in the ER?  I had to use text only, and even then it was sketchy, and the easiest method was just to go back and forth.  And by easy I really mean it was great for burning calories.  Someone put this hospital together piece by piece as afterthoughts, and with no logic as to people who need to get back and forth quickly between floors.

As a side note, Mom's nurse was like a really witchy and evil Barbra Jean from Reba.  I did my best to kill her with kindness and not dirty looks.  My tolerance level for b.s. at that point was about -5. Her doctor was an actual zombie.  He literally shuffled when he walked, had NO expression, and barely moved his lips when he talked.  He would wander out of the room halfway through a sentence...probably in search of brains. Yes, I know he might've been on for a long time, and yes I know he might've been tired.  However, his behavior was strange even for someone overly tired.  *raises hand* I was pretty tired myself, but I never once went in search of brains. 

But I digress...

Her blood work came back fine, and it appeared to be a migraine cycle and a flair of IBS. They released her after fluids and medicine, so I took her upstairs to spend some time with my dad before taking her back to her parents' house for the night.  He was pretty out of it for the most part between the pain medicine and the after effects of the anesthesia the day before.  We took mom to fill her prescriptions on the way to her parents' house, turned around and went back to the pharmacy for something else she needed, and took that to her.  I sent her to bed hoping she would be able to sleep through the night and feel better.

Wes and I returned to the hospital for awhile after dropping her off before heading back to the hotel in Owensboro.  I was exhausted after not having slept the last couple of nights, and my biggest goals were to take a hot shower and sleep. I asked one of my aunts if she could be on call just in case my mom had an emergency in the middle of the night since I was an hour away. I had a nasty, niggling feeling it was going to be a long night.

I've learned to trust that feeling.

10:00 pm Saturday evening:

A stomach virus had travelled through several of the funeral attendees.  It found me.  I started throwing up despite using the phenergan (anti-nausea) in my bag; it didn't work for me that night. Of course it didn't.

10:45 pm Saturday evening:

In between bouts of throwing up, my dad finally came out of his fog enough to start hallucinating and panicking because he didn't realize where he was. The medicines they had him on were really strong. He called me wanting to know where he was, where everyone else was, asking what was going on. He believed it was some elaborate hoax I'd set into place. 😒   I hate pranks, so that would be a no. Come to find out, he not only woke up scared, but he YANKED OUT THE TUBE leading from his nose, down his throat, and into his stomach.  He pulled it out then proceeded to remove his IV line as well. Apparently, pain medications administered through the line in his spine made him more susceptible to hallucinations. He texted me a couple of pictures of himself because he was sure I'd be able to see the blood everywhere, and how his room was destroyed.  They were just selfies, but in his muddled fog, he thought I could see what he saw.  He believed I'd be able to see that his lap was full of blood. If I hadn't been throwing up, I would've gone back to the hospital with him, but I don't think anyone wanted to watch that. He seemed a little calmer after we talked for a few minutes, and I felt really bad for him. It's awful to wake up and be confused and scared, but he was still foggy and we hung up after a few minutes.

So I could go back to throwing up...

2:15 am Sunday, June 18th:
My mom texted that she needed to go back to the hospital.  She'd woken up and been hit with a horrible pain and pressure in her lower right side and flank.  I knew there were two likely possibilities: kidney stone or appendix. I called her right away, and she said she couldn't wait for me to get there because it was so bad. Keep in mind I'm still throwing up. She wanted to call an ambulance, so I told her to call one while I called her sister.  I called my aunt and told her I was throwing up and couldn't leave the hotel room right then to drive the hour back to Indiana, so she agreed to meet her at the hospital.

I called my mom back so I could talk to my grandfather and let him know they needed to take her to the same hospital where my dad was. Having them at two different hospitals was unfathomable at that point.  She hadn't woken him up yet, and was attempting to crawl upstairs to get to him. I was also concerned about her getting the door unlocked so the paramedics wouldn't have to break down the door.  After talking to him, I hung up and called my aunt back again so I could tell her they would take her to the same hospital.

By then I needed to throw up again...

3:40 am Sunday, June 18th:

Katlyn came out of the bathroom and said now she'd thrown up but had cleaned it up.  I quickly dosed her with the phenergan and put her back to bed without really checking the bathroom well.  I was still making my own trips to the bathroom to hurl, but I was in between trips at the moment.  Wes happened to go in the bathroom not long after and came back to get me. Apparently, my youngest child, who never had a stomach virus before, turned the bathroom into a crime scene.  Her version of cleaning it up wasn't anywhere near okay...or sanitary.  So despite my own rolling stomach, I had to clean up her mess. I couldn't take the chance of Wes catching it. Thank goodness I had time to clean it up before throwing up again myself.  

6:15 am Sunday, June 18th:

My aunt texted that my mom had a kidney stone and they were going to flush her with fluids to help it pass while trying to control her pain.  She was being admitted, so at least I knew they would keep an eye on her.

The boys HAD to return to Arkansas that day because Caleb's college registration was the next day. I couldn't send Katlyn home with them because at the end of the week they had a 5 day fishing trip to the coast planned with a couple of Wes's friends.  And since we'd both been sick all night, we were just going to rent the boys a car and send them on their way. I had to drop them off at the car rental place in Kentucky then planned to take Katlyn back to the hotel to let her rest for the day.  She had stopped throwing up, but the phenergan left her very sleepy.  It was a solid plan...it just wasn't meant to be.

10:20 am Sunday, June 18th:

Father's Day wasn't quite what we'd planned, but sometimes life has a way of throwing in surprises. My mom called to say they were getting ready to take her into surgery because her kidney had

ruptured.  At this point, I didn't have a choice but to drop the boys off then rush back to Indiana to be there for her surgery.  So after throwing up all night, and cleaning up after Katlyn, and taking care of her, we drove back to Indiana.  They were so slow taking her back for surgery we made it in plenty of time, thank goodness.  I checked on my dad and left Katlyn in his room on the couch with strict instructions NOT to touch him, anything in the room, or to even think of moving.  She stayed put while I went back and forth between their rooms—yay for being on the same floor.  A couple of hours later they finally took her back for surgery.  My aunts left, and I went along with my mom as far as non patients can go before returning to the 3rd floor to get Katlyn so we could go to surgical waiting.

The doctor came out and said the surgery went fine, he'd placed a stent inside while she healed, and she would be in the hospital over night.  We spent time in both of their rooms, going back and forth, until later in the evening.  Katlyn and I were both exhausted from the stomach virus the night before, and we still had an hour drive back to Kentucky where we had the hotel room for one more night. We stopped at Walmart for a few essentials only to have it start pouring while we were inside.  The cashier taught us a new word when she told us to be careful of the "gollywomper" outside.  I've archived this word in my mind as a new, usable noun.

That was the only night I slept without fretting since they were both in the hospital and had staff to keep an eye on them.  My stomach was still feeling traitorous, and it did for days afterward, but the sleep that night was far more restful. 

Monday, June 19th:

I let Katlyn sleep in that morning while I caught up on work.  I kept in touch with them via text, and we headed over later in the morning after checking out of the hotel.   We were going to stay with my aunt in Indiana so we could be closer to the hospital.  Plus, we'd already been at the hotel for a week, and long term hotel stays are NOT cheap.  Not to mention the fact that the car rental company charged a ridiculous "drop off" fee since they were picking it up in one place and dropping it off in another.  They had the car for only 12 hrs.  Thanks for that one, rental company.

We spent the day going back and forth between their rooms, and I managed to talk to dad's doctors again.  There were a lot of steps they had to go through in order to get him to the point they could sew him up.  Mom was due to be released that afternoon.  We brought her over to spend some time with him after she was released and stayed for the rest of the day.  I took her back to her parents' again that evening.

Tuesday, June 20th:

We picked my mom up that morning and hung out at hospital all day with him.  Keep in mind, his abdomen was still open, so there was no chance for him to really start the healing process.  The pain medications still caused him hallucinations too. We took my mom back to her parents' later that evening, then Katlyn and I returned.  I had a feeling I needed to go back, and I was thankful I listened. When we arrived at the hospital again, he wasn't in good shape. He'd had issues in the bathroom, and was laying in bed at an uncomfortable angle and breathing heavily. We waited for the nurses to come in with his pain medication, and they pulled him back upright again. He hurt so much he couldn't pull himself up in bed, and I didn't want to pull him and take a chance on hurting him more since his abdomen wasn't sewn up yet.

My mom decided to come back to the hospital and stay the night with him, so Katlyn and I stayed until she arrived. We made it home after 10 that night.

Wednesday, June 21st:

My mom was struggling with the discomfort and complications from her stent, but a phone call to the urologist confirmed we just had to maintain during the healing process.  Dad was scheduled to have his abdomen closed the next day, and it was likely they would release him the same day.  If you'd watched him struggle all week, it might've surprised you as much as it did us.  

Wes texted and said their fishing trip had been cancelled due to the tropical storm in the Gulf.  We'd been expecting it for a couple of days, so it wasn't shocking. At this point, nothing surprised us.

Thursday, June 22nd:
The previous day they told us his surgery would be at 10 am.  I asked again before leaving the hospital the night before, and the nurses said it had been moved up to 7 am. I woke up early because I kept thinking they might take him even earlier.  Just as Katlyn and I were walking out the door right before 6 am, my mom texted to tell me they were already taking him back. We made it back in time to talk to the surgeon.

After they closed his incision, we spent the day waiting for the surgeon to arrive and tell us if they were going to keep him an extra night.  Despite our misgivings, they released that evening with instructions to stay in town until Tuesday just in case.  He was pushing hard to leave before then, so I was thankful to the surgeon for her insisting he stay.  He truly wasn't in any shape to travel yet. He wasn't released to drive for two weeks, so my uncle (my dad's brother) and I arranged for him to fly to Evansville and drive them home since he lives in South Carolina in the same town. If Katlyn and I had driven them, we would've had to fly back to Evansville then drive another 8 hours home to Arkansas. I was torn between not wanting to put anything that big on someone else but also knowing it made so much more sense. Plus, I hate asking for help.

We just had to get through the weekend... 

Friday, June 23rd-Sunday, June 25th:

Friday morning, Katlyn and I loaded up my parents' dog and headed to Walmart.  I knew my parents could use the pick-me-up of seeing her again.  They needed some things since they were both unable to drive.  As luck would have it, just as I was on my way out with a cartload of items, the sky opened up monsoon-style.  The part I really found amusing was how it poured the entire time I was unloading things, and a few minutes after taking the last load into my grandparents', it stopped—the sun came out.  

The weekend was spent running errands to make sure my parents had what they needed and keeping up with work. Hearing the phone ring almost made me twitchy wondering if someone's spleen had fallen out, or some other rogue body part was rebelling.  My poor dad's body was absolutely not cooperating with him, and trying to find equilibrium after going through what he did wasn't easy—he was miserable, and who could blame him?

As a side note:  Wes was at work on Friday, and his belt buckle shot off unexpectedly while there. I think this seemed like some sort of cosmic prank to him considering all that had happened, but it's something funny to laugh about now!

Sunday was mixed with working, running errands, and picking up my uncle from the airport. 

Monday, June 26th: 

Two weeks after leaving home, we were in the final stretch before Katlyn and I headed back to Arkansas and my parents and uncle left for South Carolina.  I had a terrible feeling when my mom started feeling badly nauseated.  My uncle was still at the hotel, so Katlyn and I left to take him to dinner and pick up food for my grandmother and parents.  While we were gone, she started throwing up.  She'd been struggling all week with the stent, and we'd been hoping the discomfort would stay manageable until she could return to South Carolina and see her urologist.  She was supposed to have it for two weeks before removal, but it was making her feel terrible.  As the evening wore on, she was feeling worse, and it wasn't looking as if they would be leaving the next day.

I'll be honest and say I spent the rest of the night awake.  I'm not a worrier by nature, but I was tired, and I felt helpless to do anything to make a difference.  I laid awake at my aunt's house all night trying to decide the best way to handle things.  It seemed likely she would have to return to the ER if she couldn't stop throwing up.  She's a petite little thing, and it wouldn't take long for her to dehydrate.  I felt like I'd roped my uncle into flying there to help me get them home, and his life was in limbo while he waited. I felt pulled towards home because my boy's were there and needed me. My oldest is leaving for his first year of college next month, and the time with him is limited. My youngest had been good as gold the entire couple of weeks despite being drug from place to place and having to sit and wait constantly.  She never once complained.  Her birthday was coming up later that week too.  It felt as if no matter what decision I made, I was letting someone down.  My dad wasn't supposed to drive, and he was only four days out from major surgery. 

We knew late that evening they couldn't leave in the morning, but we weren't sure if it was just an extra day for her to stop throwing up, or if her stomach would calm during the night and let her rest. It was hard not to believe another trip the hospital was looming.

Tuesday, June 27th:

I gave up pretending to sleep really early and readied for the day unsure of what would come.  Katlyn

and I packed as if we were leaving, but we knew by then it was likely they were staying.  I had no idea what the right decision was for Katlyn and I.  My uncle was there to drive my parents, but I didn't want to abandon him when he'd come to help me.

Some early texts with my dad let me know my mom had thrown up more through the night.  I headed to the hotel to pick up my uncle so he could have my parents' truck to drive no matter what happened.  When I arrived at my grandparents', I went upstairs to check on my mom, and she really wasn't doing well.  I knew she needed to go back to the hospital, and there was no way she could travel that night.  It wasn't hard to make the call she needed to go back to the hospital, but it was a brutal decision to know if Katlyn and I should head home.  I felt pulled in multiple directions, and I really don't think there was an ideal answer.  After much pushing by everyone involved, I decided to head home.  I took my parents' dog back to my aunt's house (since we didn't know what would happen at the hospital), and my uncle took my parents' back to the hospital once again.  This was mom's third trip since being in Indiana—she was miserable too.

While Katlyn and I were on the road home, mom spent a few hours in the ER.  They gave her fluids, stopped the vomiting, and did x-rays to make sure all was well with the stent.   They released her that afternoon, and they made new plans to travel home the next day. 

Wednesday, June 28th-Sunday, July 2nd:

While they did return to South Carolina on Wednesday, my mom didn't improve over the next couple of days.  So on Friday, they went to the hospital and was admitted.   The urologist removed the stent on Saturday, and she felt improvements immediately.  I'm finishing this only a short time after her release on Sunday.  We're praying they'll both have the chance to heal and recuperate now. 

It's impossible to capture the absolute feeling of untethered chaos from the last few weeks. In fact, I don't necessarily want to share the myriad of emotions. Instead of focusing on the negative aspects, it's better to see how well things were positioned. I truly believe God allowed us to all be where we were, at the time we were, so things would fall in place for me to be there when they needed me. 😉

Things happen for a reason, and we don't always find out why...but sometimes we don't really need to know. Sometimes we just accept it and deal with one thing at a time...even if we are a little twitchy for awhile when the phone rings.

Surviving Infertility, Parts Three & Four

Part Three

If you haven't read Part One, click HERE 

If you haven't read Part Two, click HERE

I'm no longer embarrassed by my experiences 

because I endured, I learned...

As the months went by I was in pain more often than not.  If I brought it up to Dr. X during my many, many early morning visits, he would brush me off with a "That's normal." and dismiss me.  Wes and I learned I shouldn't be the one to ask questions.  If we wanted or needed to know something, Wes had to ask him because he never took my concerns seriously.  The man was a misogynistic ass and treated me like I couldn't possibly be taken too seriously.  We both tried telling him about the excess pain, and he insisted it was perfectly normal.  Since we'd had no positive results with the IUIs yet he wanted me to have a laparoscopic procedure done to examine my abdominal cavity and run dye through my fallopian tubes to check for blockages.  He would not be doing the procedure himself because he was going on vacation, and it would be performed by another doctor at the nearby hospital.  I really wasn't upset about that.  There was a measure of relief when I found out a local female doctor would be doing the procedure. During my pre-op, the doctor informed me I had a couple of cysts on my left ovary that were cause for concern and needed to be removed.  Wes and I were both surprised because I had ultrasounds constantly, and Dr. X had never mentioned seeing cysts on my ovaries.  She told us she would drain them while she was inside.  Ovarian cysts are common enough—no big deal, right? *snort*

The night before the surgery, she asked me to take a couple of pills to "clean me out" prior to the procedure.  Despite my hesitation, I wanted to be a "good" patient and took them.  What a freaking mistake that was.  I was up the entire night running back and forth to the bathroom, and by the time I made it to the hospital, I was dehydrated.  The stomach cramps made it nearly impossible to function, but I made it.  I've had enough surgeries now to know it wasn't necessary.  Not once has an American doctor given me anything like that prior to surgery.

I arrived at the hospital early, still sick but determined to see it through.  When they wheeled me away from Wes, I was so lost and scared.  I couldn't ask questions because neither of the nurses spoke English.  While we waited OUTSIDE the operating room, they reached under my blanket and took my gown from me.  WHAT?  No seriously, I was already upset, and that pushed me dangerously close to the edge of freaking out.  But I clutched the blanket to me, shaking from head to toes, and held onto my tears until they moved me to the operating table.  Before ever putting me to sleep, they were manhandling me, putting me in stirrups, milling around me talking fifty miles a minute in another language, and generally treating me like I wasn't a real person on the table.  However, God sent me an angel in the form of the anesthesiologist.  It was all too much, so while they prepped me, tears had begun to slide down my cheeks. I never made a noise, but  I was sick, terrified, and humiliated.  He sat down next to me and started talking to me—in English!  He reassured me and spoke softly until putting me to sleep.  To this day I am so thankful for that man.  I don't know his name, and I never saw him again, but I know God put him there just for me in that moment.

I've woken up in recovery six MORE times since that surgery.  It's never fun, but I never experienced what I did that day.  At the same time my eyes came open, and I came to awareness, I felt like an elephant was standing on my chest. I couldn't take a breath in, and it was terrifying.  There were people standing over me, and the reason for the pressure was because they'd woken me up while they were still removing the tube from my intubation.  After they removed the tube, and I was finally able to breathe again, I looked around and saw I was in a room with at least a dozen beds—no curtains, no privacy.  Other patients were waking up, and various nurses were moving around. I couldn't wait to get back to the room where I knew Wes and Caleb were waiting, so I struggled to wake up and remain alert so they would release me from Recovery.

Those having outpatient surgeries had to share a room, and the woman sharing my room had a minor procedure done shortly before me.  Despite my discomfort at sharing a room, it turned out to be a fortunate thing because she spoke English while my nurses did not.  The nurses were not gentle and tended to lean towards manhandling.  Still sick and dehydrated, three incisions, and also full of dye, they were insistent I had to get up and pee before they'd allow me to go home.  I totally understand that, but I didn't NEED to go yet since my body was absorbing every bit of fluid they gave me.  They had a hard time getting my blood pressure back up after the surgery, and no matter how many bags of IV fluids they gave me, it stayed low. The sweet lady in the bed next to me translated later asking me why I wouldn't just get up and go to the bathroom so that they would send me home.  When I explained I was in pain and didn't need to go, she was surprised because she didn't realize I had incisions and assumed I'd had a simpler procedure done like hers.  She translated for me a few times before she left, and I was sorry to see her go. 

We asked repeatedly about the results of the surgery, but my roommate was able to find out that the doctor was "too busy" to come see me, and that we would have to go down and see her in her office when we were ready to leave...

Wait.  What?  US go see HER? Downstairs?  I was too lightheaded to stand for long, in pain with no medication, and my doctor wouldn't come to see me? I felt too lousy to react much and spent the rest of the afternoon thwarting the rough advances of the nurses while receiving several bags of fluids to rehydrate me and bring up my blood pressure.  They would stand over me in the bathroom—literally—mumbling at me in another language about...well...who knows.  I don't know about you, but I have a shy bladder.  There was a -4.5% chance I was going to pee while they stared at me. Finally, Wes snuck me into the bathroom when one of the nurses left the room, and I locked the door. That went over like a lead balloon.  She kept knocking, and I refused to let her in until I was finished.

They wanted to keep me overnight due to low blood pressure, but I refused—especially after my post op care. I wasn't letting Wes and Caleb leave that hospital without me, so we finally made our way downstairs to the doctor's office.  I had to walk.  

When we were finally able to see the doctor, she had shocking news which haunted me for the next ten years.  She went on to explain I nearly lost my left ovary.  She had removed cysts that caused my ovary to twist over two complete times and the blood flow to restrict.  She looked at me and said, "You had to be in a great deal of pain, why didn't you tell anyone?" Just in case you missed it further up, I had repeatedly told him I was in a lot of pain only to be brushed off and told it was normal. She went on to explain it was called Ovarian Torsion, and while it wasn't common, once you've had it you are more likely to have it again. (<--- remember that, it matters)  The cysts and having "longer than average ligaments" holding the ovaries in place made me a prime candidate.  I had no blockages in my fallopian tubes to prevent pregnancy (That's what the dye was for), and I should just return to my regular visits in a couple of weeks.  I tried to express my frustration and explain how often I'd mentioned the pain, but the "good ol' boy" system isn't just an American thing.  She told me to follow up with Dr. X and sent me on my way.  Wes knew I was still in a lot of pain and asked for pain medication.  She opened her drawer and pulled out their equivalent of Tylenol and handed him three pills.  No aftercare instructions, no pain meds, and no explanations.  I walked out of the hospital on my own—a few hours after surgery.  No wheelchair, no assistance, no pain medication...nothing.  

Two weeks later, as instructed, I returned to Dr. X.  All three of my incisions were infected despite my careful attention.  He didn't seem concerned and told me he couldn't wait to try some new scar cream because these were sure to leave scars since the healing hadn't gone well.  Ass.  We told him the results of the surgery, and he couldn't have cared less.  He wanted to proceed with treatments as usual...so we did, and things grew progressively worse.  

At that point I'd had an anaphylactic reaction to medications, nearly been given the medication again, and almost lost my left ovary.  The doctor was a narcissistic misogynist but still insistent we could get pregnant. So we moved on thinking the worst surely had to be behind us.  

It took years for me to stop feeling stupid for letting him take advantage of us, but I have now. We believed everything we endured would lead to a baby.  If he'd asked me to stand on my head and whistle, I would've done it. Many of these are painful memories—literally and figuratively—and I didn't want to be judged for allowing things to go on as long as I did, so I've mostly kept quiet except for a select few people. 

Until now.  

The cycle of constant blood work, repeated vaginal ultrasounds, and rushed nighttime office visits continued.  Doctor X thought doing two IUIs every cycle would make us far more likely to conceive, so every month I had the procedure around the time of ovulation.  The routine was the same each month:  

Take Clomid and grow the follicles.

On day 10 begin daily blood work and vaginal ultrasound.

NOT ovulate and receive an injection to force ovulation.

Ovulate huge follicles (cysts as we later learned) and wait around for a phone call.

Rush over to the office late in the evening.

Have the procedure where something nearly always went wrong.

Have the procedure again the next night.

Go home both nights, cramping and bleeding.

Wait to see if we were able to get pregnant.  

Not get pregnant.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Over the next six months, procedures grew increasingly difficult. After the first IUI,  Dr. X was no longer able to feed the catheter through my cervical opening the regular way.  It took him and someone else to do the procedure because he would have to use a different instrument that took two hands to hold "things" open down there.  The problem with this is that he didn't always have help that late in the evening.  If a nurse or his wife (NOT a nurse) weren't there, that only left Wes.  What was he supposed to do when he's standing there, halfway into the procedure, and he can't feed the catheter into my uterus to finish?  I'll just tell the husband to come over and hold these is apparently a logical response.  Wes, looking very much like a deer in headlights, but he did as he was told while I cried. Dr. X attempted to force the catheter through the opening repeatedly until I couldn't hold back and cried out.  Caleb, only a toddler, was playing in the other room and called out to check on me.  With tears rolling down my face, I pretended I was laughing and told him to stay in there and play with his toys.  Dr. X tried an injection straight into my cervix to numb it, but it didn't work.  I just had to power through until he was supposedly successful.

To this day, I honestly don't know if he was really getting it all the way up into my uterus.  The forward tilt of my uterus, the narrow cervical opening, and the lack of appropriate assistance often made me wonder—he could've easily pretended.  But I'll never know, nor do I really need to at this point.  The last few times we had the procedure I would sit in the chair and shake with fear.  The pain, the humiliation, and the emotional roller coaster were getting to be too much.  I was quickly reaching the end of my tolerance, and my hope was running out. 

Originally I intended to make this story four parts, but I decided to post the last two at once.  I'm ready to finish—because it just feels right.  

I'm no longer embarrassed by my experiences 

because I endured, I learned, and I survived.

Sometimes angels come in the form of every day people.  The repeated doctor visits, along with being sequestered with only American patients, meant getting to know the other couples who shared your ovulation cycle.  One of those very women convinced me to join an infertility support group for American women she was part of.  It absolutely went against my very nature to attend something like that, but for some crazy reason, I just couldn't tell her no.  She was (and is) very sweet person who welcomed me and made me feel like part of the group. To this day, most of us are still in contact.  A couple of us have adopted, a few of the others successfully conceived later. The one who invited me to the group ended with four children—through no help of Dr. X.  I LOVE seeing the pictures of her children and reading the antics of her daily life.

A few of the women had different doctors they traveled further to see.  One of those women, a woman we'll refer to as C, was extremely self-educated about infertility.  I absolutely love and adore this woman to this very day.  It felt as if she were glue that held the group together, and I respected her thoughts.  We had a PRIVATE online forum where we could chat and stay in touch in between the times we were able to get together in person.  We shared experiences and advice and things we learned.  It was a safe place to share without fear of the same platitudes by well-meaning people who just didn't get it.

One of the rare times we were able to get together in person for dinner, a couple of us that were patients of Dr. X mentioned our excitement at the size of follicles we were producing.  C quickly schooled us on how bad those measurements were.  One of the things I remember most about that dinner/meeting was the shock I felt.  The rest of the conversation was a blur, really. The more details the Dr. X patients shared, the more the other women seeing different doctors told us it was all wrong.  SO. MUCH. WRONG.  Six months of physical and emotion pain, drugs that could've killed me, almost losing an ovary...all with the HOPE of pregnancy...for nothing.  I never had a chance—not really. I went home and started my own research, and what I learned backed up everything C and the others told us.  C, if you're reading this, I've already thanked you, but...thank you again. 

IUI, or Intra Uterine Insemination, is when a tube is inserted into the cervical opening, fed up into the uterus and to the opening of the fallopian tubes where the washed sperm is deposited.  All of this creates optimal chances of conception when all procedures are followed correctly.  Sperm are, ideally, put through the washing cycle for anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours.  Our sperm were washed for five-ten minutes. Sperm inserted without proper washing can cause cramping, inhibiting their ability to get where they need to go. During insertion, the sperm should be implanted slowly and deliberately. Dr. X would just shoot them in as quickly as possible and rush the procedure.

I was very fortunate to have an opportunity to speak with an American fertility specialist via telephone appointment. He didn't charge us, and he was forthright and honest while not reacting negatively. According to him, IV lines are not standard practice for IUIs.  There should be no reason to need one. This same specialist told me the idea follicle size for conception is between 18-30 mm—ideally at the lower end of that spectrum.  Mine were being grown to over 40 mm, and follicles of that size are nothing but cysts with no chance of conception. Did Dr. X know that?  To this day we still have no idea if he was truly ignorant or just a devious bastard trying to drag out treatments for more insurance money.

Daily blood work and vaginal ultrasounds are NOT standard practice for IUIs.  It is necessary to monitor these things, but not to the extreme Dr. X did.  I spent the entire six+ months with black and blue arms.  I'm pale, I bruise easily, and the nurses weren't always very skilled at blood draws.  And, let's face it, constant vaginal ultrasounds are invasive on top of unnecessary. 

We did know about the window of opportunity for conception after ovulation, but just in case you didn't realize, you have twelve to twenty-four hours to introduce sperm—that's it.  During our six months he would often put us off until after that window assuring us the data wasn't true.  

The more I learned, the more appalled I was.  I was angry with him, but worse than that, I felt betrayed—from MYSELF. Why didn't I listen to those instincts?  I pushed away that voice that whispered to me from the first meeting that he wasn't to be trusted.  I was embarrassed, but I was royally pissed.  In the online forum, we shared our experiences, our frustration, and our anger.  An investigation begun with TriCare, and some of us had to go before a board to share our experiences. That was such a hard day.  Sitting at the table with several people, answering questions, feeling as if I was on trial...it was all so wrong.

The worst betrayal came from a fellow American woman.  Out of all of us, she was the only one to get pregnant while under Dr. X's care.  They were trying on their own even while undergoing his treatments, and they were fortunate.  She was ecstatic because being seen in Doctor X's office meant he would do an ultrasound every single time she came in—that's an amazing opportunity. Unfortunately for the rest of us, that opportunity was worth throwing us under the bus.  She told the doctor about our forum and how angry we were.  His wife pretended to be a local person needing support and joined so she could see everything...take pictures...and use everything against us.  One of the women was particular angry and made a comment about wanting to kick him in the balls.  Let's face it, after the Hell he'd put us through, a comment like that is not shocking.  They claimed it was a threat and paired it with his potential loss of business from the upcoming investigation, and decided to take several of us to court basically for a civil suit for defamation of character.  Again I say, what in the actual Hell?  I came home one day to find legal papers, in another language, saying several of us were to be summoned to court—their court system—to testify on our own behalves.  All of this because one American woman was afraid TriCare wouldn't continue letting her go to this doctor and having her many ultrasounds.  

Wes and I took the papers to a lawyer on base.  In so many words, he told us we didn't have much of a chance in court because the law in that country would, more than likely, side with HIM. The TriCare investigation resulted from our forum of women sharing information, and he was out to punish us. At one point, early in the treatments, Dr. X jokingly told us he couldn't "piss off the Americans" because he made far more money from us as private patients than he did his local patients...that's social medicine for you. He had his own plane and fuel was expensive. 

We were three months from returning to the states where Wes had applied for, and been awarded, a teaching position at a training base.  If we tried to fight Dr.X, and on his turf, it could take a very long time.  We talked to one of Wes's superiors, explained the situation, and his advice was for Caleb and I to leave the country to avoid being forced to pay any fines or deal with their court system. Immediately.  Within twelve hours we were packed and at the airport. Another of the girls left the country as well.  One was so indignant at his audacity, she stood her ground and went to court.  They made her pay him a fine, forced her to apologize, and made her sign something saying she wouldn't speak ill of him ever again.  It went exactly as the lawyer predicted. SHE was treated like she'd wronged HIM.  I can't begin to tell you how backwards that was.

Dr. X was not banned from treating Americans at THAT time.  However, I later learned more accusations came to light, and he was eventually removed from the TriCare list.  I don't know if it was temporary or permanent, but I did feel a small amount of satisfaction knowing his life was interrupted.  After all, he did say he shouldn't piss off the Americans.  Too bad he didn't heed his own advice.  In the end, he'll have to answer one day for the things he did.  He could very well be treating patients again, but there's absolutely nothing I can do about that.

In the course of the stunning facts we'd learned, Wes and I decided to stop infertility treatments altogether.  My body was tired, my emotions were spent, and I had no trust left in me for another doctor. Wes was tired too.  He dealt with a lot of guilt for the couple of times he was forced to assist. I can only imagine what it must've been like to be forced to hold instruments while your wife cried in pain. He was more than willing to continue if I wanted to, but we agreed it was time to stop.  On Christmas night, hours before Caleb turned five, we stood in front of the Christmas tree and agreed it was time.  We felt God didn't mean for us to have another child.   We've laughed many times since then because we thought God had told us NO to having another child.  In reality, He just had an entirely different plan.  He knew a tiny little girl was going to need us very soon, and he brought Katlyn into our lives when we returned to the states.  That story is part of another blog post, which you're welcome to read HERE.

I continued struggling with female issues for a few years and finally decided to have a hysterectomy in January of 2009. I was only 32. She left my ovaries so I would not have to take artificial hormones. Not having the correct hormones at a young age can lead to heart disease and bone density loss. In August of 2009 I developed severe pain on my right side.  I went to the doctor only to be told it was a kidney stone I'd have to power through.  The next day I returned as the pain intensified, and again I was told it was a kidney stone.  On my third visit, they decided to take me seriously because I was pacing and wailing in ER.  They took me back for a vaginal ultrasound to see if I might have a cyst. I'd sure missed those. (<---sarcasm)  The poor nurse was patient despite the fact I couldn't lay completely still.  They'd given me a shot of Dilaudid before taking me back, but it didn't even take the edge off.  During the ultrasound she asked me when my last period was, and when I told her I'd had a hysterectomy months ago, she looked at me blankly for about two seconds before mumbling that she needed to ask the doctor a question.  The doctor returned with her and informed me I had a very large cyst fused to my ovary, and that due to blood flow being restricted, they needed to do emergency surgery.  

Before they took me to the OR, he told me he would try to save the ovary.  I woke up without that ovary.  Just as the doctor who'd fixed my left ovary predicted, I'd had another torsion.  This time I wasn't as fortunate. A large cyst had fused to my right ovary and caused it it to twist over twice, completely cutting off the blood flow. Because they assumed I had a kidney stone and didn't immediately fix it, the ovary died.  I had a large, dead mass inside of me, and it was black and disintegrated wherever he touched it.  I have pictures. I left the hospital with one ovary, but that's still enough for your body to sustain the necessary hormones.

Fast forward to June of 2013...

I still had occasional cysts, and I could feel it when they burst.  A particularly bad one took me to the floor one day, but instead of the pain getting better, it continued to worsen through the day.  I knew the routing by now, and we went to the ER.  I stood my ground and made them do another ultrasound (after all, why not revisit that fun experience) only to find out I did, indeed, have another cyst that hadn't burst.  They could still see blood moving, so they opted to send me to my own gynecologist instead of addressing it that night.  Unfortunately, my gynecologist had moved two years ago, and I hadn't found another one.  I realize I should've been seen for routine visits, despite he hysterectomy, but I avoided doctors as much as possible.  This time, however, I met another angel in the form of a regular person.  I adore her to this day—a hero in my eyes.

Dr. A, as we'll call her, listened patiently to my lengthy medical history and told me we needed to go in, drain the cyst, and check on my remaining ovary.  We didn't waste any time, and I was there a few days later.  I woke up to find out I'd had another (this is #3) ovarian torsion, but we found it in time and were able to fix it.  So we thought.  Within days of my surgery, the same pain returned, and we were both afraid the ovary had twisted again.  Surgery #2 revealed torsion #4.  Yep, it was twisted again, but we had already decided we couldn't save it this time because it would continue happening. I left the hospital with no ovaries this time, but I did have hope things would get better.

You've heard of menopause, I'm sure, but have you heard of surgical menopause?  Regular menopause comes and goes as a woman's estrogen levels drop lower and her ovaries stop producing it slowly but surely.  Surgical menopause is an abrupt loss of hormones, so the best description is hitting a break wall.  Dr. A had hoped I would have enough lingering hormones of my own to get me through two weeks of healing before starting me on a replacement.  I didn't.  I spent weeks feeling like I had the flu and not sleeping.  The constant chills and shivering despite feeling like I was burning alive inside on top of not sleeping more than a couple of hours a night were miserable.  On top of that,  pain returned to my left side again.  We managed to get the hormones under control (Thank you God, for allowing scientists to create those tiny little hormone patches), but we couldn't figure out the source of the pain.  The floating rib on my left side would push up when the pain was at its worst.  You could actually see the point of it through the skin when it was bad enough. Exploratory surgery was the best option, and by then I didn't care as long as it stopped. 

Surgery #3 revealed that, while I had some adhesions she was able to remove, nothing else was amiss inside.  We were hoping those adhesion and  inflammation were the cause, and time to heal would fix it.  It didn't.  This time she referred me to a general surgeon whose personality was a bit too close to Dr. X attitude-wise.  He barely let me talk, cut me off, and had absolutely no clue what would cause my pain and the rib movement.  He did some research while sending me to a urologist to rule out kidney stones.  The urologist informed me I had two kidney stones only to tell me later they mysteriously disappeared.  Go figure. The surgeon found a couple of references to an obscure rib condition, but he couldn't decide for sure if that was the cause.  The pain persisted, and the general surgeon decided he needed to do his own exploratory surgery.  While undergoing my fourth surgery in 8 months, he was going to give me direct injections to that spot to see if he could pinpoint the exact cause and location of the pain.  Despite being eight months pregnant, Dr. A came to the hospital and scrubbed in for my surgery—just to be with me and keep an eye on things.  She came in to talk to me before surgery just for support.  She wasn't being paid to be there that day, she's just that kind of person.  The surgeon couldn't find an obvious cause for the pain, and a couple of days after surgery, the same pain returned, and he said he couldn't do anything else for me.  He told me to get in contact with the Mayo Center.

To shorten the explanation, an asinine screening nurse told me they couldn't do anything for me either because they didn't treat flank pain.  Dr. A was incensed and said she had no right to diagnose me over the phone.  She offered to call them herself and get me in, but I was so completely done with explaining my story repeatedly that I decided to suck it up and deal with it.  Over time, the intensity of the pain lessened.  I have a high pain tolerance, so I didn't take medicine for it.  I still have trouble with it sometimes, but it's never anything I can't bear.  We all have something it seems, so maybe this is mine.

I had a total of seven surgeries from October 2003 to February 2014.  One in 2003, two in 2009, and the last four were within eight months of one another between June 2013 and February 2014.  Those eight months were a blur of healing and surgeries. Dr. A was so good to me during that time—and still is anytime I see her.  

I'm not bitter, angry, or event resentful.  I'm not embarrassed anymore either.  My experiences are part of who I am.  They are a testament to strength, not something to hang my head in shame for.

Due to the length of this story, this was posted in three parts.

Click HERE for part one
Click HERE for part two

The country and name of the doctor are intentionally kept anonymous.  The purpose of these posts isn't to spread negativity but to give others going through infertility the knowledge they aren't alone in their struggles.  Infertility sucks enough without people taking advantage, and my life was made so much better because a few women spoke up and shared their knowledge.  Feel free to reach out if you want or need to share your story.  

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