Between Tantrums

Pregnancy complications weren’t new to me. A few years earlier, I experienced a molar pregnancy that completely reshaped how I viewed pregnancy and loss. You can read about it here: The Pregnancy That Wasn’t

There’s a very specific kind of fear that comes from knowing your body — and realizing something isn’t right.

Two and a half weeks before my third pregnancy-related surgery in three years, I saw two lines again.

I didn’t announce it.
I didn’t let myself sink fully into excitement.

After everything, joy felt cautious.

Two weekends later, I started bleeding.

I assumed miscarriage.

I told myself to stay calm. These things happen. I’ve survived worse.

But then the pain started.

Not normal cramping.
Not uncomfortable.
Wrong.

The kind of pain that makes your body go quiet and your brain get loud.

I went to the ER because I knew something wasn’t right.

Ultrasound? Inconclusive.
HCG? Rising.
No clear answers.

Pain medication didn’t touch it.

Eventually, the pain subsided. The bleeding didn’t.

My OB tracked my HCG levels. They were rising appropriately. They found low progesterone — which can cause cramping and bleeding — so we started supplements.

Finally, something that made sense.

I wanted it to make sense.

Fast forward a few days.

Another ultrasound.

No gestational sac.
Blood in my abdomen.
And what appeared to be an ectopic pregnancy in my left fallopian tube.

Normally, that’s an emergency.

Normally, that’s lights-and-sirens immediate.

But because I wasn’t in active pain at that moment, surgery could wait until the next morning.

It’s strange how calm you can appear when your body is quietly bleeding internally.

The next day, I had surgery.

They performed a laparoscopy.
Removed my left fallopian tube.
Suctioned out my uterus.

And because of scarring from my C-section, they accidentally nicked my bladder — which means I left surgery with a urinary catheter and a very humbling little urine bag attached to me for the next ten days.

There is nothing like grieving a pregnancy while also being physically unable to pee like a normal person.

This was my third pregnancy-related surgery in three years.

Three years.
Three operating rooms.
Three times waking up groggy and confused.

I don’t usually share when I’m in pain.
I don’t vent publicly.
I’m typically the “I’m fine” person.

But that night, I wasn’t fine.

I was in pain despite three different medications.
My arms were bruised from IVs and blood draws.
I had one less fallopian tube.
I was grieving.
And I was tired in a way that felt bone-deep.

The hardest part wasn’t just the surgery.

It was knowing I was right.

I knew something was wrong.

Even when the ER couldn’t find it.
Even when labs were inconclusive.
Even when there was a reasonable explanation.

I knew.

And I kept pushing until someone listened.

Ectopic pregnancies are dangerous. They are life-threatening. They are not dramatic. They are not rare enough to ignore.

If something feels wrong — push.

Advocate.

Ask again.

Because you know your body better than anyone else ever will.

When I was lying in recovery after that surgery, I didn’t know that my son would be part of my future.

After my molar pregnancy, I had my daughter.

After my ectopic, I had my son.

Both of my children exist on the other side of loss.

And that reality has shaped the way I mother them.

When I found out I was pregnant with my son, joy came with fear. Every appointment felt heavier. Every cramp made my heart race. I don’t think you walk through back-to-back complications and ever experience pregnancy the same way again.

During my C-section with my son, I made a decision.

I had my remaining fallopian tube removed.

Not because I don’t love babies.
Not because I wouldn’t have welcomed more.
But because I was done gambling with my life.

I wanted to be here.

I wanted to watch my kids grow up.
I wanted to sit at school concerts.
I wanted to argue about curfews.
I wanted to grow old in the same house that now feels loud and sticky and chaotic.

After three surgeries in three years, I understood something clearly:

My presence matters more than possibility.

Motherhood, for me, has been both fragile and fierce.

It started with loss.
It deepened with fear.
And it continues now in tantrums and snack negotiations and bedtime stalling tactics.

There are nights when my daughter and son are both asleep, and the house is finally quiet, and I stand in the hallway for a moment longer than necessary.

Because I know how quickly things can change.

Because I know what it feels like to sit in an ER room and wonder if motherhood will ever happen for you.

And now it’s here.

Loud.
Messy.
Demanding.

And worth every scar.

I am not the same woman I was before those losses.

I am more aware.
More protective.
More grateful.
More tired.

But I am here.

And I will always choose being here.

Still loving them loudly — even between tantrums.