Pat my bump, and tell me all of your pregnancy horror stories

In January we thought I may have been pregnant...by accident...I wasn't, or possibly had been and it simply didn't implant (I had all of the early signs of pregnancy along with a very late period, but no positive pregnancy tests).  Our disappointment, after the initial shock, was what made us change our minds about eventually starting a family.  For as long as E and I have dated we had both made it clear we weren't interesting in having children.  My experience in January made me genuinely concerned that I may not be able to get pregnant, were I to actively try. 

We decided to start trying during a week-long trip to New Jersey for a wedding.  Two weeks, and a positive pregnancy test later, I was genuinely shocked that my old ovaries didn't shoot out a dud on the first round.  We had our first OB appointment, saw the baby (who looked like a seahorse with a hummingbird heartbeat), and started to get excited.  Five days after that appointment, I hemorrhaged.  Discovering that I was bleeding was one of the worst moments of my entire life.  After a terrifying trip to the ER, we were informed that Little Buddy (which is what we had started calling the baby from about week 6) was still in there, and that I was just going to have to wait out the bleeding.   

I bled, on and off, from week 7 until week 14.  I was put on bed rest for a week, then had activity restrictions from week 8 until week 15.  It would stop for a few days, and then return...usually in the middle of the night, leaving me to lie awake and wonder if this pregnancy was going to make it.  I became depressed and withdrawn.  I was afraid to register for baby items, because I had zero confidence in my ability to carry this pregnancy full term.  Just looking at the few baby items we had been gifted brought tears to my eyes.  I fought through going to work, and completing assignments for school, and had almost nothing left by the end of the day.  E watched me stumble through my emotional ground zero, while doing whatever he could to pull me outside of my dark thoughts.    

Once the bleeding stopped, I developed horrific migraines.  Not just typical migraines, but migraines that came with the loss of an entire field of vision.  When it first happened, I thought I was having a stroke.  Now I have migraines and borderline high blood pressure, making me very high risk for preeclampsia.  I worked out a good treatment plan with my neurologist, and started seeing an acupuncturist.  The migraines are starting to back off in frequency and severity, and I'm beginning to feel cautiously optimistic.

While I may be an old, decrepit vessel, the baby is growing and healthy.  All tests have come back normal, and he's a little on the big side for his gestational age.  I'm so happy to be carrying a healthy baby, that I'm down for whatever strange and random things people want to share with me.  I have read a number of blogs about women who hate having people touch their bump, or turn their noses up at unwanted advice and pregnancy horror stories. I have grown to appreciate Kim Kardashian's pregnancy nightmares, because her oversharing makes me feel less alone in white-knuckling my way through pregnancy. 

Unsolicited pregnancy advice is to me, a reminder that I'm still pregnant, and that my bleeding never manifested into a worst-case scenario.  This week was the first week where I look pregnant in my scrubs.  At work, this has resulted in squeals, comments, and requests to touch my newly visible baby bump.  Again, some view this as an invasion of privacy, where I see it as a reminder that Little Buddy is that much closer to viability if something else were to go wrong.

I have four months (if my pregnancy remains uncomplicated) for people to make unsolicited comments, to invade my privacy, and to share horrific pregnancy/labor/breastfeeding/sleepless night stories with me.  To which I say, bring it on.  Those horror stories remind me that you can have a nightmare pregnancy, and end up with a healthy baby.  Go ahead and ask me if the baby was planned, if I'll be breast feeding, and how I plan to continue grad school and full-time work while caring for an infant.  Ask me if you can touch my bump, or just go ahead and grab it totally uninvited.  Tell me that I look like I'm having twins! While I may experience a moment of shock at some of the unsolicited comments, or at a surprise belly rub, underneath my startled look will be a feeling of gratitude that Little Buddy is in there doing his thing after a time of such great uncertainty.


**An unanticipated benefit of having multiple urgent OB visits, was receiving a whole series of ultrasound pics.  Little Buddy is more photographed than a Kardashian.

Addendum to my previous post

When I published my previous blog, telling my story was like looking back on a different life.  My intention was to help people understand that victims of sexual assault might be the girl next door, and that the perpetrators of these crimes are not always an obvious threat. 

One element of my previous blog, which has sparked some discussion was the use of the term "rape culture."  Many people have outright said that we do not live in a society that accepts rape as a part of our social norm, and that most people are disgusted by it.  Here are some examples of our rape culture at work:

1.  Woody Allen

• Scarlett Johansson actively engages in victim blaming, and casts doubt on the victim's credibility, even when his questionable behavior was well documented.
• Diane Keaton defended Woody Allen simply because he is her friend...and obviously, if you're a friend of Diane Keaton's, then there is absolutely no way you could possibly be a child molester.   Note to self: Hang out with Diane Keaton's friends, because apparently they are all infallible. 

When will we stop accepting rape as a part of our culture?

This has been bubbling up in me for some time now.  I feel the need to share, now more than ever, because rape is still readily accepted in our society.  Feel free to click on the links I've inserted throughout this blog, as they contain stories that hit close to home.  To many of you, this story will be shocking, as I have not openly shared my experience outside of my inner circle of friends.   Some of you will recognize who I'm referring to, and some of you will continue to believe that I was a willing participant, despite all the evidence to the contrary. 

Evil lurks in the most unlikely places.  Who knew that a tiny little seed of talent would grow a monster rather than a star?  Who would have guessed that the cocky boy, sitting at the piano in the high school choir room, was more dangerous to me than a stranger on a dark street?

I remember the events leading up to that night, as if it were yesterday.  I was wearing a white fitted tank top, faux suede brown pants (I loved those pants), and strappy sandals with a chunky high heel.  I was your typical invincible 17 year old.  I had gone to downtown Madison with a couple of girlfriends, where we ran into some guys from high school.  One of the guys was having a party, because his mom was out of town.  He had just graduated (this was the summer before my senior year) and he asked us to join them.  We had nothing better to do, so why not?  

We arrived at the party, the only three girls there.  I remember taking a couple of shots…I vaguely remember kissing the boy whose house we had gone to…and then, nothing.  Complete blackness until the next day….I had never been drunk before.  I had no idea that losing over 12 hours of memory was not a normal part of drinking.

.   

The following morning, my friend sat me down, and filled in the gaps.  She said she wanted me to hear it from her, rather than through gossip.  Apparently I had gone to this boy’s bedroom, and had sex with him.  Do I remember it?  No.  Was I a willing participant?  In that condition, absolutely not.  Was I even conscious?  I have no idea.  After being in his bedroom for a while, he came out to tell my friends that I had vomited blood, was unconscious, and he was unable to get me dressed.  The friend who was telling me this story was the one who put my clothes on, and the boys at the party tossed me into the backseat of my car, shutting the door on my leg a few times before successfully shoving all of my parts inside. 

While my friend was driving, I had a seizure, and as a result of the seizure, shit myself.  Not pretty, but an unfortunate part of this unfortunate story.  My friend took me home, unsure of what to do with me.  She got me cleaned up, and poked at me for the rest of the night…she poked at me each time I stopped breathing. This friend, saved my life.

As the gossip spread, my entire world shattered.  In the version of the story that circulated through my small town, I was a slutty girl who got drunk and had sex with a guy who had a girlfriend.  According to rumor, I was a willing participant.  In reality, he told his friends before we arrived, “I’m going to get Emily Miller drunk and fuck her.”  I found out later, that he had never had sex before, and wanted to figure out how to do it, because he didn’t want to have sex with his girlfriend as a “virgin.” His actions were completely premeditated.

Rather than try to correct the story that was going around, I descended into darkness.  I started making myself throw up, trying to purge the self-loathing within.  I went from the honor roll, to truancy and barely finishing high school.  I told my guidance counselor about the assault.  She advised me to keep quiet, seek therapy, and not press charges.  This was in the late 90’s, and courts ripped young women to shreds if alcohol was involved in a rape allegation.  She was concerned that I would be victimized all over again.  At the time, I agreed with her.  As I've grown into this experience, and the clarity that goes along with that process, she robbed me of my closure.  I have had 2 different mental health professionals tell me that this was actually illegal, because she was a mandatory reporter.  As a health care provider, yeah, I would have acted in advocacy of the victim rather than perpetuating the fear of victim-blaming. 

I had been accepted into the University of Minnesota, as a pre-med student.  By the time I left home I was so damaged emotionally, that there was no way I would be academically successful.  I lasted two trimesters at the U of M, and moved back to Madison to piece my life back together.  I was throwing up 5 times a day, and knowing that I was profoundly ill, saw a therapist twice a week.  I had the presence of mind to see my therapist through this entire process, because I knew I had to fight, or let my demons kill me. I often wondered why I survived that night, considering the medical events that occurred, and I clung to the belief that there was a reason I survived. 

During the years that followed, I partied, drank too much, and behaved erratically.  I burned bridges, and scorched personal relationships.  I knew I was out of control.  I was hurting the people I loved, but couldn’t help myself.  I looked at other women who had been assaulted under violent and dangerous circumstances.  I told myself, “At least I don’t remember.  It’s not like I was raped at gunpoint, or molested by a relative."  I told myself that I was lucky, all things considered, and I would not allow myself to be a victim.  

It wasn’t until I was 21, almost 4 years later, when the darkness started to lift.  For the first time since the incident, I felt like the person I used to be.  I loved life.  I laughed freely.  Adventures outside of Wisconsin presented themselves to me, and my whole world changed.  I started to take classes at the local community college, and the idea of becoming a nurse took hold.

Eventually, I moved to California, where I finished  nursing school.  Recently, I completed my bachelor’s degree and am on track to start a nurse practitioner program in January.  I married my best friend, and together we are in the process of building a life that I never would have dreamed was possible as I navigated my darkest days.  In the last few years, I have learned to forgive the person who did this to me.  Without him, many of the beautiful things in my life would not exist.  How would things be different if I had never gone to that party?  Who knows?  Does it matter?  No.  What evil was he battling that made him think his behavior was justified?  His road is far longer and darker than mine…                    

My suffering led me to help others, to be compassionate and loving during a time of need.  I survived to give back, and I'm grateful for each day of this spectacular life. 

I’m sharing this, 17 years later, because my experience is alarmingly commonplace.  Every week there’s a new story about a teenager who was at a party, raped, and left for dead.  I thank God that my assault happened before the era of social media.  Small town gossip eventually dies down, but the internet is forever.  If pictures of my assault had been shared all over Facebook and Instagram, I don’t know how my story would have ended.  Evil lurks in places where good parents and a happy childhood offer no protection.

I want to send a message to the new generation of sexual assault survivors.  You will get through this.  The road to healing is long and dark, and this time will reveal who your true friends are.  Love yourself.  You are worth so much more than you know.  One day you’ll wake up, years later, and marvel at what your life has become.  I can’t say that the process of healing is easy, but I can say that it’s worth it in the end.  I want to hug you, cry with you, and tell you it will all be okay.  When you come out on the other side of this, use your strength to help others, and know that you are a survivor and not a victim.