Worst flight ever

We went to a wedding in Florida, leaving when I was 6 weeks + 3 days and coming home at 7 weeks + 2 days. I hadn’t been experiencing any majorly annoying symptoms, other than hating most food, so I managed to enjoy the pool and beach time as much as possible without my beloved Miller Lites. I did have a glass of wine at the wedding though and it was undoubtedly one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. Anyways, all was well until the day we were leaving. The pain started in the morning and ultimately lasted until around 11 pm. In the morning it wasn’t too bad and I just keep moving around to try to get relief. It was in my lower left abdomen (thank god I googled “gallbladder rupture” before we left and learned it was on the other side so I couldn’t panic about that). And it was intense. I thought maybe it was just gas pain because in early pregnancy your digestive system slows to a crawl and you can’t take a decent shit to save your life. But it was so localized and so intense that I wondered if something else was going on.

You are always looking out for one-sided pain in particular because of the risk of ectopic pregnancy, where the baby is growing somewhere other than the uterus – usually in a Fallopian tube. This not only means you’ll lose the baby, but it’s also life threatening for the mom, as when it eventually ruptures you bleed internally.

The trek home consisted of an hour and a half drive to the airport in Tampa, and a connection through Houston to Calgary. It all sucked, but the flight from Houston was really where I began to consider geography and wonder if I would have to make them make an emergency landing in Denver. I actually thought something was exploding near my left ovary. I was also throwing up on this leg of the trip, when I wasn’t curled up in a fetal position. My husband was worried and frozen, especially when I started crying. I’m an emotional cryer but not a physical pain one, preferring to curse my way through pain like a motherfucking sailor on shore leave. I didn’t cry when I broke bones, severely burned my hand or stabbed a knife through my palm trying to pit an avocado. Although of all these, I especially advise against breaking a rib. Sacrifice an arm if you must.

The pain was shy of excruciating, but by hour 7 or so I still just couldn’t take it anymore. I had resigned myself to going straight to the hospital when we got home, but then we landed and it started to ebb away. Exhausted, and knowing I had a doctors appointment already conveniently scheduled first thing the next morning, I went straight to bed and passed out.

After confirming that I was in fact pregnant (thanks doc) she made a call and got me in for a rush ultrasound, also fearing the possibility of an ectopic. Although the fact that my pain had disappeared was a good sign. Perry was snug in the uterus, flickering away (flickering is the magic word you want to hear at this point, since that is the heartbeat of the shapeless blob). So in a way, I was actually kind of lucky to have the chance to see Perry at just 7 weeks. All 12mm of him, which was bang on for dating the pregnancy at 7 weeks + 3 days.

Heartbeat was 143 bpm, “yup, that’s about what mine is right now too,” said Andrew.

What the pain was, we’ll never know. Could have been a rupturing cyst of some type, a gastrointestinal issue (your colon is in that quadrant of your abdomen) or just horrible gas. Google tells me that some women liken bad episodes of gas pains to labour pains, so I guess they can be pretty intense. Here’s hoping labour only has me in tears after 7 hours.

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