Sarah Jane Bell is a reporter for Channel 7 News. Earlier this year she was covering bushfires and a runaway bus, unaware the pain she was feeling was life-threatening.
I jumped out of bed at my 3am alarm as I would on any normal workday. My number one priority was coffee. As it brewed, I called emergency services, spoke to the Sunrise producers in Sydney and buzzed my camera operator to let him know where we’d set up. An extreme fire danger day had been declared and I had to be ready for my first live cross at 5.30am.
We went to a local fire station in Victoria to get ready. We do crosses to the studio every hour and sometimes on the half hours as well. It was just minutes before my first cross that the pain hit. It went from non-existent to 100 in a split second. My guess was that my IUD had somehow moved and was stabbing into me.
The microphone was lucky it didn’t break under my grip. By holding on, I could stay just about present. I regularly overshare with my colleagues, but I wasn’t quite up to explaining this one — mainly because I couldn’t explain what was happening to myself.
Between crosses and talking my way out of a parking ticket, I texted friends to ask if they’d ever experienced similar pain. They all urged me to drive to a doctor. However, it was my first day back in the newsroom after a stint in Queensland and the team was expecting a big news day, so I somewhat stupidly crawled on. If there’s one thing to learn from my story, it’s this: If you can barely walk, talk, sit or breathe, you most certainly need help.
I covered a story about an hour from the city. All the while my stomach grew, my muscles weakened and the waves of pain never went away. At one point, I poked my head into the local pharmacy and asked, “How would I know if I had appendicitis?” The camera operator deserves an award for keeping me muttering nonsense until we got back to the office in time for the nightly news.
By then I knew I needed a doctor. However, at that hour Victoria’s priority clinics were my only option. In hindsight, I should have gone straight to the hospital. As I entered the clinic 13 hours after the pain started, I felt some relief. I was with medical professionals. The doctor immediately asked if I was pregnant because of how I was walking and standing. I assured her there was no way I could be. It was when she subtly picked up the pregnancy test and came back with another doctor that I started to worry.
As they tried to lower me down on the bed, I felt what I can only describe as heart attack pain through my right shoulder and chest. That pain is called “shoulder tip pain” and is a sign of a ruptured ectopic pregnancy causing internal bleeding. I’d never heard of an ectopic pregnancy and had no idea about the seriousness of the situation. I naively asked, “Do I need to call my partner?” I don’t really recall what I said on the phone, but I’m sure the words “pregnant” and “hospital” would have stuck out.
I was rushed to Emergency. Three doctors appeared, tests started, cannulas were inserted and heart monitors positioned. Luckily, I had called my best friend and said I was in hospital. She came running, a bag with emergency supplies in hand (who doesn’t need coconut water and popcorn in that situation?) while my partner was making the long drive to the city from the farm.
At the third ultrasound, my friend and I laughed at the absurdity of the situation as she landed the job of taking off my underwear. She talked me through the pain like a Pilates class. “And pulse and pulse.” Laughter, then more shoulder tip pain. And again I couldn’t breathe.
There was discussion about moving me to a different hospital, but that was quickly dropped. An on-call specialist was on his way and emergency surgery was imminent. He arrived confident, calm and willing to ignore my rather untimely jokes. It was explained the fallopian tube would be cut out. Now ruptured, it wouldn’t be of any use to me anyway. I asked if there were options. The answer was no. Life-threatening internal bleeding didn’t leave any.
I’ll skip over the next part. We all know surgery isn’t fun. Though I doubt too many people are rolled into the sterile room with a full face of make-up, hair done and texting work they won’t be in the next day. The internal blood loss made it hard for the anaesthetist to insert the last tube in my arm to monitor my heartbeat. Then I was asleep, intubated and given two blood transfusions. It was well after midnight when I woke up in recovery. My partner arrived in time to listen to me chat away, high on painkillers, into the early hours.
With a stomach drain, drips and still wearing the makeup from the day before, I was eventually moved to another hospital to recover. My amazing mother arrived from interstate and could share the tasks with my partner of making sure I had enough pain medication and was sipping water.
I didn’t end up losing my fallopian tube, as they believe the ectopic pregnancy may have been in my ovary.
It took just over a week to have my first proper cry. Post-surgery, I had to have my pregnancy hormones monitored. A nurse asked, “How far along are you?” I had to explain. The follow-up question was worse. “Was this your first baby?” Again, I explained the situation and that I had an IUD, only to be met with the suggestion I “be more careful” next time. It was the first time someone had referenced this as a lost baby, not an emergency surgery to save my life.
When my partner came home that night my tears finally let rip. I hadn’t thought about this as my first “baby” and I personally don’t want to think about it like that. The pregnancy would never have been viable, so talking about it as though it was a possibility, and not just a medical issue, wasn’t a path I wanted my brain to wander down.
Incredibly, my doctor doesn’t think it will prevent me from having kids. He did cut out part of my ovary, but because he’s an expert in this field, he managed to stitch it back up, causing little damage.
I do wonder whether this is the day I will look back on as the start of a chain of events. Will it change my thoughts about having children, my relationship or my career? Or will it just be a blip on the radar, a bad week that eventually blurs in my memory and disappears?
This feature was originally published in The Australian Women’s Weekly Magazine. Pick up the latest issue from your local newsagents or subscribe now.
