This is my subchorionic hemorrhage story: how it happened, what it was like, and how we’re doing now.
Spoiler alert: this story has a happy ending. There were a few hours, though, hours that stretched into days and weeks, of anxiety and uncertainty.
My Subchorionic Hemorrhage Story
It was the last Saturday in January. My aunt and uncle left around nine in the morning after a fun surprise visit. J took both kids to the golf course and I laid down for a nap. When they got home a few hours later, I got up and fixed the kids lunch and helped get them down for their naps. I got back in bed for another nap while the kids took theirs because I was still so tired.
I don’t know how long I slept before waking up, but I knew immediately something was wrong. If you’re a woman who’s had a period, you can probably relate to the feeling I had while laying in bed. I could tell I was bleeding, but in that strange state between sleep and wakefulness, it took me a few seconds to register the incongruity of the situation.
I was 14 weeks pregnant. Leaping out of bed, I found that I’d literally been lying in a pool of blood. After sprinting the few steps to the bathroom, not knowing what else to do, I sat down on the toilet. So much blood was pooled in my panties that, as I pulled them down, it splattered on the wall of the narrow water closet.
I shouted for J, but he was two rooms over and wearing headphones. I shouted again, and then I screamed his name. He came rushing into the room and I choked out, “I’m bleeding.” It was immediately clear to us both that I needed to get to the ER.
J’s parents had just left for a few days out of town, so he called his grandmother to come sit with the kids. I changed my panties and pants and grabbed a heavy duty pad absorb the blood during the 35-minute ride to the hospital. As soon as I stood up, though, I felt the pad fill with blood. I sat back down, replaced it with a fresh one, and tried again. Just like the first time, the pad filled with blood before I could make it to the hallway. Finally, after the third attempt, the bleeding seemed to have stopped enough for us to head to the car. We didn’t stop to grab a snack or pack a bag; J folded a couple bath towels for me to sit on and off we went.
I don’t remember what we talked about on the ride to the hospital; I remember praying, over and over again, “God, please don’t take this baby from us.” I knew what that amount of blood meant. It had to mean I was miscarrying the baby. After miscarrying our third pregnancy at 12 weeks, I’d just begun to feel hopeful again. J would tell me later that he was praying he wouldn’t lose the baby and me. He was concerned by the amount of blood he’d seen.