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I am finding it hard to write this. I have lost our baby. As I write those words, I feel a heaviness in my chest that seems unbearable, but what choice do I have? I cannot believe that it has only been one week since we discovered our blessing. Each day was so full of incredible joy that time seemed to go on forever. I was too excited to sleep each night and would lie awake thinking about which room to use for the baby's room, how I would decorate it, names for the baby...
Yet here I am, only a few days later, and I am no longer pregnant. I still feel traumatized by the events of the preceding two days. It began early Sunday evening, after a typical Spring weekend day of housework, yardwork, and walking the dogs. While walking one of my furry buddies, I broke into a jog and felt a sharp pain in my pelvic area. Immediately slowing to a walk and heading for home, I reminded myself that friends who had been pregnant before had reassured me that those slight twinges I had been feeling all week (and even prior to knowing I was pregnant) were normal, just my uterus growing. Still, I told Jim, my fiance, and laid on the couch while he finished dinner.
A little later, while using the toilet I noticed that I was spotting. I screamed for Jim from the bathroom. I could feel my heart racing as we called the clinic and had them page the doctor on call. I remained on the couch with my feet up while waiting for the call back. It seemed to take an eternity. Finally, a physician whom I had never met returned the call and told me there was nothing we could do. I offered to immediately rush to the hospital if necessary. Again, the doctor explained casually that at this early stage, there was no way to stop what he referred to as an "impending" miscarriage. I felt breathless as I heard those words, crying on the phone as I answered the doctor's questions about the details of my discomfort level and the amount of discharge I was experiencing. He reiterated that all we could was wait and see what happened.
Lying in front of the TV, completely flat, it felt as if I could neither hear nor see anything going on around me. All that I could hear was my own mind, racing and racing, endlessly crying out to any Higher Power that would hear me. The harder I tried to think positive, healing thoughts, the crazier I felt. The fear was so intense, there was nothing I could tell myself to make it go away. I have never in my life felt anything like that before. I was in pure survival mode, feeling like a caged animal who was watching her young die. I could feel an incredible energy that wanted to burst out of my body into action, but I had been told there was nothing I could do. The only thing I could do was think and pray. I found myself shaking uncontrollable, my body's way of expelling that energy, no doubt.
I could not eat. Before moving to the bedroom, I discovered that I was bleeding heavily now. I vaguely recall myself shouting and Jim helping me to bed. I began to sob as Jim called the clinic again, prompting another page to the doctor. When the doctor phoned, Jim spoke with him frantically, trying to ascertain whether or not I was in some kind of danger. After asking a few questions, the doctor reassured us that I was experiencing normal symptoms of a miscarriage, and that we should call the clinic first thing in the morning to schedule a follow-up appointment.
As Jim told me what the doctor had said, I experienced an odd sensation that I had only felt once before, ten years ago when one of my ovaries literally exploded after torsing. I could hear myself screaming, and I didn't feel connected to the sound. It was an eery sensation, an out-of-body experience. It was as if I heard a woman somewhere else screaming, and the scream was odd and scary. I could feel Jim's arms around me, but I felt no connection to him as I writhed on the bed in agony, listening to those screams.
Finally I was exhausted and quiet. Feeling abandoned with our tragedy, Jim and I remained in the bedroom that night, crying without words between us. There was nothing we could say to each other. We were both in too much pain.
The following morning, after determining that I was indeed still bleeding heavily, we prepared to go to the clinic. It was too early to call; we were just going to show up there. While dressing, I began experiencing waves of cramping that started out mild then peaked at such a strong level that I could not unfold my body. A couple of pain-free minutes would pass, then another wave of pain. I told Jim that I must be experiencing labor-like pains. He helped me dress, and by the time we left the house, I was barely able to walk.
Arriving at the clinic, emotionally and physically traumatized, I was ushered immediately into a phlebotomist's room. While she drew blood out of my arm, Jim inquired about my pain level. She asked why we were there, he explained, and she stated that it was indeed normal for me to be experiencing this much pain. She then proceeded to "save us". She asked us to repeat some words after her, which we did without feeling. She held our hands and prayed to her god for us, while we remained silent. While we consider ourselves spiritual people, neither Jim nor I claim a religion. Yet this woman, seeing our pain, proceeded to do the only thing that she could think of. Jim and I, in complete shock over the present events, merely went along with the woman, wishing only to leave the clinic.
When she was through, Jim asked about where we should go from there. The phlebotomist said that we could leave, and our test results should be available the next day. We weren't even sure of the reason for her drawing my blood.
Entering the elevator, I glanced at Jim. He was smiling. We began laughing quietly as we discussed what had just happened in the phlebotomist's room. Both of us had been wondering if the other was feeling any sort of spiritual salvation, while in fact, neither of us was. We remained of like mind, and the laughter itself was healing us within our own world of loss, pain, and confusion.
© Tracy Morris
