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A few days ago, as other women in wheelchairs were being escorted out of a women's hospital with their balloons and newborns, I was clutching a small stuffed dog as I was wheeled out. I am still holding tight to the little toy several days later, as its soft, pliable body seems to give me enough comfort to sleep. We have lost another one.
Our pain is much greater this time than with the second miscarriage. We were pregnant so much longer this time, all the way to eleven weeks; I had seen the baby's heartbeat; we had been diligent in maintaining a strict heparin injection schedule, and I never missed a baby aspirin; I participated in no physical activity that wasn't absolutely necessary, and ate like a horse, gaining weight even this early. We did every possible thing that we knew to do. Still, when we went for our eleven-week ultrasound, the baby was there, and a little larger, but the heartbeat was gone.
I sensed immediately from the ultrasound tech's movement and mild facial expressions that something was wrong. It was like the energy of the exam room, filled to bursting with me on the table, my husband, and the tech, suddenly shifted from a lively, happy feeling to somber quiet and tension. Jim moved around the machine, away from the screen, to hold my hand and place another on my forehead. "I'm not supposed to say anything, but I'm sure you can see that I'm not seeing a heartbeat," the tech said very quietly, and my tears began to fall down the sides of my face, soaking the paper that I was lying on.
After having another nurse, and finally my doctor, view the screen, all confirmed that indeed, our baby was no longer alive. Once they had all left the room, Jim and I cried and held each other, and I dressed to face the rest of this horrible journey. From the ultrasound room, we were escorted to another exam room where we could have privacy until the doctor could talk with us. I lay on my back on the table there, too exhausted to sit up, staring at the colorful mobile that spun slowly from the ceiling. Jim moved the mobile for me, almost as if to keep me engrossed so that I would not feel what I was feeling. Except for my occasionally sobs, we were silent.
After informing us that we had the right to have another ultrasound performed elsewhere for a second opinion, the doctor explained that a D&C would be necessary; apparently, the baby aspirin and heparin had worked in that the baby was firmly implanted this time. I can barely explain the feeling that I had, knowing that my deceased child lay inside my womb. I wanted to crawl out of my body and go somewhere, anywhere else. We chose to move on quickly, forego a second opinion, and have the D&C performed first thing the next day. At least this time, testing could be done on the baby's remains to hopefully determine a cause.
After spending the rest of the afternoon doing pre-operative labs and xrays, Jim and I retreated with what energy we had left to a nearby cafeteria. Incredibly, I was ravenous. As I had said pleadingly to my doctor, "...but I have felt more pregnant the past few days...", he had explained that my body was indeed pregnant, that everything that needed to be functioning and in place for a healthy pregnancy seemed to be in working order, and it would take time after the surgery for my hormones to adjust back to a normal, non-pregnant state. I was about to put my body through a tremendous shock, and the thought of feeling pregnant any longer was depressing.
Returning home, I gave Jim a list of people whom I needed him to call -- my sister, who would notify a couple of my online buddies by email who would in turn email my other loop friends; my supervisor at the hospital; and the rest of my family. I had already called the Administrator of the Ballet. I slept.
We rose before dawn to make my 5:30 a.m. appointment at the hospital, and it was eery -- most of the times in my life when I awoke so early it was because of something exciting: preparing to drive to vacation, Christmas, a new job. Now, I muddled about the house, unable to drink or eat or even put body lotion on after my shower, as Jim directed me and packed what I would need for this day trip. I felt completely numb and tired.
We had gone through Admitting the previous day so were directed straight to the second floor where a nurse briefly interviewed me. Her demeanor was warm and kind, and I knew that these folks felt for me and Jim. We were escorted to a vacant, semi-private room where I changed into my hospital gown and socks, was given a tiny dose of valium, and drifted off to sleep while Jim watched TV.
When I awoke later, it was to be guided onto a gurney. I looked at Jim's upside-down face in the hallway as I was wheeled away, and he kissed my hand before we said goodbye. I wanted to cry, but felt wrung-out. The people "driving" my gurney spoke energetically and reassuringly, so I did not feel alone. I spent some time in a pre-op room with other hair-netted, flat-on-a-gurney bodies where the nurses chattered in a friendly manner as they started IV's. Everyone patted me on the shoulder, a few stroked my covered hair or face. From that and the drugs, I felt completely relaxed and resigned to what was happening.
Once my doctor arrived, he greeted me with a smile and said that he had spoken with Jim in the hallway. The doctor kept his hand on my shoulder as he walked beside my gurney on the way into a brightly lit, very cold operating room. Just as promised by my IV nurse, hot-water bottles were keeping the operating table warm for me; when she had earlier told me that would be the case, I told her that she must be joking -- I'd had surgery before, and it was always a joltingly cold experience. Within a couple of minutes, everyone's voices and faces faded away.
When I awoke again in the pre-op/recovery room, I heard a chorus of different female voices talking and laughing; someone came over and said something to me with a smile. I listened as the women talked about where to get lunch, then watched as they sailed paper airplanes at each other. When one of the nurses heard me giggle at their fun, she threw an airplane to me. Again, I felt comforted, and drifted off to sleep again.
Later, I dozed in my semi-private room, and opened my eyes to see Jim presenting me with a stuffed dog. It wasn't one of the plushest or cutest I've seen, but when I wrapped it in my arms, a calm came over me. Something in me wanted to stay this way, in a semi-drugged state, in a comfortable, clean bed, with my husband and helpful women waiting on my every need. If I couldn't have a baby, at least I could feel this way. With Jim's help, I dressed, and a nurse helped me into a wheelchair.
As Jim went to bring the car around front, the nurse pushed me in my chair to the elevator, making sure to catch an empty one, and out the front door. The drive was lined with cars carrying infant seats, while busy, flustered-looking people loaded up flowers and balloons, and the wheelchairs all contained women with tiny babies in their arms. Jim helped me stand from my chair, stuffed dog in hand, and into the car. "Get me out of here", I muttered to Jim, as I clutched that dog and my paper airplane to my chest tightly, and we sped away from the parking lot.
© Tracy Morris
