Weeping may endure for the night, but
joy comes in the morning. –
Psalm
30:5b NKJV
That
afternoon, saturated to the point of bursting with the required amounts of
water for a uterine ultrasound, I sat squirming in a chair in my new doctor’s
waiting room. Pregnant women filed in and out of the office – happy, expectant
women with whom I was reluctant to make eye contact. I wasn’t sure if I should
be sad or elated and wanted to avoid any reminders that the outlook for my baby wasn’t good.
Finally,
they called my name, and I walked diffidently into the examining room. The
medical assistant asked me the standard, perfunctory questions then slapped a
blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Good blood pressure. Any problems with the
pregnancy?” she wanted to know. Without waiting for my answer, she continued,
“How far along are you?”
“Yes, if
you check the chart you’ll find the problems; and, no, I don’t know how far along I am. That’s one of the reasons I’m
here.”
“We don’t
have your chart,” she snipped. “It’s at the other office.”
My eyebrows
shot up. So much for medical efficiency,
I thought. More disturbing patterns of
disorganization and unprofessional conduct.
A small,
Asian man in a lab coat – who I surmised was my doctor – suddenly burst into
the room pushing an ultrasound machine. Without introduction he initiated his
preparations for the test then visually assessed my swollen abdomen. With a
smile that squashed his cheeks up so high his eyes squinted, he pronounced, as
though he’d made an impressive discovery, “There’s baby in there!”
“That’s my
bladder,” I quipped cynically as he continued to slide the ultrasound head
across my abdomen before switching on the picture screen.
All six
eyes were glued to the screen. To my shock, then utter glee, the doctor was
right. The three of us watched – mesmerized – as a beautiful fetus with a
strong heartbeat wiggled around amidst the ultrasound vibrations. The rough
calculations told us I was probably eight weeks along, and that everything
looked fine. My cervix, however, was still open, so he insisted that I take it
easy. I pressed him about continuing work, and he relented to that, as long as
I could sit down while teaching. No problem. Since we weren’t presently
performing any lab work, there wouldn’t be anything to carry around the room
and assemble. He wanted to draw blood, but due to my severe dehydration
resulting from my constant nausea, the nurse found it impossible to keep a
needle in my vein. That specimen gathering would be left for another visit.
My fear and
sadness evaporated, and I exited the office elated and light-headed. My first
stop was a pay phone in the lobby; I couldn’t wait another minute to call
Chris. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and erupt with the good news. The
previous evening we had mourned our abrupt loss. Now I was telling him to
prepare a nursery! I couldn’t discern whether he was happy, shocked, bewildered
– or all three – but I couldn’t contain my euphoria. The phone call was too
brief since I was running late for work. Oh,
why do I have to work on a night like this?
With tears
streaming and praises of thanks on my lips, I treaded into a rain-soaked
parking lot. The deluge was both physical and spiritual refreshment, and I was
happily drenched when I slid into my car.
God had
answered my desperate and defective prayers. He had “come through” for me. We
were really going to have another baby after all!
~ ~ ~
Within days my joy would be overshadowed. Life was going to
get rough. Really rough.
_______________________________________________________________________
Below is an email I received from a friend and writing
mentor of mine: writer, editor and speaker Donna Clark Goodrich, about the
event her daughter experienced during her second pregnancy. She has graciously allowed me to share it with you.
Andrea, I can so identify with your blogs as my
daughter had two miscarriages. The sad thing about the second one is that the
doctor didn't tell her the day of the ultrasound when she went in for some
spotting, only ordered some blood tests. I was with her and when we left the
doctor's office, Janet said, "Those were the same blood tests they ordered
when I lost the last baby." I told her to go back and ask her, but she
didn't want to.
A couple weeks later when she went back for her
regular appt., she met not with her doctor or her doctor's nurse, not even the
other doctor, but the other doctor's nurse who opened the folder and said,
"Are you Mrs. ____?" My daughter said yes, and the nurse said,
"According to this, your baby's dead." That was it!
My daughter, knowing she wouldn't go back to
that doctor, asked for her records, and when she checked back on the day of the
ultrasound, the doctor had written "spontaneous abortion; patient
notified," which, of course, was a lie.
The worse part was, that the doctor had sold
her name and due date to manufacturers, and the next May when the baby was due,
Janet got all kind of congratulatory letters, coupons, and samples. It was
living it all over again!
Donna
________________________________
This horrific,
inexcusable event happened some years ago. I would like to think – hope – that doctors, nurses and medical
staff have become more competent and compassionate
since then. A baby is a living human being from the moment of conception, and
the loss of one is traumatic no matter what week, month or trimester you’re in.
Does anyone else
have any more stories to share, good or bad? Good ones will certainly raise our
hopes and confidences!
Blessings,
Andrea
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