This is a story about severe physical pain and deep
emotional hurt. It’s a story about grievous loss and deep grieving. Fighting.
Losing. Depression. Agony. Death.
Yet it’s
also– probably even more so – a story of spiritual awakening and renewed hope.
Healing. Redemption. Love. Life.
It’s a
story of miracles – given and taken.
Your story
might sound very much like it.
I hope you
like stories, even if they’re the kind that hurt. I hope you share yours and we
can recover – and learn to live again. Together.
~ ~ ~
I should
have known from the beginning that things weren’t going to end up in my favor.
And I should have known that not all pregnancies are the same. I should have
known that I wasn’t different, that bad
things happen to “good” people.
There are
many things I should have known. But, for whatever reason, I didn’t, just
because I didn’t, or I chose to willfully ignore them. Or I insisted on hanging onto a double-minded hope.
Eight weeks
into my second pregnancy, I started having problems. Having a medical group
that seemed more concerned about practicing medicine on a shoestring budget was
one of them.
Chris and I
had been forced to change insurance companies, and I selected a medical group
recommended by a co-worker in the medical field. The clinic was near our home,
which seemed like an added convenience.
From the
onset I had reservations about the care, and the skepticism intensified as my
pregnancy progressed. More than once I discussed switching facilities with
Chris. At the time we lived in Fallbrook, a small avocado and citrus farming
community in North San Diego County, California. Instead of continuing to drive
to Temecula, just ten minutes north, I thought it might be best to find a
doctor in Escondido, thirty minutes south of us. The hospital there was bigger
and more comprehensive in its care. Our small village hospital offered limited
services.
Selecting
and staying with my current medical group because of the driving distance
turned out to be the worst reason I used for selecting a medical facility.
Working in the medical field, I knew better. You don’t select a doctor because
of convenience.
Eight weeks
into the pregnancy, I started bleeding and immediately drove myself to the
urgent care facility of my new doctor’s office. Upon arrival I signed in,
listing my ailment as a possible miscarriage. Somehow the receptionist missed
this information, so I sat patiently in a chair – praying fervently – and preparing
myself for what I thought would be a heartbreaking diagnosis. If I were
miscarrying, there’d be nothing the urgent care doctor could do for me. I
resigned my heart to a loss even while I prayed for a miracle. After ninety
long minutes the admitting nurse read my questionnaire, gushed with apologies
for making me wait and rushed me into a treatment room.
Thankfully
the ER physician was a compassionate, gentle woman. During the examination she
found what she thought was embryonic tissue and softly announced that if I had
not miscarried, then I was probably in the process of doing so. A glimmer of
hope ignited when she promised to send the tissue to the pathologist’s office
for immediate evaluation. Furthermore, she insisted that I have an ultrasound performed
the following day to determine if there was indeed an “intact” pregnancy.
Reluctant to perform other procedures, she decided to “just let nature take its
course.” I was sent home to relax then resume my normal schedule in the
morning.
I returned
home acutely depressed, my heart drenched in failure and loss. I attempted to
encourage myself with self-talk about it not having been a strong pregnancy.
Perhaps there was something wrong with the baby; that it was just “not meant to
be.” It was easier to package my true feelings in a box, seal it shut and
discard it than to confront the pain.
We’d just
have to “try again.”
The
following day I felt renewed hope and determination – a hope that I’d be able
to “hang onto” this pregnancy, especially if I fought this fight mentally – concentrated
on good thoughts and hanging on. In the morning I drove to San Diego – almost
an hour drive – to substitute teach and then spent more than an hour on the
phone arguing with the medical director of my primary care facility about
having the ultrasound that the urgent care physician said I needed.
Then good
news elated me. The pathology report returned with questions as to the identity
of the tissue extracted the previous night at the urgent care facility. It was
definitely not embryonic! Hope
blossomed anew since the cramping had ceased and bleeding had stopped. With all
of these factors working in my favor, I remained determined to have a diagnosis
that afternoon.
Yet the
medical director insisted that I’d have to schedule an ultrasound for three
days later because there were other tests they could perform first to identify
bloodstream hormone levels. She also wanted an ultrasound technician to perform
the test – cheaper than a physician doing it. Although she didn’t say as much,
I knew it would save her medical group money to do it her way.
Yet I
didn’t back down. After I insisted that she tell me what she’d do if she were
bleeding with a baby she was carrying, she gave in – after a prolonged silence –
and I obtained my appointment with my delivering obstetrician for that
afternoon. My delivering obstetrician I hadn’t yet met.
That
meeting couldn’t come soon enough for my anxious heart.
You will show me the path of life… Psalm
16:11a NKJV
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