One last opportunity to possibly save the life of my daughter...
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When I returned to the doctor in March, I asked him about
the ultrasound results. A radiologist had read the pictures, and his diagnosis
flatly stated, “No problems.” I pressed my doctor about the tissue the
technician said she saw over the cervix and then asked the questioned plaguing
me. “Is it possible that I might have a placenta
previa?”
He again
referred to the radiologist’s write-up and said, “No, he said everything looks
okay. Nothing on the pictures.”
His
statement didn’t calm my fears, and he didn’t offer to subdue them by
performing a quick ultrasound check in his office. Regrettably, I lacked the foresight or courage to insist that he break the medical group’s
cost-saving rules and perform one.
Since I
continued to experience bouts of heavy nausea, he suggested the possibility of
my leaving work on disability. Because I’d witnessed so many of my former
patients abuse disability benefits, I balked at his suggestion and told him I’d
think about it. It seemed like a sign of weakness to me; I’d feel like a
failure if I couldn’t tough it out. (Remember the push-through-the-pain
competitor I’d been trained to be?) I wasn’t that sick anymore; certainly it was unnecessary to take such a drastic
step. He gave me a sympathetic look and told me to keep it in mind because he
understood. His wife had been on disability during her pregnancy.
Then he
discussed the recommendations for having an amniocentesis performed to check
for chromosomal abnormalities. I turned thirty-six at the end of February, and
he expressed concerns about the age factor – the magical age of thirty-six,
when the chance of having a baby with genetic problems statistically
skyrockets. Never mind that I conceived when I was thirty-five. He assured me
that he performed lots of “amnios,”
and they “were not that bad,” and explained that the further the pregnancy
advanced, the harder an elective abortion would be for me to experience, and
the riskier the procedure would be to perform.
Chris and I
had already discussed it, and we flatly said no to the amniocentesis. Abortion
wasn’t an option. We didn’t want to know the baby’s sex; and the diagnosis of
Down Syndrome wouldn’t have affected our decision to continue carrying the baby
to term. Furthermore, I possessed what seemed to be an irritable uterus, and
because of this, I feared the procedure would cause me to miscarry. My doctor
respected our decision.
Another
month elapsed and I felt more normal. Food again became enjoyable. Then, an
unusual feeling of pelvic pressure developed. When I mentioned it to my doctor
on the next visit, he flippantly waved his hand and
laughingly responded that all women experienced discomfort as their pelvis widened
and they gained weight. I frowned at him. The pressure I felt was unusual and directly
over the cervix. Placenta previa? I
wondered again, this time silently. He did decide to quickly examine the cervix,
and pronounced everything to be in “good shape.”
Something’s not right! I should ask him to
perform an ultrasound…Ask him! The chronic, self-accusations of being a
hypochondriac harassed my better judgment…and won, silencing the unuttered
request. I left the room, dutifully rescheduled an appointment for the
following month and headed home.
Just
seconds out of the parking lot at the corner light, the woman behind me rolled
her pickup truck into the back of my car. Although the impact seemed
insignificant, we both surveyed the bumpers. There was no visible damage, and
she apologized profusely, but her body language indicated that she didn’t want
to be retained too long at the scene. A thought blazed across my conscience: If I lose this baby because of you… Then
I immediately chastised myself for being so melodramatic. “Don’t be
ridiculous,” I reprimanded myself under my breath. “You aren’t going to lose
this baby!”
NEXT WEEK: Exactly one week later, the real loss, and trauma begin…
Thanks for joining me.
Blessings,
Andrea
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