For the beginning of this section of the story, when my placenta previa first ruptures, read the December 17 post.
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For several minutes Chris stood in the driveway, watching
the firemen leave in their trucks and cars. Bewildered and shaken, he walked
slowly into the house and wandered around aimlessly upstairs, murmuring to
himself. “What am I supposed to do now; what if she’s not alive when I get to
the hospital?”
The
paramedic’s succinct, sober comment to my husband, before swiftly closing the
ambulance door, was: “I don’t know if we’re going to make it in time.”
That
comment shocked Chris into reality and forced him to consider the possibility
of being a thirty-one-year-old widower with a little boy – a little boy who'd be three in twenty-nine hours.
For fifteen
minutes Chris dragged himself around the upstairs, and then stopped to gaze at
our peacefully sleeping son. Reluctantly, he returned to our bedroom to stare at the blood
puddles soaking into the carpet, recoiling at the idea of staying in the house
but terrified to go to the hospital. Knowing he couldn’t allow Parker to see the
blood, he labored to remove all physical evidence of the catastrophe.
After what
seemed to him an eternity of wandering and cleaning, he awakened Parker, placed
him in his car seat in the car, and drove the ten miles to the hospital. Parker
questioned him repeatedly as to my whereabouts, and Chris struggled to maintain
his calm while explaining to Parker that they were going to see me, quietly
fearful of what might confront them upon arrival.
My ride to
the hospital was uneventful, apart from the increasing discomfort, escalating
fear and deteriorating physical state. The aggravating elbow pain intensified
and kept me awake, yet my fear intensified as I silently wondered whether our
small village hospital could care for me.
My regular
obstetrician practiced at a hospital fifteen miles north of our home, in
another county. Since patients aren’t transported across county lines in
California, I’d automatically be taken to the closest hospital in San Diego
County where we lived. We’d heard plenty of negative rumors about our local
hospital’s reputation. To suggest that I was terrified of going to a hospital
where the quality of care was in doubt, and where I knew no medical staff,
would be an understatement.
Meditating
on God’s care and control didn’t cross my mind since my ingrained, fighting
survival mode had kicked in. But meditating on anything became increasingly
difficult. Everything seemed to be spiraling frightfully out of control. My control.
In an instant
the pretty, pristine blueprint I’d hastily fashioned for my destiny slipped
from my hands. If I were powerless to save my unborn baby, who else could
intervene? Pride, habit, a weak faith, and a significant lack of oxygen
restrained me from seeking God and the peace He could provide.
I did what
came naturally: I lapsed into a stoic state of mind, and, predictably, emerged
a woman harboring scant hope.
I had
volumes to learn about God and His perfect ways, and He was about to begin the
lesson.
Next Week: The hospital arrival – the
pain, the fear, the humiliation.
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Note: I will have
a special New Year post on Monday, December 31. My regular post will be up on
Wednesday, January 2.
Thanks for joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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