Empty Womb, Empty Arms, Shattered Dreams

The first—and last—day...

            Ironically, the same giddy euphoria persisted, as if I’d given birth to a living baby, making me eager to announce the news that I’d delivered a beautiful girl. Phoning my friend Tammy, I said a quick hello then blurted out, “I had a baby girl, but she didn’t survive.” So blunt; so matter-of-fact, almost as though someone else besides me spoke.

           

            Silence greeted my harsh announcement as she tried to disseminate the information and search for something to say, some appropriate response. Finally, she simply, gently asked how I was doing. “Fine,” I offered. “I’m doing very well.” (How could she believe that?)

           

            Tammy offered quick condolences, and I sensed her discomfort. She didn’t know what to say. The remainder of the conversation was polite, friendly and short; we both went through the phone-etiquette motions. I felt talkative, in need of company; Tammy remained reserved. Her almost palpable discomfort leaked through the phone line. I’d abruptly invaded her secure family sphere and invited a watershed of undesirable emotions.

           

            After hanging up, I decided against calling anyone else. Who’s going to be willing, or even able to appreciate my pain and desperate need to share this bittersweet joy? My pastor did call and listen patiently to my endless, rattling diatribe, and offered kind words, emotional support and sincere gratification that I’d survived the ordeal. He promised to visit before my release. My mother also phoned to inquire about my condition, both physically and emotionally. Similarly, I sensed her discomfort and doubts concerning how to respond to me or my loss.

           

            True, I lacked the opportunity to live with Victoria and know her as a unique person, to enjoy that mother-daughter relationship. Nevertheless, her life was real. Her sudden death was real. Her brief life gave me joyful, life-alerting baby kicks, uterine contortions, and in-utero hiccups; Chris and I had dared to conjure up hopes and dreams for her.

           

            Her death wrenched all that from us. It was more than a terrible loss. It was a gross shattering of dreams that abruptly left me with an empty womb and both of us with empty arms. I desperately needed to share that with someone; and none of my friends either sensed my need or seemed willing to listen.

           

            At least I had a compassionate nurse who was experienced in the area of neonatal loss and grief counseling—such as it was in 1993—and she requested to spend the entire day with me. Yet sometime after she brought Victoria to me, I was jolted when she asked if I had a preference in mortuaries in town: would I prefer she call them, or would I make the contact?

           

            My eyes widened as I struggled to comprehend her question. “No. I…I…I didn’t know that…that was my responsibility,” I stammered, trying to control my shock and maintain composure. I suddenly felt sick. “I just…assumed…the hospital would take care of that sort of thing,” I mumbled. Victoria was so premature, so little. Do they really expect me to make the arrangements with an undertaker? Doesn’t the hospital morgue take care of that?

           

            “Twenty weeks is considered to be the gestational age of viability. Victoria was twenty-one-and-a-half weeks; she just made the cutoff,” she explained, observing me apologetically. “The hospital prefers that it be taken care of as soon as possible. Should I make the call for you?”

           

            My brain wouldn’t engage. Dumb and mute, I couldn’t speak. I only sat and blankly stared at her.

           

            “I’ll go ahead and call the mortician in town,” she offered. They are very good at handling these things. He’ll call you sometime today then come in and discuss the arrangements with you—cremation or burial, or other desires you might have.”  

           

            “Okay,” I murmured. “Thank you. I would appreciate it if you did make the call.”

           

            With the unpleasant tasks taken care of, she set about providing me with emotional support and infant death booklets to read, and patiently abided with me as I talked, questioned—groped—for comfort and answers. She tenderly washed my exhausted, wasted body and nursed my soul. When her shift ended that evening, I felt as much loss of her emotional presence as her physical closeness.

           

            Before she left I savored one last opportunity to plant more kisses on Victoria’s forehead, and to utter a final goodbye to my precious little girl. It was time. Without her own breath of life, her brand new, delicate appearance was beginning to wane outside the nourishing confines of my womb. In death, her tiny body was already beginning to wither.

           

            Victoria’s dead. She’s not going to miraculously awaken in my arms, no matter how firmly or hopefully I hold her. The hourglass had emptied and the time had finally arrived to give up her physical body; her spiritual body had already ascended to loving arms in heaven. He held and caressed her now; I’d have to wait to embrace her again. Someday I would go to her, but she would not return to me.

           

            Ring the bell for the nurse and get it over with!

           

            “Are you ready?” she asked upon entering my room.

           

            I wanted to scream: Ready!? How can I ever be ready!? Instead, I gave the nurse a slow, affirmative nod. Then almost as quickly as she had come, she was gone. With my baby. Forever.

           

            Empty, limp arms flopped onto my lap. My heart felt as vacant as the baby blanket folded neatly on my bedside table. That blanket, two blurry Polaroid pictures of me holding her, tiny footprints pressed onto a pink card, and the ultrasound pictures taken two months before were all that was left to remind me of her—to prove she existed.

           

            “Oh, most merciful God…where do I go from here?”

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            Although later in this story I will get to a detailed discussion and reminiscing of appropriate, not-so-appropriate, and downright thoughtless, careless words that were spoken to me about my loss, I want to ask you: How would you respond to someone who has suffered the loss of a baby, either to miscarriage, neonatal death, prenatal death, or in infancy?

            If someone has never suffered this kind of loss, they have absolutely no idea what you’re going, have gone through, or may continue to go through in the future. And that includes the well-meaning medical staff trying to help you through it, or, as you will learn later in my story, trying to rush you through it. They may show compassion, they might know all the right words to say, but they will not be able to feel the depth of your anguish – the loneliness, the disorientation, the despair.  

            Think carefully about the question. What would you want someone to say to you?

Well-meaning Christians are often guilty of trying to attach problem-solving, pain-vanquishing Scripture to every problem. Be careful. These words can sound pious and disingenuous, and have a negative effect on the receiver. Remember, weep with someone who weeps, be s-l-o-w to speak. And be a most excellent listener! 

           

            On a side note—happy, I might add—today, February 25, I’m celebrating my birthday! In two days, my youngest—and he and his birth are the miraculous, happy ending second part to this story—will celebrate his 18^th birthday. At 18, I think he’s far more jubilant than I to be celebrating a birthday!

            But April 13 of this year will be the 20^th anniversary of Victoria’s birth and death. And I am finally doing something I should have done many years ago but probably couldn’t, for a variety of reasons: I’m taking all of the sympathy cards, the Polaroids, the card bearing her footprints, the ultrasound pictures and the baby blanket, and securing them in a photo album dedicated to her. And that album will be going on my shelf next to the other albums celebrating important events in my and my family’s life. She’s as much a part of that as are my other two children.  

Victoria Lee Owan; February 18, 1993
20 years and 1 week ago today

             And one more note: If any of you are experiencing the pain of loss, or have personal questions, or prayer requests you do not feel comfortable posting for all the world to read, please feel free to email me at andreaarthurowan@gmail.com. I’d be happy to communicate with you that way. And if you’re struggling in a high-risk pregnancy—and are bed-ridden, scared, or feel like you’re at the end-of-your-rope mentally, I’ve walked that path too. When I lived in California, I was involved with a group offering support to pregnant women confined to bed. Having spent 3 months of my last pregnancy in this position, I’m all too aware of how difficult it can be—physically AND emotionally.

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NEXT WEEK: Chris returns, realization of a prayer miraculously answered, and missing a chance to say goodbye, together…

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Thanks for joining me.

Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea

  

Holding Her Close, Saying Goodbye

Precious in the sight of the LORD

is the death of His saints.

Psalm 116:15

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            Around 7:30 that morning, I awoke, still feeling eerily euphoric, and relieved to be able to sit up and move around, although still restricted from getting out of bed without assistance. That would come later in the day when I’d slide out of bed and enjoy a wobbly, three-step shuffle to a wheelchair, followed by a warm shower. The reality of loss hadn’t fully penetrated; my spirit lay protectively cushioned in denial – the early stage of grief.

           

            Dr. Gordon arrived early and asked how I felt.

           

            “I feel great!” I announced with a bit too much enthusiasm. My words resonated a hollowness.

           

            “Sure you do,” he retorted, smiling sympathetically at my over-ambitious and enthusiastic assessment. “Look at your fingernails.”

           

            I quickly surveyed my hands and nails. With bewilderment, I noticed their ash-white shade.

           

            “Your nail beds look as though you died,” he pointed out with friendly sarcasm. “You aren’t ready to get up and begin running around; you need to replenish your red blood cells first. And that means rest, iron pills and food.”

           

            “Real food,” I sighed. That seemed an acceptable alternative to a transfusion.

           

            After examining my incision and stitches, and visiting a little longer, he left me to enjoy my first solid meal in four days.

           

            While eating my mind wrung its neurological hands: Will anyone say anything to me about Victoria? Will they automatically bring her to me? Will they ask if I want to see her? Or have they already taken her away? Wouldn’t they know I’d want to hold her? Afraid to inquire, I ate in silence, eyes examining my food, while the nurse cuffed and compressed my arm and had me twist my tongue around a thermometer for the compulsory vital statistics update.

            Soon after I finished eating, another nurse arrived to announce she’d be wheeling me down the hall in a wheelchair to bathe in the handicapped shower. Unintentionally, I blurted, “May I see my baby?” Then I sucked in my breath.

           

            “Of course,” she replied. “I was wondering when you would ask. I will bring her in for you to hold.” I exhaled as my heart pounded wildly.

           

            Within minutes she returned, carrying a small bundle. Victoria was swaddled snugly in a soft, pink and blue-striped receiving blanket, as though she needed shielding  from the cold, just like all other babies in the nursery. She placed her gently in my outstretched arms, smiled tenderly and quietly left the room.

           

            I lay Victoria delicately on my lap and hesitantly unwrapped the blanket to gaze at her. Chris was right; she was so little. And she was perfect; every intricate, miraculous detail was there. Carefully, I caressed her head, feeling with delight the first wisps of reddish-blonde hair, then cradled her tiny head in the palm of my hand. I stroked her eyebrows and tenderly ruffled her silky eyelashes with my fingertip. Her eyes had not yet opened, so I could only imagine them being the piercing, vivid blue illuminated in my husband and son. My fingers outlined her tiny ears then migrated to her pouting bottom lip. Just like Parker’s, I thought with a melancholy smile. Her skin was translucent, resembling a fragile china doll; even in death, I feared she might break in my grasp.

           

            Gently opening her clenched fists, I wound her five diminutive, dainty fingers around my one little finger and stared in awe at the miniscule nails adorning the ends. Curled in the fetal position, she resembled a content, slumbering baby. For a brief moment I could have deluded myself into believing she was still alive, and merely resting contentedly in my arms. Fastidiously, I re-wrapped the blanket around her frail form and hugged her to my warm body. She looked so cold.

           

            Throughout the day I held, cradled, observed, stroked and murmured in her silent ears, “Oh, Victoria…I am so very sorry. I love you!” Repeatedly, I kissed her forehead and caressed her satin cheeks. Chris insisted that she resembled me. I was sure she was identical to him and to her big brother. Although I did concede to her having my chin; yes, it was definitely my chin. And maybe my nose. And of course, I had been an auburn baby, and then a reddish-blonde child.

           

            Unequivocally, she was beautiful, and I longed to savor these precious moments with her. Once they came to remove her from my embrace, the separation would be permanent. I felt a sense of urgency to prolong my meager demonstrations of love, and to say hello—and goodbye—in as many ways and forms I could. The clock ticked unforgivingly in its reminder that the hourglass had no respect for my needs or desires.

           

            In mid-afternoon a young woman from housekeeping entered my room and started dusting and emptying. I greeted her with a smile and hello then returned my attention to the tiny infant lying on the bed in front of me. She glanced over at my bundle and smiled a wide, congratulatory smile. Then her head snapped around to look at Victoria again. With the realization that the tiny infant on the bed was inanimate, a look of horror contorted her pretty face. She exited the room in lightning speed, leaving her cleaning duties unfinished. At the door she threw an appraising glance my direction. A glance that made no attempt to conceal her private thoughts: she thought I was a demented, desperate mother.  

           

            Deep compassion for her flooded my heart. How can she possibly comprehend or appreciate what I’m going through? I was a desperate mother. And at that moment I was behaving in the most natural way a desperate mother would behave: faltering, laboring—struggling with every once of energy and sanity I still possessed—to endure this hideous reality in the most constructive manner I could.

           

            With the grace of God, I struggled to take up my newly constructed cross and bear my uninvited, wholly unwelcome burden.  

           

            How could God consider so “precious” what I considered so detestable?

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NEXT WEEK: The final goodbye and unexpected decisions to make…

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Again, thanks for joining me.

Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea

             

When a Baby Dies - How Does a Father Say Goodbye?

And [David] said, “While the child was alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, “Who can tell whether the Lord will be gracious to me, that the child may live?”

But now he is dead; why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”

2 Samuel 12:22-23 NKJV

To everything there is a season,

A time for every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born,

And a time to die;…

A time to weep,

And a time to laugh;

A time to mourn,

And a time to dance;

A time to gain,

And a time to lose;…

Ecclesiastes 3:2a, 4, 6a

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            Sometime after 3:00 AM I regained consciousness in the operating room. Evidently I was still alive. I choked on mucous settled in my airway and struggled to breathe. No one seemed to notice. Great. I survived the last four days and surgery, and now I’m going to suffocate in front of a busy operating-room staff. A nurse finally noticed my gasping and called it to the attention of the anesthesiologist, who promptly suctioned my airway. My brief episode of panic subsided as they wheeled me into the recovery room area.

           

            Dr. Gordon was notified of my alert state and soon came striding in to excitedly tell me everything had gone well. Well? Maybe the surgery went so well that the baby miraculously survived. My heart pounded with hope, but since I was too afraid to ask, and he didn’t offer any magical commentary, I quickly slumped back into reality. I guess by “well” he means he didn’t lose me too.

           

            “There’s someone outside who is waiting to see you,” he said, patting my shoulder and smiling.

            

            Chris quickly appeared in the recovery room and leaned over the bed. “It was a girl!” he announced jubilantly, a triumphant smile illuminating his face. He too seemed thrilled enough to make me wonder if we had a miracle awaiting us in the nursery. But further words like “She made it!” weren’t forthcoming, so I knew better than to ask fantastical questions. Chris must have been aching to convey that information, since Dr. Gordon revealed the sex of the baby to him upon his midnight arrival at the hospital. I’d been adamant about not knowing the baby’s sex before delivery and reiterated my need-to-be-surprised to Dr. Gordon, especially during each ultrasound. Dr. Gordon had honored my petition and kept the secret. He’d actually seemed delighted at the request. Somehow Chris had managed to keep the secret too.

           

            Dr. Gordon joined Chris at my bedside and instructed me to hold tightly to my pillow and cough up more breath-arresting mucous. When I clenched the pillow and sharply contracted my stomach muscles, the acute, stabbing pain of the new C-section incision jolted my fragile senses. This isn’t over, is it God? I have to endure more physical pain.

           

            Turning my head to respond to the recovery room nurse’s question, my eyes and heart were assaulted by her swollen abdomen. She was pregnant. Very pregnant. Trying to forget my own abruptly terminated pregnancy, I nervously launched into a distracting discussion about her being able to continue working such long, late hours while carrying a baby. We intermingled that topic with small talk. She was close to her due date, excited about the impending birth and termination of the aches and pains accompanying the third trimester. I felt happy for her. I needed to feel happy for her. I wished her good luck when they pronounced me ready to return to my room.

             

            Once back in the room and repositioned on a brand new egg crate pad – oh, why hadn’t they given me one of these before; I might have managed to make it longer! – I felt weary, but emotionally revitalized. Actually, I felt oddly, unnervingly euphoric. My neurons and endocrinology system didn’t distinguish between postnatal happy endings or heartache. The brain had successfully done its job and triggered the opioid chemical release right on cue. Jubilant, post-delivery endorphins ran rampant through my body. But I could tell Chris wasn’t sharing my blissful state when he suddenly clutched my hand and desperately, emphatically blurted, “I want to try again, right away!”

           

            I blinked at him, shocked. During the nausea therapy we both adamantly declared we couldn’t go through “that” again. Of course, neither of us, at any time, honestly considered the possibility of losing the baby during pregnancy. But we had vehemently affirmed our commitment. So convinced was I of our choice, that I considered asking Dr. Gordon to perform a tubal ligation of my Fallopian tubes during the C-section. Now Chris was changing his mind. He feels like a failure; he desperately wants to replace her. I simply asked him if he were sure, and he responded with an almost-too-confident “Yes!”

           

            “Well…we can wait to see what Dr. Gordon says about even having another baby.” I inhaled deeply and continued to stare at him. “Did you see her?” I asked gently.

            

            “Yes. I got to hold her right after she was born. And she was so cute; she was perfect!” The nurse midwife said she was absolutely perfect.” He barely managed to choke out the last statement. His eyes welled with tears, and he massaged them vigorously with his fingers. “I want to name her Victoria,” he continued categorically, as though making a monumental decision to which he wanted no resistance.

           

            “But I thought you didn’t like that name!” I was astonished. I’d selected “Cory” for a boy and “Victoria Lee” for a girl. Chris had rolled his eyes and expressed a rebuffing sniff at my girl’s name selection. “Too sophisticated and snooty,” was his immediate verdict. But I couldn’t understand how Victoria Lee sounded any more imposing than our son’s “Parker Prescott,” so I really hadn’t considered different names. And I thought there’d be plenty of time left to make that important decision. Plenty of time...

             

            “She looks like a Victoria,” he replied. “I want to name her Victoria Lee.”  

           

            I studied his watery, cornflower blue eyes and nearly drowned in their turbulent sea of anguish. He was trying valiantly to portray steadfast determination and self-control, to maintain a sense of manly composure.

           

            “Okay…we will name her Victoria Lee.” He gently squeezed my hand he’d been nervously, distractedly massaging and nodded in affirmation.

           

            “I better go pick up Parker from Carol’s and try to get some sleep before I leave for work,” he uttered after a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to leave him there all night.” Torn between staying by his wife’s side and watching over his son. His shoulders slumped as fatigue and acute, oppressive, burdening grief gained the upper hand. The momentary gratification and pride of naming his daughter rapidly evaporated.

           

            “All right,” I said, patting his hand. There was nothing more he could do there anyway. I needed sleep, and I sensed his deep, unspoken desire to escape the hospital confines, with its asphyxiating atmosphere of death. I didn’t think his hanging around the room would help either of us.

           

            Still clutching my hand, he suddenly surrendered to his crushing sorrow; enormous sobs convulsed his body. His fingers flew to his face again, and he viciously stabbed his eyes with them. “She was so little and beautiful,” he choked as his body collapsed, and his head found a resting place on my breast.

           

            There was nothing more to say.

           

            In the quiet darkness of the hospital room, I held him and stroked his hair as he succumbed to the weight of unbounded grief.

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NEXT WEEK: My turn to say goodbye to my baby girl, Victoria Lee…

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            Since I was indisposed, so to speak, I didn’t witness Chris’s immediate reaction to seeing Victoria for the first time. Some time after her death, he was able to relay to me his response. Initially he was shocked. Actually, more than shocked. He was shocked, bewildered. Angry. When the nurse midwife – weeping uncontrollably – brought his newly born and newly died, pink, bundled baby into the waiting room to deposit in his lap – without prior request from him or prior warning – his first, unvoiced reaction was, “How can you be so cruel? I don’t want to hold her. What in the he _ _ do you expect me to do with her?”

           

            But what they knew, and he quickly realized, was that he needed to see her. He needed to hold her. He needed to see her, feel her, touch her. She was real and she was his. Flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. His precious baby girl.

           

            And he needed to say goodbye, even while he said hello.

           

            Saying goodbye, I’m not sure he’s ever truly done. After all of these years, he tells me he’s still not ready.

           

            The words he uttered to her that night are his own – private, pained, outpourings of his severed heart. 

           

            Just as my hello and goodbye would be hours later.

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Thanks so much for joining me.

Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea

The Battle's Lost and the Pregnancy Abruptly Terminated

Have thine own way, Lord! Have thine own way!

Wounded and weary, Help me, I pray!

Power, all power, Surely is thine!

Touch me and heal me, Savior divine!

Adelaide A. Pollard, 1862-1934

            Monday, April 12, I felt physically uncomfortable and increasingly apprehensive, as though a “sixth sense” warned me of tornadic events about to unleash.

           

            After just four days of confinement, emerging pressure sores peppered my hips, making it necessary to carefully, and more frequently, shift position to avoid lying on one side too long. Every movement became a strategic and terrifying effort, and I made repeated, paranoid visual checks to see if the movement caused the bleeding to resume. Rechecking became my obsession-of-the-day.

           

            I wasn’t the only one concerned. The nurses also made unusually frequent checks. As the hours progressed, I became more tense and fidgety. Neurotic flashed through my conscience like a blinking, neon sign when every muscle in my body tensed after each fluid dribble. The muscular movements required during my sponge baths also caused me concern. Dr. Gordon had said I wasn’t to move a muscle. But the warm water relaxed me so; and it was wonderful to feel clean. Suddenly baths became indulgences, and guilt waltzed with neurotic in my brain.

           

            Abruptly at 6:00 PM, vice-like pain skewered my low back – pain identical to the back pain I experienced while in labor with Parker. Heart pounding, breathing shallow, I buzzed the nurse and blurted out my diagnosis.

           

            Calmly, friendly, a nurse entered, offered a brief comment in a mildly patronizing tone, and then left to locate the fetal monitor. After strapping the monitor belt around me and watching the numbers on the screen, she pronounced everything “fine.” According to her, I was not in labor. Wanna bet? I thought.

           

            Agitated, I re-explained the pain and how I’d met with identical pain during the delivery of my son. She respected my evaluation and called for another, more experienced obstetrics nurse to peer at the monitor numbers, and me. With still no measurable labor signs, they left the monitor strapped to my middle, patted my leg soothingly and returned to their hallway station.

           

            Within minutes Chris arrived for his on-his-way-home-from-work visit. I appealed to him to apply pressure to my back to possibly alleviate the pain, but the simple touch of his hand aggravated it more. Just like Parker’s labor. Unable to stay, since he needed to pick up Parker, he told me to call him should anything change.

           

            Minutes later, my parents called from Hawaii. They’d canceled a lengthy European trip because of my emergency – my father insistent that he would not depart for a vacation under these circumstances - and became distressed when I perfunctorily told them I couldn’t talk because I thought I was in labor. They promptly phoned Chris to find out if he “knew what was going on over there,” and to fill him in if he didn’t. Twenty-five hundred miles away from the action, I’m sure they felt helpless and anxious.

             

            The undulating back pain and soundless monitoring continued until 8:00 PM when the unmistakable brutal cramps of labor roared through my body like a famished lion. My eyes frantically searched the monitor’s digital readings. There they were: the discernible, measurable labor contractions; and the baby’s heart beating wildly in response to each compressive squeeze. Tears slipped down my cheeks as my frenetic, trembling hand buzzed the nurse again.

           

            This time the obstetrics nurse’s eyebrows shot north as she inspected the monitor numbers then jogged out of the room to call Dr. Gordon. He ordered another round of magnesium sulfate pumped through my IV and confirmed he was on his way. When he ordered the mag sulfate, I ordered two cold, wet washcloths to alleviate the burning sensation that would soon hasten its way through my body. And I prayed fervently that I wouldn’t expel the nauseating chemical as I had the first day. Still under orders not to move around, I forced myself to remain on my left side, eyes transfixed on the monitor readings, begging God that every contraction would be the last.

           

            The mag sulfate had done its job when I first arrived; it just had to work for me again! Please, God, make it work! By the time Dr. Gordon arrived, I’d thrown one washcloth over my face, hiding from the glaring monitor numbers and the nurses working frantically about the room. The contractions and lumbar pain bore down every minute-and-a-half, and I strained to control my senses and body. How can I feel so alone with so many people in the room? They all attended to the distal end of my body, but the most proximal end suffered more simply because it could manufacture and amplify abject fear. Unable to grip anything due to the IV lodged in my hand, I wrapped my wrist around the bed rail and repeated a murmured prayer: “Jesus, please bear my burden!”

           

            Even if He wouldn’t arrest the labor, I wanted Him to snatch away the pain. I wanted to experience this defeat on my terms, in relative comfort, not in crushing pain, violent cramping, psychological turmoil and heaving blood clots. During my previous bouts with severe nausea, the prayer provided relaxation and priceless, cherished sleep. Yet now, the prayer didn’t seem to produce any desired results, except for the slight diversion of my concentration from what transpired at the other end of my bed. I gritted my teeth and combatted the escalating urge to scream and thrash around.

           

            Soon after his 9:00 arrival, Dr. Gordon called Chris. Around midnight I knew things were bad when the nurses told me Dr. Gordon had called Chris again, asking him to come to the hospital. I suspected then that he was preparing for the possibility of surgery and a blood transfusion, since he also ordered my blood drawn, typed and cross-typed. Within seconds someone punctured my arm with a pediatric-sized syringe to harvest some of my blood from what little remained in my body.

           

            Intercepting Chris upon his arrival in the ward, and blocking Chris’s entrance into my room, Dr. Gordon told him things didn’t look good. Then he bluntly asked Chris where he stood. He firmly let Chris know that if he – Dr. Gordon – let things go too far, he wouldn’t be able to bring the baby – or me – back. However, he’d take it as far as he could in an attempt to save both of us. Should he fail, an emergency C-section surgery to save my life would be necessary.

           

            The three of us previously agreed that since the baby’s chances of survival outside the womb were less than poor, life-saving support measures wouldn’t be initiated. No heroics; no playing God. If we could just get through the night, the chances were good that I’d be able to continue the pregnancy another three weeks – into the “viability” range. Our hopes rode on a draining hourglass. God, please, just three more weeks. Is that really too much to ask?

           

            After their conversation, Chris came into my room to stroke my forehead and hold my hand. Someone who loved me had finally arrived to take his place by my side. Loneliness evaporated; Chris’s presence and gentle touch wrested my attention from the aura of despair enveloping the room, and the medical terminology and opinions – I understood only too well – being verbalized in the huddle at the end of my bed.

           

            Two hours later our hopes shattered as the bleeding worsened and blood clots the size of oranges appeared. The heavy bleeding increased the inflammation and pain, and I endeavored to maintain my hold on the bed rail and murmur my meager prayer. I knew Dr. Gordon had all but given up when he ordered a morphine IV drip and called in another physician – who had just finished a deliverey – to assess the situation. When he first admitted me, he’d explained that he didn’t want to give me morphine because it would mask the pain; and he needed to know exactly how much pain I was experiencing in order to make a proper diagnosis. Ordering of the morphine drip signaled the end; and I could read the sad defeat in Dr. Gordon’s eyes.

             

            The other physician lifted the sheet from my pelvis, briefly assessed the blood loss, then quickly turned to Dr. Gordon, and shook his head. “No way.” Firm, resolute, adamant.

           

            With that categorical verbal prognosis, Dr. Gordon barked his order: the monitors and all but one IV immediately unplugged. Stat. That word they blurt when things go horribly wrong, when life’s hanging by a thread. When everyone needs to move, move, MOVE! NOW!  

           

            It felt as if a relay race pistol had discharged; the room’s atmosphere suddenly switched from taciturn and tense to noisy, controlled panic. As the nursing entourage yanked and roughly discarded tubes, straps and wires, both doctors rushed to the operating room to scrub. With one efficient hand sweep, the fetal monitor connection was disengaged.

           

            The speaker went silent and the screen morosely blank.

           

            Gone were the melodious harmonies of my baby’s precious beating heart and the visual delight of the tiny human body wriggling beneath the vibrating sonogram waves. An imminent death aura descended like a shroud as Chris and a nurse grabbed my bed and quickly navigated me through the halls to the operating room.

           

            Outside the operating room door, I clutched Chris’s hand while my eyes searched his face. He gently squeezed my arm and softly said, “It’s going to be okay.” I possessed just enough strength to nod an affirmation and mouth the words, “I know.” Then I reluctantly released my weakened grip, and Chris gently lowered my hand to the bed. He gave my shoulder one last, loving pat.

           

            The massive double doors swung open, and Chris waved good-bye. Tears laced his eyelashes as a sad smile spread across his face. “I love you,” he mouthed. The nurse and Dr. Gordon drew my bed into the bustling operating room, and the doors closed behind us.

           

            Once inside, a friendly but focused anesthesiologist quickly greeted me with a speedy introduction and barrage of questions about drug allergies, previous surgeries, types of anesthesia used and any adverse reactions to it. Shouldn’t they have asked this when I was coherent? Too weak to respond verbally, I slowly nodded my head or held up quivering fingers he could count. Every miniscule movement required an all-consuming effort. Finally, after intense concentration and final force of remaining energy and will, I managed a whispered reply.

           

            The doctors rapidly transferred me from my bed to the operating room table as the anesthesiologist prepared the anesthesia. I struggled to sit upright as more escaping blood clots racked me with scorching pain. It no longer mattered if I moved a muscle. Frantic, I grabbed for Dr. Gordon’s hands and screamed. With eyes full of compassion and sympathy, he extended his hands to me and gently said, “It’s all right. Squeeze as hard as you want.” He’s left-handed. I’m clutching his hand like a vise-grip. How’s he going to operate if I crush it? I thought. (When your life is haunted and driven by accusing voices of failure and guilt, your mind and behavior often revert to the well-worn path.)

           

            The pain subsided, and I lowered myself shakily back down on the operating table, struggling to keep my eyes open and remain alert. Closing my eyes meant recognition of the end, and accepting failure. The longer I stayed awake the longer the pregnancy progressed. The longer the pregnancy progressed, the longer my baby remained alive. Maybe we should go back to the room and try some more, I wanted to say. The pain’s no longer so bad.   

           

           “Give her some oxygen,” Dr. Gordon said.

           

            The anesthesiologist didn’t hesitate. “No, we’re losing her. We’ve got to go in now!”  

           

            “Her” was me. They were talking about losing me. Until that point, I don’t think it ever seriously entered my mind that I might die.

           

            That sudden knowledge had a strange effect. Fear promptly withdrew its attack. A commanding sense of peace oddly juxtaposed with an atmosphere of abject loneliness and acknowledged failure replaced it. My brain and heart went quiet even as a myriad of intensely focused people purposefully crisscrossed the room – somberly preparing to save one life, and reluctantly take another. The door of hope had firmly closed. In minutes labor would end and the accompanying physical pains evolve into a memory. We’d all fought a tremendous battle. And lost. No tears; no hysteria. No more frantic, eleventh-hour attempts to divert disaster. All that was left was acceptance. My breathing slowed. God had already begun to shield me from the initial psychological pain of my loss even before it happened.

             

            “Count backwards from ten,” the anesthesiologist instructed from his vantage point above my head. He was smiling down at me, a sympathetic, but serious, business-like smile. “This won’t take very long.”

           

            Especially in my condition, I thought. I tried to wrestle my lips into some kind of response. My blood and oxygen-depleted body ignored my brain’s efforts.

           

            With a curious feeling of relief that comes with finally knowing the outcome of a battle, I weakly nodded my head, let my eyes drift shut, and waited for the sleep-inducing medication to overpower me.

           

            The possibility of not waking up didn’t concern me. At the time, I considered that alternative a gift.

_________________________________________

            Although I didn’t know at the time what transpired in the conversation between Chris and Dr. Gordon, I learned later of the line Dr. Gordon drew in the sand for Chris. “I need to know where you stand,” Dr. Gordon had told him.

            

           What a heartbreaking dilemma for a husband and father to confront. My precious, loving husband had to make the most grievous decision a father ever has to make: his wife or his baby. And if he decided wrongly, he stood a distinct chance of losing both.

             

            In an agonizing breath of time, Chris decided his young son desperately needed his mother, and he needed his wife.

NEXT WEEK: The immediate aftermath, and a father’s anguished heart.

Thanks for joining me.

Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea