“It is that turning [Jesus] wants for them,
which is why he tweaks their fear. Don’t worry about…the things that can come
crashing down on your heads, he tells them. Terrible things happen and you are
not always to blame. But don’t let that stop you from doing what you are doing.
That torn place your fear has opened up inside of you is a holy place. Look
around while you are there. Pay attention to what you feel. It may hurt you to
stay there and it may hurt you to see, but it is not the kind of hurt that
leads to death. It is the kind that leads to life.”
~
Barbara Brown Taylor in Home By Another
Way
________________________________________________________________________
While Victoria’s death suctioned the
life out of me and left me feeling certain the acute visceral pain of grief would actually
kill me, news of this baby’s death left me anchored in an
atmosphere of female inadequacy. My heart felt heavy, weighted down and resigned to being eternally wrapped in
a ball and chain of perpetual sadness and defeat.
The following Friday, August 12—one week after the initial miscarriage diagnosis—I
returned to Dr. Gordon’s office for the mandatory re-check. Although I’d
experienced no further bleeding or cramping, I did continue to feel nauseated
and fatigued. He attributed the fatigue to stress and felt the queasiness was
the result of still-elevated hormone levels. He assured me, again, that it
would take time. All I could do was nod wearily, smile weakly, and say, “Okay.”
After discussing what to expect
physically post-miscarriage, and when Chris and I could realistically, and
safely, try again, he instructed me to go home, relax, and take a long soak in
my spa tub.
That suggestion surprised me. Hot
spas or baths increase the risk of miscarriage. A previous neighbor had lost
her baby after soaking in her backyard spa. His prescription sounded so good,
so inviting. So…unnerving.
Maybe I still wanted so badly to
believe that I continued to carry a baby in my womb that my overactive
imagination manufactured hopeful feelings that I might still be pregnant. I
knew Dr. Gordon was considering the optimal prescriptions for my recovery from
another loss, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t give up on my pinhead-sized
hope.
Just
maybe they’re wrong, I thought. The pathology report hadn’t returned yet,
so we didn’t know what kind of tissue I’d lost; and I had experienced the same problem during Victoria’s pregnancy. All
of the doctors had been convinced then that I’d miscarried when I hadn’t.
It’s
probably just leftover tissue causing my elevated hormone levels. I’m probably
living in a dream world, here. But what if they’re wrong, and I do something
stupid to jeopardize my baby’s life?
Yet both Dr. Gordon and Dr. Landry
concurred: I could expect to be nauseated for some time until my hormones
leveled off. This was nothing to get excited or concerned about.
I went home and tried to get back to
life.
And the following night, even though
we had to recognize our new loss, Chris and I had a wonderful date.
Anticipating the birth of another child would have made our eleven-year
anniversary celebration sweeter and more memorable, but we had so much to
celebrate and so much for which we could be thankful.
Despite my attempts to ignore it, my
queasiness had worsened—not waned—as the days elapsed. I needed the relaxation
of the soothing moist heat, but I still wasn’t going to climb in that hot tub.
I could do that anytime. I don’t want to
look back on this with a lot of what if’s floating around like sticky cobwebs
in my mind. I’ll wait. Just a little longer. I’ll wait.
Even if my tingling expecations were
unrealistic, and I painted a pathetic picture of desperateness, I was going to
cling to those vestiges of hope and maybes until someone proved me nuts.
********************
Four days later, the nausea was bad
enough to prompt a call to Dr. Landry. He was out of town, but his partner
patiently listened on the phone to me prattle on about my concerns. “If you are
that concerned, we can arrange for a
blood test to be performed which will show us your hormone levels. That should
tell us if they are continuing to rise—as they do in a normal pregnancy—or are
leveling off. There might also be the possibility of a remnant of embryonic
tissue causing the hormones to increase, which would require a D & C to
remove. Other than that...(audible sigh), I can’t honestly explain why you
would still be so nauseous. You can have blood drawn, and Dr. Landry will call
you with the results when he gets back on Thursday.”
I needed that blood test if only for
my own sanity, particularly since a second home pregnancy test lit up with
those positive pink lines. Checking and re-checking; hoping and hanging on. The
unknown drove me into an agitated state.
The blood was drawn, and the days ticked
off while I anxiously awaited Dr. Landry’s call. When I spoke with him on
Thursday, before the results had returned, he sounded irritated at my insistence
about the possibility that I might be pregnant.
“Hormone levels can stay high for
quite a long time,” he snipped. “And I refuse
to believe you’ve had an immaculate
conception!”
Confusion rocked my brain as I
struggled with feeling as though I’d just been slapped through the phone for
saying something stupid. Did I miss part
of the conversation? I felt a sudden plummet of my intelligence quotient.
“What are you talking about?” I
muttered.
“I refuse to believe that you miscarried, then immediately had
intercourse and became pregnant again!” He was nearly shouting at me, and I
felt my resolve and hopes slipping like sand through a sieve.
That was not my definition of an immaculate conception but I assured him his
version was impossible. Chris and I had declared a hiatus until everything was
clearly back to normal.
“Well, the blood tests are not back
yet, “ he sighed in a tone mixed with fatigue and frustration. “I will call you
when they come in.”
I’m
driving everyone nuts, I thought, including
myself! Hang it up, Andrea. It’s all a pipe dream.
Yet something deep within me wouldn’t allow me to hang it up.
Languishing through another night of
nausea, I stared all night at the ceiling fan. Just what did they find in that ominous little tube filled with my
vital fluid? That precious red fluid harboring critical information about
whether I still carried life within me…or not.
_____________________________________
NEXT WEEK: God trumps human wisdom…
_____________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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