It was one of those horrendous days
that causes your heart to pound so hard in your chest that you're sure your
ribcage will rupture, and then sink so low in your gut that you know you’ll
die from the ache. A day where you’re clawing for an invisible life line you
know in your heart isn’t there.
With lingering discomfort and
fatigue plaguing my body—yet, unfortunately, overpowering fear of disappointing
anyone (especially my mother) winning the battle—I agreed to lunch and the
movie…and rushed out the door to attempt both.
In order to keep my promise. In
order to be normal. In order to keep
the peace.
So, with these burdens weighing on
my heart, mind and body, my mother, my four-year-old son, Parker and I zipped
off to a restaurant to eat before the movie. We were in the middle of enjoying
lunch when I excused myself to use the restroom. Seconds later, I gaped in
horror at blood and mucous soaking into the toilet issue in my hand. Terror
ripped through me. Please, God! No! Why
would you allow me to conceive and carry to five months if I’m not going to be
able to carry the baby to term? You’re not going to abandon me, now, are You?
My own voice in my head screamed a
response, I can’t panic. I’ve got to act.
Now! Practically sprinting from the
bathroom, I grabbed Parker’s hand, pulled him from his seat and bluntly
informed my mother that I was bleeding. A look of nervous shock drained the
color from her face as we hurried from the restaurant.
“What about the movie?” she pressed as we navigated through the hungry crowd. I
snapped my head around long enough to blink at her. “You’ve got to be kidding!” I wanted to shriek aloud at her.
But I knew better. That comeback would only trigger an all-out riotous response
and I’d be harangued about it for days.
“I will drop you and Parker off at
the theater and drive home,” I countered without breaking my stride across the
parking lot, fighting an intense desire to break into a desperate sprint. “I need to call the doctor. Someone will pick you up in two hours.”
I wanted to be alone. I needed to be alone. My body shuddered as
the first cramping spasms gripped my pelvis. Will I make it home, or will I
lose this baby in my car? “No,” I kept repeating, as if commanding my body to
stop releasing blood. I have to hang on! I brusquely deposited them at the
theater and then reinitiated the frantic fifteen-minute-drive home. Delirious
panic hovered just below my self-controlled surface.
“Almighty God,” I cried aloud in the
car, “please don’t allow this child to be taken form me, too! I know I prayed
that whatever Your will was in this pregnancy, I would be able to handle
it—with Your strength and love. But I don’t think I can. I don’t want to have to try! Please,
God,” my pleading evolved into a anguished moan. “Don’t subject me to
another loss!”
My thoughts raced wildly. Do I pull
over, stop and call 911 from a roadside call box or give up and let it end
right here? O, Lord, what’s the best
thing for me to do? I decided to try to make it to the house. My hands
rhythmically clenched, opened, and re-clenched the steering wheel, making the
blood drain from my fingers. Prayer and incessant self-talk consumed my drive
home.
Methodically parking the car in its
ordained spot, I gingerly applied the parking break, opened the door, carefully
slid from my seat, and headed to the open backyard garage door. Chris must be working back there. He
stepped into the garage before I made it to the door, and I didn’t wait for him
to get out his characteristic, cheerful, “Hi!”
“I’m bleeding and cramping. I need
to lie down. You call the doctor.” Why do
I sound so flat, so emotionless?
I hurried upstairs to lie down and
elevate my backside with pillows to reduce cervical pressure. Chris followed
hastily with the cordless phone. Dr. Landry was off, but the answering service
promised that his partner would return the call. My fingers drummed beside me
on the mattress as we waited. When it came, his barrage of questions began.
“What does it feel like?...Like
labor?...How much blood?...Only some spotting?...Probably
nothing. Some women have bleeding off-and-on through their pregnancy…I find it
hard to believe that you would have an incompetent cervix since your first
child went full term without any problems. That’s just not what happens with
women who have an incompetent cervix…If it was my wife, I’d tell her to lie
down and relax a couple of hours to see if the bleeding and cramping stopped.
Ninety-nine percent of the time, there’s nothing wrong. It’s the one percent
that comes back to bite us in the fanny when we don’t do something about it…If
you would feel better, come into the hospital and we’ll do an exam. When you
get to the emergency room, tell them I sent you, and then go straight to OB.
Tim will be on call in thirty minutes.”
“Okay,” I mumbled a lifeless “thank
you” then broke the connection. My body still felt peculiar, but emotionally, I
was beginning to feel like a Grade A fool. Wanting to wish away the horrible
possibilities, I dutifully followed his advice. And for good measure, I begged
God to work a miracle. Even as I asked, I doubted one would be forthcoming.
When my mother arrived home, she
endeavored to offer emotional support by reminiscing about her bleeding bouts while carrying me, appearing skeptical about
whether my episode should be a significant concern. Is she trying to wish away the possibilities, too?
“This far into the pregnancy?” I
questioned.
“Well,…no,” she admitted after
recalling the past. “Just the first three months.” Bleeding and mucous loss in
the twentieth week of pregnancy seemed unusual to me. Recognizing my distress
and need to remain calm—and to sleep—she hastily retreated to wrestle with her
own feelings of helpless, and, I suspect, fear.
The spotting eventually stopped, the
cramping subsided, and I wondered again if this was simply an overreaction
based on my previous, ghastly medical history.
The signature gripping low back pain and abdominal cramping had assailed
me upon my arrival home, but I hadn’t told the doctor about the back pain. I
deliberately omitted that information. Desperately wanting everything to be
okay—normal—I tried to pretend it was, even with the doctor. And he thought my
theory about cramping being nerves sounded plausible, so with one final assault
against self-doubt, I managed to rest comfortably in my relatively pacific bedroom.
Several hours later, after winter
darkness settled in, I migrated downstairs to the living room couch and
gratefully accepted a slice of dry toast from Chris. A fire warmed the room,
and the expansive picture windows reflected the beautiful, brightly clad
ensemble of dancing flame spicules. Mom played the grand piano and sang, while
Parker tried—without restraint or humility—to outclass her in the solo
department. Things were definitely not low key in the living room, and I considered
returning to bed before an argument erupted between the two prideful
performers.
Time didn’t allow me to make that
decision, though. Midway through my dry toast, something again felt terribly
wrong, and a reluctant but hasty trip to the downstairs powder room confirmed
my worst fears. More mucous and blood.
With despairing resignation, I walked briskly into the bustling kitchen, stared
at Chris and blurted, “We have to go to the hospital, right now!”
My face must have communicated
everything since Chris responded without flinching. “Okay!”
Yet doubts and second-guessing
waffled through my head while Chris yanked on a sweater, laced his shoes and
plucked my winter coast from the upstairs closet. Meanwhile, I paced around our
expansive entryway, feeling foolish, wondering if my instincts were playing
tricks on me. Hoping they were
playing tricks.
“Do you really think you need to
go?” my mother questioned with a doubtful gaze from her kitchen vantage point. Doesn’t she trust my judgment on this?
Wasn’t it safer to be certain? Why does she have to contribute to my doubts, or
does she just want to avoid hearing bad news?
Chris vaulted down the stairs, offering a
firm reply before I could respond. “I don’t care if they turn us around and
send us home. I do not want to take
any chances. I want to find out what’s going on!” His authoritative affirmation
and resolve made me feel calm, secure and protected. Thankful for his firm
decision—a reminder that I had a strong, loving ally—Chris and I climbed into
the car and drove the twenty-five miles to the hospital.
An hour later, after bypassing a
standing-room-only emergency room crowd (thank God for the conversation with
Dr. Landry’s partner!) and undergoing an examination by a nurse, Dr. Landry
stood in my hospital room, presenting options.
For the time being, he wasn’t
letting me go anywhere…
_________________________________________
NEXT WEEK: The diagnosis made: Mentally processing
your options with an incompetent cervix…
_________________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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