Placenta Previa Fears and Scary Evil Spirits

          It was difficult waving goodbye to Chris and going home to bask solo in my euphoric, but Parker kept me entertained in the car, and I tinkered and fidgeted around the house until Chris arrived home that night to continue our celebration.

           

            As the days ticked off the calendar, though, my robust jubilation waned as the nausea ventured into the debilitating zone, accompanying migraines began their relentless onslaught, and the aroma of food and suspect odors drove me to the nearest bathroom.

           

            I religiously wore the Sea Bands Dr. Landry prescribed to ward off morning sickness, especially while driving, sucked viciously on stomach-soothing peppermints, and tried very available method to control the stomach seesaws. Most of my home remedies provided inconsequential relief, and I lay bunched in the fetal position on the couch most days. When Chris arrived home in the evenings, I left Parker in his hands and retreated to my darkened bedroom—one wet washcloth tossed over my aura-stricken eyes, another cold cloth wedged behind my head and neck.

           

            My history translated into knowing I could count on this extending full-throttle into the fourth month. This pregnancy would not be any different.

           

            My heart rate increased as my veins flattened from dehydration and my body weight plummeted significantly below pre-pregnancy level. Determined to avoid IV therapy, I struggled with twenty-four-hour-a-day lack of nourishment, and promised to call Dr. Landry if I decided to surrender to home treatment. Managing to keep just enough Ginger Ale, caffeine-free Coke, peppermint and anti-nausea medication in my stomach, I battled on, until the nausea retreated around the eighteen-week mark. Then all restraint was off. I was determined to enjoy the remainder of the pregnancy by indulging in my favorite fat-laden foods.

           

            I gorged like a king at a caricatured medieval feast, and then, at the next visit to his office, Dr. Landry pronounced that I was regaining my weight too quickly. But he smiled sympathetically, nodded his head and gave me permission to enjoy myself for a couple more weeks. Then he’d expect me to put the brakes on my palate. Until then, bagels, lox, cream cheese and capers were standard breakfast fare—much to Chris’s delight—and tasty, high-calorie snacks were in abundant supply—much to Parker’s delight. NO chocolate allowed, however, since I knew the potentially uterine-irritating caffeine it contained was off-limits for high-risk pregnant women, which I already considered myself to be. Not being a coffee-drinker, that caffeine source wasn’t a problem.

           

            Yet, as I emerged from the nausea torrent, other obstacles confronted us.

            

            Fist, we survived a scare at three months when, in the middle of the night, I suddenly began cramping and bleeding. I propped up my feet, called Dr. Landry’s paging service, and tried to talk myself into calmness. The bleeding stopped, although I continued to keep my legs elevated, “just in case.” Thereafter, bathroom trips became obsessions as I became plagued with an annoying, compulsive need to check and re-check myself for bleeding.

           

            There was the standard blood test between the sixteenth and eighteenth week, which would indicate the neural tube defect and genetic abnormalities risks. Dr. Landry assured me that he’d consider an amniocentesis a strictly volunteer test, since Chris and I remained adamant about not having an abortion, even if genetic defects were diagnosed. The fact that the risk of having a miscarriage (spontaneous abortion) increased with an amniocentesis was enough to make me refuse it. No way was I going to subject my irritable uterus to being punctured by a three-inch needle, no matter how fine a gauge it would be.                       

           

            What worried me more was the ominous sixteen-week ultrasound to ascertain the placenta’s location. Would my baby and I be out of the woods on this one, or would I be setting up camp in an apartment, blocks from Dr. Landry’s office and the delivery hospital?

           

            The evening before the test, surrounded by country sky darkness, I paced slowly down our long driveway and settled myself on the monolithic boulder at the end of our property entrance to gaze at the velvet black heavens. My prayers were desperate and halting. I thought it bordered on ridiculous to ask—no, beseech—God to plant the placenta in a good location the night before going into the doctor’s to look for it.

           

            But I asked anyway. Several times I added simple requests for protection, strength and help.

           

            Mostly I prayed for faith. To endure whatever tomorrow’s results would be.

           

            Then my thoughts retreated to an event that occurred soon after receiving the happy pregnancy diagnosis at Dr. Landry’s. I’d wanted to forget it, banish it from my memory banks. But now the memory returned.

           

           

           

            I’d been sleeping soundly, contentedly one night when my eyelids abruptly snapped open to find myself dripping in a panicky sweat. Horrifying words, like accusations, shouted relentlessly into my head. I had thrown off the covers and bolted from bed, heaving great gasps of air.  It wasn’t my voice I heard, though, but someone else’s—vile and hate-filled—attacking my psyche.

           

            You’re going to die! You’re really pregnant, and you’re going to have another previa, and you’re going to bleed to death…and there is absolutely nothing you can do now about your decision! You’re going to hemorrhage to death during this pregnancy, and Parker is going to grow up thinking he wasn’t good enough, that you weren’t satisfied with him! How could he forgive you after you’re gone? What have you done? You’ve been such an arrogant fool!

           

            I clamped my hands over my ears and rattled my head to dislodge the incriminating words. Pacing the floor in my darkened bedroom, and swiping at the perspiration streaming down my face and neck, I managed to talk myself down and subdue my shallow, racing breath.

           

            It was then that I sensed it. Felt it. Chris and I weren’t alone in the bedroom.

           

            I spun around and my eyes were drawn to a ceiling corner in my room, where a hideous, frightful atmosphere of evil seemed to be perched, gleefully watching me unravel in the darkness. Egging me on to deeper mental destruction. Something, or someone, was watching me. Someone I could only perceive and not see. Someone who could clearly see me and was enjoying the show.          

           

            My fists clenched and unclenched rhythmically. “No,” I breathed back into the darkness through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to die. Parker’s not going to be left without a mother. I am not going to lose this battle!”

           

            As I uttered my last word, the imposing thickness vanished, like a flicked-on light switch abruptly banishes darkness from a room. An atmosphere of peace replaced it like a heavy, protective shroud.

           

            I carefully climbed back into bed and turned over to lay my hand on Chris’s chest, which undulated in measured swells.

           

            He hadn’t heard a thing.

           

            Within minutes, I had returned to a restful sleep.

           

           

            Now I was perched on a boulder, remembering that night and understanding it for what it was: a vicious encounter with my enemy—the spiritual forces of darkness. Only Satan could thrive on orchestrating such an assault rendering such severe emotional pain. The kind of pain and turmoil that physically sickens you, makes you feel as if you’ve lost all control. Where you resemble a wild, hunted animal, fleeing from something that threatens to devour you slowly and completely—without mercy.

           

            That night I thought I’d acted without God’s permission and run headlong into a decision upon which He had not put His blessing. I’d felt terror, anguish and remorse and—for several seconds—believed I would pay a high price for my self-indulgence.

           

            But that night was over. Whatever the future held, I needed to face it squarely, with unwavering faith. So there I sat, perched on a large piece of granite, searching the firmament for holy strength and hope…and a conquering peace in the midst of my personal storm. We had weathered so much during the first trimester of this pregnancy. Surely we could endure another obstacle.

           

            Tomorrow would bring the anticipated diagnosis, and tomorrow is what I’d have to wait for—and stop worrying about.

           

            Tomorrow would provide the answer.

           

            Though I could detect His loving, protective presence, that night, I knew God would make us wait long past tomorrow for our ultimate answer.

           

            My lesson in trust was nowhere near being over…

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NEXT WEEK: The results…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Pregnancy After Miscarriage: Prayer Answered and Hope Fulfilled

           So there I was, still trying to think like a pragmatist while simultaneously praying that maybe—just maybe—everyone was wrong and I was still pregnant. I was edgy as a surprised cat, vacillating between hope and that something-horrible-has-happened-and-there’s-not-a-darn-thing-I-can-do-about-it feeling.

           

            I had no choice but to hurry up and wait.

           

            Dr. Landry’s call came early the following morning, minutes after his office opened.

           

            “Has the pathology report comeback?” Dr. Landry’s inquiry was garnished with edginess.

           

            “No.”

           

            “Are you having any abdominal pain or bleeding?” he questioned with greater intensity.

           

            “No,” I repeated.

           

            “You were right,” he stated flatly, with an edge of apology. “Your hormone levels are increasing, not decreasing. I don’t think you have an ectopic pregnancy because you don’t have any of the symptoms.  But I want you in my office as soon as you can get in here. I need to see you right away!”

           

            “Do I need to make an appointment?”

           

            “No, just tell the girls up front that I wanted you to come in, and they should let me know when you arrive.”

           

            “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

           

            My shaking hands cradled the receiver. My heart raced. Then I grabbed the receiver again and called Chris at home. “Dr. Landry wants me in his office right away. Could you meet me at his office, to take Parker in case I do have an ectopic pregnancy and end up in surgery?”

           

            “Yes, I’ll meet you there. I’ll leave here right away.” Chris’s voice raised a nervous octave as he responded.

           

            I clutched the phone and sucked in my breath. “If it is an ectopic pregnancy, this is it. I won’t try again.”

           

            Chris’s shaky voice vibrated through the airwaves. “I agree. I’ll see you there.”

           

            Within thirty minutes, we converged upon Dr. Landry’s waiting room, breathless and jittery.

           

            His nurse promptly ushered us into one of the examination rooms, and Dr. Landry appeared within minutes, looking serious and concerned. He wasted no time in prepping me for the ultrasound. While he prepped, he broke the nervous atmosphere by reiterating his belief that I didn’t have an ectopic pregnancy because I didn’t have the typical symptoms: bleeding, cramping, severe abdominal pain.

           

            Suddenly the ultrasound machine snapped to life as he flicked the switch and guided the ultrasound head over the area of my uterus. Chris squeezed my hand. Parker hopped on a chair in the corner of the room and made car vroom noises with a Lego.

           

            “There is only one of two things that I think it might be, since I do not have the pathology report to look at,” he began, “…and that is exactly what I thought we would find!” With an elated sigh and smile, he pointed to a tiny object projected onto the monitor. Four pairs of eyes peered at the picture.

           

            “An embryo within an intact amniotic sac!” Dr. Landry announced like a triumphant creator of something rare and priceless.

           

            And there it was: a small embryo—not quite an inch long—suspended miraculously within a tiny, balloon-shaped receptacle. Yet all eyes were drawn to a minuscule, pulsing organ, fiercely pumping out an earnest, life-affirming rhythm.

           

            My baby’s beating heart.

           

            I sucked in air. I ached to reach out and touch the form projected onto the gray and white screen. I longed to provide reassurance that everything would be okay; that both of us would navigate the next eight months without problems.

           

            That precious, beating heart mesmerized all of us, and I found it impossible to avert my tear-laced eyes. My heart feared that when Dr. Landry switched off the monitor, I would have had my last glimpse of my unborn child. I wanted that vision etched on my memory. If we could just leave the monitor on, where I could watch over my baby, it might increase our “luck” of completing the pregnancy without a mishap.

           

            With excitement, we all pointed, gazed, and exclaimed at the tiny living miracle within my body. Even Dr. Langford acted like it was the first baby he’d ever seen; even he seemed unwilling to turn off the machine.

           

            But it all had to end, and as he reluctantly removed the ultrasound head from my abdomen, the screen went blank. Lifeless, cold, gray haze inserted itself in place of the living picture.

           

            When will I be treated to that picture again? I wondered. Would I ever be treated to it again? Were we really on our way to fulfilling our hopes and dreams? Eight months seemed an eternity, and so much could happen in that time. With my history, which seemed to be repeating itself, I could almost count on experiencing the same debilitating nausea I’d endured with Victoria.

           

            Would a rapid plunge into the valley follow this mountaintop experience?

           

            Suddenly, a rush of fear, exhilaration and doubt poured into my neural pathways. I lay on the examining table—breathless, excited. Numb. My mind raced forward as I thought about that critical ultrasound that needed to be performed at sixteen weeks to determine the placenta location—to make sure I didn’t have another placenta previa—and the blood tests to identify the neural tube defect or genetic abnormality risks.

           

            Just exactly how would I bear the strain of waiting?

           

            This was going to take mental discipline. I had to stop worrying about what if’s and the future. I needed to do everything in my power to facilitate this pregnancy into going the distance, in receiving the reward of a full-term, healthy baby.

           

            We had no choice but to wait. That’s what pregnancy is, I reminded myself: one long nine-month waiting game.

           

            Chris snapped my pendulous mind-wanderings with his delighted and celebratory mood. And in typical Chris Owan style, he suggested having lunch at his favorite Italian restaurant before returning to work. Momentarily forgetting my nausea and distinct lack of appetite, I wholeheartedly agreed with his plan, as did Parker.

           

            Waving exhilarated good-byes to a grinning Dr. Landry, Chris, Parker and I left the office to bask in the joy of the present and hope of the future. Even Parker seemed giddy, although I doubt he knew why. He just fed off the adrenaline floating around his happy parents.

           

            Though the edible portion of lunch made my stomach lurch, I refused to let anything steal my joy. The thrill of verbally reliving the moment—our baby’s picture emitted onto the ultrasound screen, and the realization that I really was pregnant—kept us suspended on clouds of unbridled bliss. We prattled on excitedly, and Parker giggled his way through lunch.

           

            Oh, how I ached for that feeling to continue—unabated—forever, to follow me delightfully through an unremarkable pregnancy (the medical term for nothing-happening-significant-enough-to-write-in-the-chart-about) and on into an easy, glorious delivery where my arms would be filled with a perfect infant.

           

            Reluctantly, Chris returned to work for the remainder of the afternoon while Parker and I drove home, happily discussing babies, siblings, nurseries and due dates.

           

            Oh, yes. About that due date Dr. Landry gave us of April 13, 1995.

           

            We were expecting our new baby’s arrival on the exact anniversary of Victoria’s death.

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NEXT WEEK: Nausea, bleeding, the 16-week ultrasound…and a chilling encounter with evil…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea                 

Miscarriage: Fighting Fear and Harboring Hope

            “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  

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            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.

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NEXT WEEK: God trumps human wisdom…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea