The Dream Begins Its Death March

A man’s heart plans his ways,

But the Lord directs his steps.

Proverbs 16:9 NKJV

            On April 8, 1993, I left my 6:00-10:00 PM teaching position in San Diego thirty minutes early to make the hour drive home. Though exhausted – not an unusual symptom for the fifth month of pregnancy – I needed to buy additional items for Parker’s 3^rd birthday party on Saturday. The following day, Good Friday, Parker’s preschool planned a party and egg hunt. I had volunteered to supply cupcakes for his class. Easter Sunday we expected friends from church to join us for afternoon dinner. Excitedly anticipating the weekend, I briefly ferreted the grocery store aisles for a birthday balloon, cake mixes and three-year-old party fare. Dragged my body through the grocery store would be a more apt description.

           

            Around 8:30 PM I’d called home during my break to see if Chris had arrived. Carol,* our adult babysitter, said she still awaited his arrival or a call from him. (This was before cell phone conveniences.) He was two hours late, and she sounded annoyed. I couldn’t blame her; it was an evermore-frequent scenario with Chris. The news distracted, worried and angered me. I had hoped it wouldn’t be another one of those nights.

           

            For six months Chris had been working to start an engineering consulting business. Leaving his full-time job at 5:00 PM, he’d rush off to meet clients, sometimes seventy miles away from home. What began as a once-in-a-while event rapidly evolved into more evenings away and unreasonably late hours. A week earlier, barely able to drag my swollen body to the door and craving horizontal contact with my bed, I had crossed the threshold of our home at 11:30 PM and discovered that Chris wasn’t home. I had to awaken Parker, carry him to the car, and drive Carol’s daughter home through a remote, unlit agricultural area.

           

            Chris had wanted me to return to work so we could qualify for a construction loan and mortgage on our dream home. (That decision snapped the thread in our lifeline.) Because of this, we agreed that I’d work nights in order to be home with Parker during the day, and Chris would be home with him in the evenings. With this arrangement only one or two hours of babysitting was necessary during the interval between my drive to work and his arrival home. We were rapidly oscillating further and further from our original plan, and I felt like a perpetually revolving yo-yo. The increasing exhaustion and mounting stress of worrying about both Chris and Parker, and, now, my unborn child, took its toll. Chris and I endured many discussions and hot arguments about our schedules and his timing of starting a business. As his schedule became more unpredictable and unreasonable, conflict mounted.   

            

              Just one year earlier we’d completed the building of our dream home, yet numerous interior finish and detail projects remained. Having performed most of the labor ourselves, we needed a break from the toil and strain of all-night construction marathons. The project consumed us, and we teetered close to physical, emotional and spiritual destruction. Yet, here we were again, leaving one project undone and rushing headlong and breathlessly into others. Even though we were stressed to the breaking point, Chris was determined to start a business while simultaneously expanding our family.

           

            Neither of us truly consulted God on any of these matters, or considered waiting patiently for Divine direction. We arrogantly expected God to put His stamp-of-approval blessing on them simply because we worked so hard, with such good intentions. Our timing was lousy, our spiritual lives mechanical and reckless, and we – together, and individually – hung by a frayed emotional, spiritual and physical thread.

           

            That very night the remaining thread would snap.

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Next Week: The placenta previa makes itself known in a sudden, deadly way.

Thanks for joining me.

Make it a great week!

Blessings,

Andrea

*name changed to protect privacy

            

A Missed Opportunity to Reverse a Misdiagnosis

           One last opportunity to possibly save the life of my daughter...

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           When I returned to the doctor in March, I asked him about the ultrasound results. A radiologist had read the pictures, and his diagnosis flatly stated, “No problems.” I pressed my doctor about the tissue the technician said she saw over the cervix and then asked the questioned plaguing me. “Is it possible that I might have a placenta previa?”

           

            He again referred to the radiologist’s write-up and said, “No, he said everything looks okay. Nothing on the pictures.”

           

            His statement didn’t calm my fears, and he didn’t offer to subdue them by performing a quick ultrasound check in his office. Regrettably, I lacked the foresight or courage to insist that he break the medical group’s cost-saving rules and perform one.

           

            Since I continued to experience bouts of heavy nausea, he suggested the possibility of my leaving work on disability. Because I’d witnessed so many of my former patients abuse disability benefits, I balked at his suggestion and told him I’d think about it. It seemed like a sign of weakness to me; I’d feel like a failure if I couldn’t tough it out. (Remember the push-through-the-pain competitor I’d been trained to be?) I wasn’t that sick anymore; certainly it was unnecessary to take such a drastic step. He gave me a sympathetic look and told me to keep it in mind because he understood. His wife had been on disability during her pregnancy.

           

            Then he discussed the recommendations for having an amniocentesis performed to check for chromosomal abnormalities. I turned thirty-six at the end of February, and he expressed concerns about the age factor – the magical age of thirty-six, when the chance of having a baby with genetic problems statistically skyrockets. Never mind that I conceived when I was thirty-five. He assured me that he performed lots of “amnios,” and they “were not that bad,” and explained that the further the pregnancy advanced, the harder an elective abortion would be for me to experience, and the riskier the procedure would be to perform.

           

            Chris and I had already discussed it, and we flatly said no to the amniocentesis. Abortion wasn’t an option. We didn’t want to know the baby’s sex; and the diagnosis of Down Syndrome wouldn’t have affected our decision to continue carrying the baby to term. Furthermore, I possessed what seemed to be an irritable uterus, and because of this, I feared the procedure would cause me to miscarry. My doctor respected our decision.

           

            Another month elapsed and I felt more normal. Food again became enjoyable. Then, an unusual feeling of pelvic pressure developed. When I mentioned it to my doctor on the next visit, he flippantly waved his hand and laughingly responded that all women experienced discomfort as their pelvis widened and they gained weight. I frowned at him. The pressure I felt was unusual and directly over the cervix. Placenta previa? I wondered again, this time silently. He did decide to quickly examine the cervix, and pronounced everything to be in “good shape.”

           

            Something’s not right! I should ask him to perform an ultrasound…Ask him! The chronic, self-accusations of being a hypochondriac harassed my better judgment…and won, silencing the unuttered request. I left the room, dutifully rescheduled an appointment for the following month and headed home.

           

            Just seconds out of the parking lot at the corner light, the woman behind me rolled her pickup truck into the back of my car. Although the impact seemed insignificant, we both surveyed the bumpers. There was no visible damage, and she apologized profusely, but her body language indicated that she didn’t want to be retained too long at the scene. A thought blazed across my conscience: If I lose this baby because of you… Then I immediately chastised myself for being so melodramatic. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reprimanded myself under my breath. “You aren’t going to lose this baby!”    

NEXT WEEK: Exactly one week later, the real loss, and trauma begin…

Thanks for joining me.

Blessings,

Andrea

            

A Prenatal Ultrasound Warns of a Problem

For You formed my inward parts;

You covered me in my mother’s womb.

Psalm 139:13 NKJV

           

            My doctor requested another ultrasound at the end of February. Once again I ingested the required amounts of water and waited excitedly for another glance at my unborn baby.

           

            Instead of my physician, an ultrasound technician performed the procedure. It was yet again another professional money-saving decision that proved to be catastrophic for me and for my baby. (Only later did I learn that static ultrasound pictures were of little use in diagnosing potential placenta problems like mine, since the placenta needed to be viewed dynamically – pulsing with blood – while the ultrasound was being performed.)

           

            The technician slowly moved the ultrasound head over my swollen abdomen and carefully pointed out all the crucial anatomical parts, except the reproductive organs, since I remained adamant about not knowing the baby’s sex until the birth. Initially the baby slept, refusing to reposition itself for better pictures. Finally, the little body wiggled, then flailed its arms and sucked frantically on its thumb in response to the ultrasound vibrations. The technician commented several times about my baby being exceptionally photogenic. I gushed with joy.

           

            I’d experienced a stunningly intense surge of love when I first witnessed my son Parker, with his tiny beating heart, on an ultrasound screen. It was the unexpected impact of first hearing, then actually witnessing that life-sustaining organ thumping out a loud, steady rhythm. Nothing had ever affected me the way his beating heart did.

           

            The identical emotion engulfed me as I viewed this new child; this baby who needed me to protect it as completely and selflessly as I could, even before its birth. The awesome responsibility God entrusted to me suddenly seemed overwhelming and fearsome.

           

            Suddenly I thought about how I was caring for my baby – how I should be caring for both of us in the future – then squeezed my eyes closed as tears dribbled to my nose and cheeks. I felt convicted. I hadn’t been doing a stellar job of caring for either one of us. Those lifestyle changes I’d thought about while confined to bed with severe morning sickness sprang to mind.

           

            While I contended with my emotions, the technician continued to move the ultrasound head around my abdomen. Suddenly, she ran over a tender area on my stomach that had been causing me pain. The monitor showed a bulge of the uterus into the womb. She said it looked like a large contraction of the uterine muscle. Whatever it was, it hurt, and pressing on it produced considerable pain.

           

            Yet it wasn’t that symptom that worried her. With her eyes fixed on the monitor and worry registered on her face, she spoke in a concerned voice, “Your placenta is really low, and you have tissue over your cervix.” She pointed to it on the monitor. “But I can’t make a judgment call about it; your doctor will have to make the diagnosis.”

           

            My mind raced. A friend had experienced a condition called placenta previa, where the placenta attaches itself partially or completely over the cervix. They discovered her pregnancy complication following an episode of spotting – usually the first sign – in her fifth month. Because of the problem, she needed confinement to bed for three months. I knew it meant an automatic Cesarean-section delivery. But I was ignorant of the possibly serious – or fatal – consequences this condition poses to both mother and child. My heart pounded wildly as my fears escalated and euphoria deteriorated.

           

            The technician completed the ultrasound and copied the pictures for me. The calculations indicated I was close to sixteen weeks, and my photogenic, active baby looked great. That was what I really wanted to hear! That’s what all mothers and fathers long to hear: that their babies appear physically healthy and active.

           

            We’d made it through the worst of the severe morning sickness and survived. And Chris and I were tough enough emotionally to handle any unforeseen physical problems that might be diagnosed after the baby’s birth. Everything was progressing well, according to schedule and the well-ordered plan.

           

            The technician sent me home with a small bundle of pictures to show the proud father. But show and tell would be delayed until after I returned from another late night at work.

           

            I’d think about the lifestyle changes I needed to make later, when I had more time.

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NEXT WEEK: The complication is misdiagnosed, and I make the tragic mistake of not insisting on another in-office ultrasound.

Until then, thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

For more information on prenatal ultrasounds and their safety, drawbacks and benefits, please see the following links:

http://www.earlyriskassessment.com/Default.aspx?tabid=70

http://www.greenhealthwatch.com/newsstories/newslatest/latest0701/ultrasound-hurt.html

http://www.plus-size-pregnancy.org/Prenatal%20Testing/prenataltest-ultrasoundsafety.htm

            

Can You Thank God for the Thorns in Your LIfe?

This is a special, additional post dedicated to Thanksgiving, which those of us in the Untied States of America celebrate Thursday, November 22. My regular, promised post, with the same entry date, is directly below this one. I'll be back on November 26 with the regular post.

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            Thanksgiving is special to me. It should be, since I’m a direct descendant of two of the Pilgrims who sailed to America in 1620 from England – a little band of mostly like-minded, pioneers who desired to worship God without fear, persecution or worldly influences, and who sneaked away from England on a tiny boat to bravely start life over in another world. (As a side note, do not confuse Pilgrims with Puritans. The Pilgrims were Separatists: they wanted to separate from the church to worship their own way. The Puritans, in contrast, wanted to purify – not separate from – the Church of England.)

              

            When I think back to that first Thanksgiving – the three-day feast the Pilgrims celebrated with the Indians – I wonder just how many of them were thinking: “I’m thankful.” Were they doing it with humble, joyful, or sober hearts?

           

            Certainly, they were thankful for the Indians, one of whom intervened early to teach them how to add fish to the soil to improve its growing condition. Massachusetts was not where they had intended to set up house. Farther down the coast in what is now the state of Virginia had been the plan. But they arrived too late in the season and had to settle for the more northern location. They also missed planting adequately for the upcoming growing season, in Massachusetts’s terra that wasn’t prime crop-growing soil. Then, most of their tiny band was decimated in the first six months by disease, starvation and freezing temperatures.

           

            And this is where it gets personal. My great-great-great, etc., etc., etc. Pilgrim grandmother, Priscilla Mullins, arrived at Plymouth in Massachusetts with her brother and their parents, ready to start a new life. Within months, the teenager’s mother, father, and 14-year-old brother had been buried, along with so many others, in unmarked graves. By the end of the winter, 102 had died; fifty-three had survived, including only four adult women out of the original eighteen. Priscilla was suddenly an orphan in a strange land.

           

            A year later, during that first Thanksgiving, what could she have been thankful for?

           

            Was she at all thankful for the thorns in her life?

           

            About twelve years ago, I started deliberately thanking God for the thorns He’s brought me, or allowed in my life, because it has been in and through these thorns that I’ve grown the most emotionally and spiritually.

           

            My thorns remind me that I’m really a helpless, puny human without much control over my life, although I often entertain, placate and blind myself by thinking I have more control than I do. The thorns keep me humble, relying on Something, Someone greater than myself.

           

            My thorns still hurt. After all, thorns make you bleed. And they leave nasty scars. Yet they remind you where you’ve been and what you’ve survived and where you should be going.

           

            What I will now write, what I have told others, will shock or disgust some of you and cause others to nod their heads in collective understanding: As much as I still grieve over my infant daughter’s death, as much as I still long to have her and day-dream about her possible life, and mentally replay the dreams I had for her, I am grateful – thankful – that I walked that dark, horrible road, because doing so brought me into vivid, eternal life, with the Supreme give of life. Life in the here and now, and life in the eternal. *

           

            I’d like to think that it really didn’t need to happen that way, but in my heart, I know it did. I would have kept going just as I was, with one foot in the world and the other on a spiritual banana peel. I’m thankful for those thorns. They remind me to Whom I belong. And they remind me that I will one day see my daughter face-to-face and rejoice. They give me one more reason to look forward to heaven.

            So what was Priscilla thankful for? I can only guess. Even though she was a firm believer in God, His word, and His promises, I suspect she went through the normal stages of grief that all of us encounter: shock, denial, anger, etc. Being a Christian doesn’t make you immune to suffering the affects of death and profound loss.

           

            She probably sat at the table, thanking God for His protection over her and the other survivors, for the memory of her parents and brother, for the hope of the future, and probably for the new man in her life, John Alden, with whom she would have ten children and produce more descendants in the United States than any other Pilgrims. I often think of her and wonder if her unwavering faith and prayers for her children and children’s children paved the way for the blessings I’ve received in my life, that my blessings may indeed be the result of her generational faithfulness. For that, I also give thanks.

           

            

           What are your thorns?

           

            And have you been able to turn them into roses?

           

            May you give thanks this Thanksgiving Day, for everything in your life!

Until Monday,

Andrea

           

*If you have questions, and struggle to understand what I’m talking about, stay with me in this blog, and you’ll find out what I mean.