Light filters in through the small
slit in the blinds announcing the arrival of another day. It seems like only
moments since I went to bed, exhausted but satisfied I admire the work that had
me up most of the night. I still can’t believe this is my house! I place one
palm against the wall tracing the wallpaper boarder, the other palm cradling
and caressing my sweet Caelan. Silently I speak to him, “Today Daddy will learn
the secret we have shared. He will be so excited to have a son.” I close my
eyes and draw a deep breath. Images of the prior evening quickly invade my
peace. I push these thoughts away as quickly as they arrive declaring silently,
“Love keeps no record of wrongs. It always trusts, always hopes. Love always
perseveres.” Scripture’s definitions of love, the words spoken at our wedding
just over four months ago, have become my mantra. I let my gaze fall upon him.
Fast asleep, his thick, mahogany hair covers most of his face. I pause for a
moment watching him breath in and out. “It was just one bad night,” I
wordlessly reassure my soul, “Just one bad night.”
I stare
anxiously at the clock above me, still fifteen minutes to go. The morning has
lagged on and on and I feel my full bladder urge me to excuse myself a few
moments early. Having only been on the job for two weeks I am still concerned
with making a good impression. Besides I think as I rub my expanding belly, I
will need a full bladder. I remain uncomfortable.
Scanning
the parking lot, I locate his turquoise colored pickup truck parked on the
right side of the building. I pull into the adjacent space and peer in to find
the cab empty. I check my watch, right on time. “Where is he?” I gather my
things and slide out of my car. An ominous canopy of grey clouds suspends high
above me, perhaps he is waiting for me inside, I think. I walk into the dark
reception area of my OB’s office to find him sitting on one of the sofas. I
walk towards him excitingly, “Ready to find out who this little one is I ask,”
rubbing my belly. His eyes meet mine, but it is not the warm reunion I long
for, he grumbles and motions with his head towards the reception desk.
“Ma’am?
Ma’am?” I look up and realize that I am the one being spoken to. “Ma’am, are
you ok? Do you have an appointment? I am suddenly aware of the tension griping
the pen in my right hand. A pregnant mother wrestles a toddler in line behind
me. Embarrassed, I quickly scribble my name. I realize how badly the
disappointment that this moment is not what I had dreamed it to be is affecting
me. I turn around to find the sofa empty. He is now sitting in a single chair.
My heart hurts. I take the chair beside him. A small table littered with
magazines and adorned with a small lamp is situated between us. No words are
spoken. Finally, he stands, he then motions to me and I notice a nurse in the
doorway wearing a smile. We are lead down the hallway and taken into a dark
room. A paper sheet is folded on the table before me and I am told to undress
from the waist down. I am again aware of my budging bladder as I am reminded
not to empty it. I disappear into the small washroom. Gazing upon my reflection
in the mirror, I caress my naked form. I marvel for a moment at the gift of
life, the bringing forth of the next generation, and the beauty that pregnancy
is. “I love you,” I whisper to my son.
“I gave
your husband a diaper bag,” The tech says as I return, “I just need you to fill
in the information here.” I smile at him with the bag resting upon his lap. She
hands me the pen and motions to a lined tablet. As I inscribe my name, address,
and due date she continues speaking, “Have you felt the baby move much?” I
crawl onto the table assuring her that I felt him wiggling about often. The
cold, sticky goo erupts from the bottle with a resounding burst, my skin
tingles with the impact. Having taken a peek a few weeks prior I know that the
baby I carry is a boy, so my gaze is fixed upon his face, anticipating and
awaiting his reaction. After several moments of silence, he speaks, “What does
the heart look like? Can you show us?” I feel the wand move from my abdomen to
my chest. The tech presses the wand down against my sternum, angling it to the
left. “She that,” she asks, “See that flickering?” I stare at the screen. “That
flickering is your wife’s heart,” her voice is shaken. She returns the wand to
my abdomen. “I am sorry, “ she continues, “There is no flickering here. There
is no heartbeat.”
Chaotic
voices overlap. “Looks like an IUFD,” “Someone prepare induction orders,”
"Yep, she's the IUFD," "Hello, yes? L&D? We have an IUFD for
you," "It's an IUFD" “We need to get them out of this space,”
“Julie’s got an empty room.” He and I are moved into an exam room. The walls
are covered in newborn hospital photos, birth announcements, family snaps
shots, and images of the medical team with different babies they had delivered.
The door opens. A nurse extends her arm holding out a box of tissues. I
hesitate, and then obligatorily oblige. We are lead into a regal office.
Bookcases overflow, the walls covered in text. Seated behind an enormous, solid
wooden desk sits a short and rather profoundly stout, older man. He wears a
conscripted, somber expression. The man speaks and although I am listening,
only bits and pieces resonate with reality. We would return to the hospital
after 6pm. I would be delivered. “It appears we have an IUFD,” “There are no
answers,” “These things just happen,” “My body knew something was wrong and
took care of things, “It want be long until we would have another child.”
The clutch
rattles recklessly at my feet. The cabin shakes. By body shifts with the swift
jerked motions of each curve. Every minor imperfection in the roadway is
magnified. I fear my swollen bladder might explode. He grips the wheel
carelessly, speaking into the cell phone occupying his other hand. The words
are beyond comprehension, but I am aware of the angry tone in his voice. The truck veers wildly to the right. My lungs
expand, receiving the first influx of the smoke infiltrated air. A lighter in
one hand and the cell phone in the other, the wheel has been abandoned. The
cell phone is surrendered. It flies past my face tumbling into the floorboard
below. He returns both hands to the wheel. The gravity in the cabin immediately
shifts, space and time seem to pause, three, two, one, impact! The sound of
metal meeting metal dominates. He and I lunge forward. My short,
disproportioned pregnant form, meets the tension of the seat belt. The belt
chokes me, violently shredding the flesh at my neck. The pickup rejoins the
flow of traffic and continues down the road towards our new home.
I remain
motionless, unable to make the climb from the cab onto the driveway. My legs
feel like lead and the weight of my bladder holds me hostage to the seat. Finally,
I swing the door open. A cool spring breeze drifts across the yard, spinning
flower petals about, and stinging the exposed and open wounds on my neck. I
admire the beautiful house before me. My beautiful new house, a glorious new
beginning, this was the home my children would grow up in. The front door
stands open. I walk in and close the door behind me. The massive room feels
empty, what little furniture we have dwarfed by the expansion of space. Through
the open blinds I see that he is on the back patio. He is on his cell phone
again. I turn my head and my eyes fall upon the closed door that was to be our
son’s room. I swallow the emotions, opening the door to my own bedroom instead.
Again, I run my fingers along the wallpaper boarder. As I had worked into the
wee hours of the morning I had sang to, talked with, and prayed over my son. I
touch my belly. The emotions swell, I close my eyes before a single tear can
escape. I push open the door to the en suite bathroom tripping over his
clothes. It is indeed our home, I think. I retrieve my copy of What to Expect
When Your Excepting from the back of the toilet and sit down on the edge of the
enormous garden tub. I thumb through the table on contents. Complications in
Pregnancy, it is the final chapter of the book. Scanning the text, I find
chemical pregnancy, blighted ovum, miscarriage, awe, here it is, IUFD,
Intrauterine Fetal Demise. “Intrauterine Fetal Demise,” I speak the words out
loud as I continue reading. I choke on the words, again repeating them out
loud, “Intrauterine Fetal Demise.” It was the most horrid way to say my baby
died within me.
Ding–dong.
The sound startles me. Ding – dong. The sound reverberates and bounces off the
high ceilings. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. The sound grows impatient. It
registers that the sound is the doorbell for my new home. This is what my
doorbell sounds like! Wait, no. No, I cannot be happy. I cannot be sad. I
cannot, I just cannot. Ding-dong. I peer through the etching on the glass
inlay. My sister is staring back at me. I step back, turn the deadbolt, and
wordlessly invite her inside. “What are you doing here,” she inquires, “I
didn’t except to see you.” I abruptly avert my attention to the patio. He is
still there. “In my own home, you didn’t except to see me in my own home? How
about I didn’t except to see you at my home. What are you doing here?” I taste
the bitterness of my words. My shouting has brought him inside. They are both
staring at me. I gasp for air. I draw in a deep breath, then another, and
another. I am hyperventilating. Why are they staring at me? The room spins
about me. My bladder aches.
The smells
of overly reiterate cooking oil lingers in the air. They eat as they talk,
smile, and even laugh. The space is abundant with visual distractions, gold
gongs, robust and naked Buddha’s, mirrors etched with images of flying cranes,
tanks overflowing with goldfish. I stare at my untouched plate. Every once in a
while, they fall silent, exchange eye motions in my direction, and then proceed
to talk about as if I am not there.
Everywhere I look there are pregnant women, one rubs her
belly, another rests a toddler upon her bump, another waddles past. “Excuse
me,” she says with a big smile, “Soon you want be able to move any faster than
me.” “Why? Why? Did you bring me here,” I silently scream at him and my sister
as they stroll casually down the aisle before me. Diapers, baby soaps,
shampoos, and lotions, I don’t need any of this stuff! Why? I want to go home!
I turn the corner, a very large pregnant women stands before me. I recognize
her face but struggle to commit it to memory. In her cart are two small
children. Both are dirty and neither wears shoes. Two older children are at her
side. I remember. It had been four years since we had graduated high school
together. By accident, I had become a Mom the year after and had felt rather
rushed in having become pregnant again so soon. Here before me however stood
the reigning homecoming queen excepting her fifth. She had never spoken to me
before, why would she now. The youngest child wails, another competes for her
attention. She turns her nose up and walks away.
My soul
longs to embrace my first-born son awaiting me just the other side of the door
before me. What also lies beyond the door however, is one who I am not yet
ready to face. “Hello,” he shouts, “are you going to knock, or what?” I lean
forward, the weight of my belly pressing against my still full bladder. I close
my eyes, take a deep breath, and knock. Several excited little voices rejoice.
It is getting close to the time that their Mom’s will be arriving for them as
well. The curtains on the small window divide. My mother’s face appears. She
looks puzzled by my early arrival, and his presence. The door opens, and
children spill out around me, my own among them. He ignores me, instead running
for his bike. My Mom restores order among her daycare kids, assigning outside
activities and task.
“No, I don’t
think it works like that Mom,” “No they said they are certain,” “I want to
believe they could be wrong too, but he is gone,” “He is dead Mom, the baby is
dead.” For a moment all is silent. “Nana, I need to go pee.” I ache with my own
fullness.
I draw a deep breath, the stale air, heavy
with disinfectant, void and sterile, filling my lungs. He lurks silently behind
me. I introduce myself and give my doctor’s name. “How far along are you,
honey?” one of the two women inquires. “Twenty-one weeks,” I respond. “You said
your doc called ahead to let us know you were in labor?” the other asks, both
women now panicked. “She is not in labor,” he says a little too loudly. Now,
now you find your voice, I think. Again, I am forced to speak the words, “He is
dead. My baby is dead. I am here to birth my dead baby.”
Alone in
the small dressing room space I stare at the parcel before me. Neatly stacked
and arranged in pyramid fashion, the largest item, a lose weave hospital
blanket. Atop, a rough sheet with “hospital property” imprinted and repeated in
pattern. The stings and snaps visible beyond the folds assure the familiar grey
and pink paisley fabric indeed belongs to a standard issue hospital gown. I run my fingers across the gown and wonder
how many mothers before me wore this gown birthing live, healthy babies. I caress my belly. What if, I imagine
thinking of my mother’s hopefulness, what if they were wrong. The peak of the
parcel hierarchy responds to my emotion, titer tottering for a moment, then
rolling into the floor. My eyes follow the clear plastic cup with the bright
blue lid as it attempts a disappearance act under the bench. Once again, I am
aware of the discomfort of my still bulging bladder. Thoughts spin in my head.
I cannot shake my mother’s insistence that perhaps there could be a mistake. I
hadn’t actually asked if they were certain. But that’s absurd! They would have
to be certain to have told me, right? But I had not asked if it could have been
the machine, I mean what if the machine had been broken. What if there was
movement, and a heartbeat, and life and they just didn’t pick it up because
their machine was broke. I spread my legs wide, lunging my rounded belly
forward between them. I extend my arm under the legs of the bench retrieving
the cup. With minor struggle I straighten my back, elevate the belly, once
again steadying my balance but not before the remaining contents of the parcel
spill into the floor. I kick the tangled linens into the adjacent corner. “My
God is bigger than a broken ultrasound machine,” I declare out loud.
My concentration is divided between
devotions to holding to my faith and holding my bladder. With the pressure of
the ultrasound wand I clinch my muscles ever tighter awaiting the miracle God
is about to preform before me. My peripheral vision provides awareness of
conversations taking place between him and my doctor. A strange hand finds my
own. The hand is warm, and the embrace is one of attempted comfort. I struggle
to reject it but surrender quickly. “I thought if I believed hard enough, you know,
really, really believed that my faith would be strong enough to save him, “ I
say. The embrace lessens. The hand pats my own twice. The cadence of the
responding voice mirrors the same ambitious assuaging, “I know you did child, I know you did.”
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Rhythmically, one drop after another appears, swells, and falls, splashing into
the cylinder below. The liquid level in the cylinder however, never changes,
equilibrium accomplished in the subsequent displacement of liquid flowing, ever
flowing, throughout the tangled, twisted IV tubes and into my veins. My bladder
now empty, I feel the void and the emptiness for the first time.
The air
pressure in the room suddenly shifts. The oversized door swings open. The
enthusiastically cheerful young woman makes her way into the room. Introducing
herself she pushes past the carefully prepared and waiting warming bed. She
retrieves the wheeled sphygmomanometer behind. She fashions the cuff around my
arm. From a wire basket affixed to the pole she prepares a thermometer.
I open my mouth. The probe under my tongue, I close my lips
around it. She fumbles for my wrist, rotates it, applying pressure to my pulse
point. Her eyes meet mine, her smile widens, she speaks, “Oh, don’t be scared
honey. This must be your first. We are going to take good care of you. Your
both going to be just fine.” He remains silent.
I awaken
to obscurity. The air smells odd. I extend an arm fumbling in the darkness
searching for him. My probing hand meets an unfamiliar, chilling incursion. As
I grope the metal bar of the hospital bed my hand aches with the mounting
pressure of the compressed Iv tubing. I remember where I am. My eyes now
adjusted, I scan the shadows. He sleeps in the chair beside me. I close my
eyes. Why can’t it all just be a horrible nightmare?
Again, I
awaken, this time to light. Audible is a high-pitched tone resounding with
repetitious demands for attention. The chair is empty. I am alone again with my
swollen belly. I close my eyes. My hands are habitually dawn to the bulge. For
a moment I try to pretend, but I cannot. The pain is no longer solely in my
heart, but my uterus now aches with forthcoming. I open my eyes to find another
in my presence. Startled, I jump. “Oh, honey I am sorry, I didn’t mean to
frighten you,” her voice is kind. She fumbles with my IV, silencing the alarm.
“Dreaming of your baby, huh?” My heart pounds, I struggle for air. I am
overcome. “Yes, yes, I was,” I somehow manage to answer choking on the
bitterness of my words. Vomit. Vomit everywhere.
With my
eyes I endeavor to trace the outline of each pearlescent paisley embossment
scattered in exquisite, ornamental, arrangement overlay luxurious ivory. How
peculiar are the attempts of the simplistic cardboard form to portray such
luminous elegance. The large, bouncy, bow fashioned from tulle bacons me to
explore the contents within. From the twilight dimmed shadows he speaks, “The
Chaplin lady brought it. It’s…” his voice breaks, “It’s, for him. It’s for the
baby, our baby,” a single tear escapes, slops to the bridge of his nose, and
rolls across his cheek, the tiny droplet leaps from his chin. “Caelan, she
brought it for Caelan.”
There are
too many people in the room. In one corner, the same round man who we had only
just meet in the office days before, commanded a gathering of three attentive
women, each donning scrubs. In another corner two nurses work together. Placing
her foot upon a metal plate, one nurse releases the break on the warming bed,
pushing it forward. The second nurse holds open the door and assist in
navigating the bulky equipment through the doorway. They disappear into the
hallway. At the foot of my bed, an older women engages him. Her face is
careworn. The sunlight filtering through
the window illuminates her shimmering, silver locks. They speak of me as if I
am not there. I stare at the wall. They speak to me. I stare at the wall. The
pressure mounts, the pain, once paroxysms, is now intense and constant. My body
has finally acknowledged the approaching culmination. I stare at the wall.
I clench
my eyes and my mouth tightly closed. I draw a breath deep into my lungs. I struggle to extend the same constrictions
to every other muscle of my body. Control escapes me. Inflamed, and swollen
tissues part, and unfurl. All alone in the dimly lit hospital room I give birth
to death. Below the veiling of the threadbare sheet, suddenly disentangled, my
son gains independence from the abyss of my infecund womb. One still, silent,
lifeless body, yet two ceased to be, my precious baby not alive, and the person
I was before he appeared before me.
