Loila
I’m going to learn a new skill this summer: how to type with tears in my eyes . . . .
Eight days after my unexpected breakdown, on October 31st, I had some light bleeding - never a good sign when you’re pregnant. I spent the day lying on the couch. It’s torment to find yourself on the brink of catastrophe with nothing you can do to prevent or prepare. Paradoxically, the only “action” I could come up with to meet this emergency was to rest: ironically, I would soon learn that it was weeks too late for any preventative action.
My ever-supportive husband took time off work to go with me to the doctor’s office that afternoon. Sitting in the waiting room, I heard a baby cry, felt the stabbing realization of how deeply I wanted this child of mine. On discovering that my weight had dropped a pound or two since my last visit, the nurse said reassuringly, “That sometimes happens at this stage of pregnancy.” I didn’t understand. I was used to the nurses trying to make me feel better about gaining weight in pregnancy - why would a little dip be a problem?
I remember the look of concentration on my doctor’s face as she ran the fetal Doppler over and over my abdomen, trying to find a heartbeat. After an eternity, she gave up and sent me home with a requisition for an ultrasound the next day, one word scrawled across the paper: “Viable?”
One of the beautiful traditions of my church is the blessing of healing. Two priesthood holders place their hands on a sick person’s head and invoke the power of God, according to his will, to heal that person. I have seen miracles happen as a result of blessings. After the doctor appointment, we made arrangements for another priesthood holder to come and assist Andrew in giving me a blessing on the following afternoon. But my ultrasound was scheduled for the morning.
On our way to that appointment, Andrew slowed the car as we passed the home of another member of our church. “Maybe we could just drop in and give you that blessing real quick,” he said. I knew what he was thinking: after the ultrasound, we would know, and it would be too late. But we drove on.
This next bit is from my journal:
We went for the ultrasound on Tuesday morning. It became clear to me pretty soon that things were not right. The technologist was quiet, which wasn’t unusual, but her face was so serious and she didn’t say anything reassuring, although she knew we were worried. After a few minutes Andrew, who could see the screen, came over and stood beside me and stroked my foot, and he didn’t say anything either, even when the technologist left to get the doctor on duty, and I knew there would be bad news.
He came in and looked at the image on the screen briefly and then said, “I have to tell you this isn’t a normal pregnancy. We can see a fetus, but there is no heartbeat.” He said a few things about how this was a little late for such a thing to be happening, and it wasn’t necessarily anything I had done, and finished with, “I don’t like to have to tell you this.” As if I cared how the news was making him feel!
I had realized the night before that there were things I would need to ask for that day. I asked how far the baby had developed, and they told me about thirteen weeks. I asked to see the baby. I needed that, I needed to know what I was grieving for. The image was blurry, but the technician showed us the head, the face, the body, little arms raised over the face. I looked at that tiny person and I felt sorry for her; I wondered, “Why couldn’t I protect you?” So still, no movement, just lying there in the same position she had been in for four weeks. I asked if the baby was a boy or girl, but she couldn’t tell.
In the short, silent drive home from the ultrasound, I formed a resolve: if it was possible, I wanted to deliver this baby naturally.
