The Next 48 Hours (Dear Baby Not To Be, Part 2)

[This was written in mid-December, about two weeks after the D&C]

And then there were the next 48 hours. Coming home at night after the ultrasound and seeing my sweet boy and feeling these overwhelming waves of grief and of joy. I don’t think I have ever felt such powerful, my-heart-will-jump-out-of-my-chest love for him or been so thankful for having him in my life. But seeing him also reminded me how much we will be missing because this baby won’t be a part of our family.

Then there were hours of pretending that everything is OK, eating dinner, putting the Child to bed, ordering tickets for a musical in late December, talking on the phone with my family about Christmas travel plans. It feels normal. Maybe nothing bad happened. Maybe it was all a dream.

And then there were hours of unstoppable crying while I lie in bed, with the Child and my mom (who happened to be visiting us during that time—not a good coincidence, but that’s a subject of another post) already asleep.

Then there was a visit the next morning to the heartless, old-school curmudgeon OB. “So you had an ultrasound yesterday,” he says while looking at my charts, “and what did they tell you?”, making me utter those words, those horrible, chilling words that no woman should be forced to say: “My baby doesn’t have a heartbeat.” And then I break down again. And again when he tells me that he recommends a D&C because my cervix is still completely closed. And again when I have to pay the damn co-pay (can’t they wave it, just once?).

And then going to work, telling my boss that I need to be out, thinking how odd it is to carry a dead baby—something that was so loved and cared for, now just a foreign object in my body. Then once again feeling that everything is normal, finishing some projects before leaving, going to a staff meeting. And then completely breaking down again, in my cubicle, knowing that next time I come here, I won’t be carrying this baby.

Then another exhausting sleepless night filled with tears. The morning shower, sobbing. Wearing the same loose sweat pants that I wore home from the hospital when we brought the Child home. Driving to the hospital, thinking how ironic it is that exactly three years ago tomorrow, I was coming to this same hospital to have the baby. Now, I am coming here to lose a baby. Talking to the cheery receptionist, who jokes and smiles and then stops after reading “missed abortion” on my chart. Talking to a sweet, compassionate nurse, a pretty girl, someone who should be on “Scrubs.” Telling her that no, I am not wearing any jewelry, except for my wedding ring, and then breaking down again when asked to take it off (I’ve already lost a baby, don’t take my ring--my connection to the rest of my family). Then changing into the hospital gown, the one I remember so well. Talking to Suzanne, a sweet, eight-month pregnant anesthesiologist who says so genuinly “I am so sorry you are here” and brings me a whole box of tissues. And then loosing it again and again and again as I lie there, waiting for my doctor who is an hour late. Overhearing conversations of other patients and doctors, wondering if they hear my sobbing. Then getting an IV started, except that they can’t find a vein, then they blow another one, and next thing I know, there are four anesthesiologists around me, poking my arms with needles. Finally, success. But it is only water, not drugs because I have to wait for the doctor to sign a waiver before I can have something “to take the edge off.” Finally, seeing the doctor, except it is not the one they told me it would be, not the one I adore, but another one, whom I have never met. Who says those heartless things again. And then finally, the pregnant anesthesiologist injecting something she calls “a margarita” in my IV as I continue sobbing as they roll me away from my husband. Being so scared without him. Seeing those white bright lights of the OR.

And then finally waking up still sobbing. God, please, God, was it a dream? But I am still on the stretcher, in a gown, my husband finally with me. And I continue to sob, but I know that it is over.