August 6, 2013
July 17th is an anniversary for my husband, children & I but not a celebrated one. I can’t write about what happened on this day last year, it is too painful. I had been dreading this anniversary for the past year and as it has come and gone, I suspect I will dread it forever. Do you have days like this? Maybe the death of a loved one that came way too soon? Maybe the finalization of a divorce? These are the days that are not marked on calendars but we look at them on the calendar as if there is a big black “X” or skull and crossbones through them. These are the unspeakable days. These days can’t be escaped, no matter how hard we try. On these days our sorrow and pain is relived. On these days we wish the memory could be forgotten.
I have another, November 17th. It seems strange to me that both of my unspeakable days are on the 17th, kismet, in a way. But in 2002, my husband and I received the worst news possible as a parent. The child I was carrying passed away. We don’t know how or why. Everything that day went in slow motion but I remember everything down to the clothes I was wearing.
I went in for a normal pregnancy check up. I was a little over 17 weeks along, again foreshadowing. I had been traveling a lot for the company I worked for with lots of flights to Chicago, Florida, Tennessee and California. Everything was going like clockwork just like it did when I was pregnant three years before. I had given birth then to a beautiful baby girl, so I was convinced of a repeat. The only difference? I wasn’t gaining ENORMOUS amounts of weight like I did with the first pregnancy. With the first I gained 70 pounds – yes, I was a house! This pregnancy was more normal. By the 17 week mark I had gained almost 12 pounds so this time I was sporting a good-size baby bump instead of looking 9-months pregnant.
I went to a doctor’s group at that time. You know the kind, where you have a regular doctor but if they are not on-call when you go into labor, then it is a crap shoot who you get for the delivery. I had seen 3 of the 4 doctors in the group during this pregnancy and the one before. On this visit, my regular doctor was ill and I was scheduled to see doctor # 4, the one I had never met before. My husband didn’t attend all the visits, only the important ones like finding out the sex or those nearing the due date. So this visit, I was solo.
When Doctor # 4 couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat, I wasn’t nervous. I honestly believed he didn’t really know what he was doing. I wasn’t frustrated or upset, I felt kind of bad for him. I thought he was just not very good at his job. He was flustered, seemed nervous. He would move the ultra sound wand and tap away at the buttons on the computer keyboard. Then he said, “I’m having a little trouble finding the heartbeat. I’m sure things are fine. It’s pretty early in the pregnancy so it might just be difficult to detect or maybe it’s this machine. I’d like you to go to a different office location that has a better ultrasound. Would that be OK?” This is where I became confused. I was almost 18 weeks along, nearly half way. My next visit we would determine the sex of the baby. There shouldn’t be an issue finding a heartbeat at this point.
As I traveled across town, I called my husband. I had an eerie suspicion that something was very wrong. He met me at office # 2 and stayed with me during the appointment. He tried to keep me calm and distracted by talking to me about his day at work. I was annoyed but said nothing, still confused. I tried to read the technician’s face as she performed the 2nd, more intrusive, ultrasound. But like all good technicians she was stoic. After she was finished, I asked her if everything looked OK. When she said, very sweetly, “The doctor will go over the results with you in a few minutes” and patted my knee, that’s when I knew and I started to cry.
The doctor confirmed in medical terms what I knew. The baby had died and my body (or my mind) refused to go into a miscarriage. They would need to perform a procedure to remove the child. I already had beginning symptoms of toxemia and it would get worse on my body. I asked over and over if they were sure. Maybe we calculated the conception wrong. Maybe the baby was just really, really tiny. The doctor could tell I was in panic mode and reviewed the video of the ultrasound with me. He showed me where the baby was, how big it was, and where there was no flutter of the heart. The doctor’s compassionate manner was exquisite, but I was still inconsolable. And so was my husband. This would be one of those days, I can count on one hand, I saw him cry.
We had arrangements to make. This is where time sped up to a whirl wind. For the next 24 hours, I kept telling myself that it just wasn’t meant to be. I kept repeating to myself that God was in control and it just wasn’t my turn to have a baby again. No big deal. I called only my mother and my sister since I would need help with our 2-1/2-year-old. And when I was asked if I was OK, I told them it just wasn’t meant to be. No big deal.
The next day, we went in for the procedure. I didn’t cry. We were in a large room for prep, surrounded only by a curtain. The anesthesiologist could not find a vein. I still didn’t cry. I was numb. She stuck me 14 times before the head of anesthesiology, had to come take over. He reviewed my chart, realizing what I was in for, and not only got a line started with the first try, he told the other anesthesiologist that he would “…stay with her and see her through.” He sat chatting with my husband and I and then went in with me to surgery. When I woke up out of surgery, that’s when I cried. I always cry when I am coming out of anesthesia, it’s kind of my thing. His was the first face I saw and I will never forget his words “You’re going to be just fine, hon, you’ll see. Just gonna take some time is all.”
I didn’t cry again until I was released from the hospital and I went home. My mom came over to sit with me and take care of our daughter so my husband could go to work. I told her it was very unnecessary, that it wasn’t a big deal. I was fine. We talked for hours and went over all the “maybes” that had been rolling around my head for the past 24 hours. The things that I could have done wrong. Maybe I drank too much coffee. Maybe I traveled too much. Maybe I shouldn’t have painted the bathroom. Maybe a thousand other maybes. I kept saying that I knew it probably wasn’t meant to be but maybe I helped it along. I kept saying the flowers are beautiful but people shouldn’t have sent them. I kept saying it’s really not a big deal.
Then I started to weep and I said “This is just so stupid. I don’t know why I am crying, it’s really not a big deal.” She comforted me and talked me through everything. Her kind words eventually convinced me that maybe it wasn’t my fault but it was a big deal. When your heart breaks, it’s a big deal.
When your heart breaks, it is just never the same. Even with time. Each time I passed the nursery, my heart broke a little more. Each time our daughter would talk about the baby in mommy’s tummy, my heart broke a little more. Sure with time, things can get to a functional state, but the heart never forgets. When your heart breaks that much, the gaping wound can be mended but there will always be a scar.
My husband & I tried again and we broke the rules. We got pregnant one month earlier than we were supposed to after a miscarriage. I was so heart-set on having more children, I didn’t even care if I was tempting fate. I was ultra careful with this one and nervous. No coffee – yes, practically torture for those around me. No heavy lifting. No physical exertion. No painting. No allergy medicine. No flu shots. I watched what I ate. I refused to travel for work. I did everything short of wrapping myself in bubble wrap. We would wait 339 days (that’s 11 one-month unspeakable anniversaries) but on October 22, 2003, we met our beautiful baby boy, MUCH too early and in a precarious emergency. We then realized that some things really do happen for a reason.
The November 17th anniversary is a remembrance. It isn’t as painful as it was in the beginning. I look at my son, who will be 10 this year, and I wonder about the baby that wasn’t meant to be. I wonder if we will meet some day when I pass on. I wonder if his or her little soul was given to another mother that needed that soul more at the time. I wonder if my son understands that I truly believe God hand-picked him for me. I wonder if my daughter understands that what I experienced that day made me appreciate and love her even more or that I see her as a prophetic gift from God.
I no longer wish to forget what happened on this day. I know that going through it was the only way to get to where I am right now. I understand now that only God knew His plan and He brought us through it.
For the July 17th anniversary, I am agonizingly praying we will get to a place where the memory of that day is not as painful. I am praying that the gaping wound will close and become a mere scar. We will never be able to forget or be OK with what happened that day. But in my faith, I understand that only God knows His plan for us and He is bringing us through it. I pray that we will come to a place where we know that getting through that day was the only way to get to our future.
I pray this for you and your unspeakable anniversaries.
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