Three years ago... I was about 17 weeks pregnant. I had my monthly appointment with my doctor on May 5. I hadn't had any pain or spotting or complications. Good weight gain. Good blood pressure. But he couldn't find the heartbeat. I should have known then, but I just couldn't believe it. I should have known when he set up an appointment for the following morning at 9am to "do blood work." I should have known when I saw the way the nurse looked at me. But nobody said it. So I was still hopeful. Aaron and I went to go get an ultrasound.
I couldn't see the screen, but Aaron told me that the baby looked small. Really small. The ultrasound tech wasn't allowed to tell us anything. But they always show you the heartbeat. Where the head and toes are. But, not this time. I started to get worried. But still had hope. Everything would be okay.
She told us to wait there and the doctor would be in to see us soon. We waited. And waited. And then the ultrasound tech came back and told us that we can just go home, her boss would call my doctor, and my doctor would call me.
We went to the mall to try to get our minds off of things while we waited for the phone call. After a little while of waiting, I called the doctor's office only to be told that they were closed and the doctor was gone. I managed to get his cell phone number and called immediately. I could tell he didn't want to do it that way. He wanted to wait until the morning. He tried to brush me off and get off the phone. But I had to know. I remember it so vividly. Standing with my husband, right outside the mall, on the phone with my doctor and asking him, "can you just tell me if my baby is alive or dead?"
He informed me that my baby had stopped growing at about 9 weeks. I was 17 at weeks. Mixed in with the shock and sadness over the loss of my child, I just felt so incredibly stupid. For two months I had a dead baby inside of me and I had no idea. I was just waiting to feel the first flutters of movement. How could I not have known? And then I just blamed myself. What a horrible mother, for not knowing. For not being able to take care of my baby. To keep her alive. Was it all the painkillers I took when I had gallstones? Did my UTI cause some type of problem? Was I just not good enough?
The next morning, my doctor informed me that the baby's death was most likely due to an incorrect number of chromosomes. Which I guess is just the general hypothesis for all unexplained miscarriages. He told me that while the baby had stopped growing at 9 weeks, my uterus had continued to grow until about 12 or 13 weeks, which is why he didn't know about it at the previous appointment. He scheduled my surgery for that afternoon. I remember being very concerned about what I would wear. I had a belly, but wasn't technically pregnant. I didn't want to wear maternity clothes if I wasn't pregnant, but nothing else fit.
My parents watched the older kids all day. Aaron took me to the hospital. We signed in, and then had to wait. They made us wait far too long. We sat there and watched as new mothers and fathers walked out of the hospital with their newborn babies. There were so many of them.
Finally they took me back. I changed into a hospital gown. I thought I was sad already. But once they rolled me away from Aaron and into the operating room, I lost it. The nurses saw me crying and said they were going to give me somwthing to help with my nerves. I was suddenly overcome with a desire to try to make them understand that I wasn't nervous about the surgery. I was just mourning my baby. I was realizing that my little girl (we don't know for sure, but Aaron and I thought it was a girl) was about to be vacuumed out my body. But the nurses didn't show much compassion. They just did their job.
They put me on the operating table, and lowered the top half so that my head was lower than my feet. They propped my legs up. And they just...had me wait like that. Crying and sad and uncomfortable, I almost started to panic. My head was so low that I couldn't see anything. I didn't know who was in the room or what was going on.
Then suddenly I woke up with Aaron next to me and my doctor telling me that wverything went well.
I went home and flopped down onto the sofa. And stayed there. For a long time. I was so sore, each muscle was pained. And I was sad. I had my older kids, but I just missed my little one.
I eventually learned how to keep living. Enjoy my kids. Having another baby helped a lot. And now I generally don't have a problem with it. But every year, around May 5, I relive that day in my head. I feel it all over again. And I don't know if I want that to stop.
(We named her Cassidy Sullivan)
