James Isaac: My "Laughter"

In early 1999, I went back east where my friends and family gave me a wonderful baby shower. I received so many wonderful, thoughtful gifts. There were a few hand-made blankets as well as the typical diaper bags, diapers, diaper cream, and other wonders. It was a wonderful, joyous time of celebration as we all prepared to greet the new little life growing inside me.

Because of all the ultrasounds that I had to have, it was impossible not to know the sex of our baby. Yes, we were having a boy! Even before I had gotten pregnant, I knew that our baby would be named James Isaac. James after his daddy.  Isaac because in the Bible, Isaac is the son of Abraham and Sarah’s promise that they had waited most of their lives for. Not only was James Isaac the son of the promise God had given us, but he was also our little Laughter. Remember, Sarah laughed when God told her that she would have a baby at almost a hundred years old. So when the baby was born, she named him Isaac, meaning “laughter.”

So much about my wonderful baby gave me such wonderful moments of Laughter. Besides, I had always loved to laugh and after suffering from deep depression for a few years, I needed every reason possible to laugh. I was trying so hard to allow God to work in my life and make me His instrument. Being pregnant with my first very beloved, desired, and wanted baby gave me back the laughter that I had been so desperately needing.

I was in about my 36^th week of my pregnancy when the doctor told us that our beautiful baby boy, James Isaac, hadn’t turned yet. He was breech. The doctor spent almost an hour explaining to my husband and me that if James Isaac hadn’t turned by the time I went in for my next appointment the following week, he would have to admit me to the hospital and turn the baby manually.

            I had never heard of such a thing, so we had a lot of questions, the biggest being why would I have to be admitted to the hospital.

            The doctor assured us that they did procedures like that often enough that they knew what they were doing, but yes, there was a high risk that I could go into premature labor. I was far enough along that they were confident the baby would be whole and healthy, but if the baby could stay in and “percolate” (my term, I think) until at least my 38^th week, they’d prefer that. 

I thought it was strange that a week and a few days would make such a difference, but I trusted the

doctors, so I was given a steroid shot as well as the shot new mothers get when their blood type is A negative. My husband and I left, assured that they were telling us what was best for the baby—and me.

            That very evening, I was lying back on the couch, trying to get some rest, when I watched my belly as my beloved James Isaac obviously rolled over into the position he was supposed to be in. I watched his little butt sticking up out of my belly, almost as if it was standing on my back and leaning over, and then it moves from my lower to upper belly! I saw a foot poking out where I could clearly see the imprint, including toes!

There is nothing in the world as wonderful and amazing as having a life grow and move inside of you. We women truly are blessed to be able to hold God’s beloved children inside our bodies. It was such an honor being the temporary home for my precious child. I loved being pregnant.

            Don’t get me wrong, now. By my 38^th week, I was like many other pregnant women who couldn’t wait for the baby to “get out!” We are anxious for the birth in part because being pregnant really is exhausting, but also because we simply cannot wait to hold our Precious in our arms.

            Five or six days after James Isaac turned on his own, I was in class at school when I felt James Isaac drop. I immediately raced to the bathroom because I felt as if I really need to go. When I got there, though, nothing happened. Nothing at all. I was dry as a bone. I thought that was strange considering what I had just felt and the desperate need I’d had to go to the bathroom, but I made my way slowly back to the classroom and finished out the day.

            I thought seriously about calling my doctor’s office, but I had an appointment scheduled for the very next day. I figured if James Isaac had dropped into place unless I was having pains, I might as well wait for the appointment.

            I didn’t worry. 

Why would I worry? Everything had gone so well with my surgery just a few months earlier; there was no reason to worry. James Isaac had turned and dropped. He had done what he was supposed to do. It wouldn’t be long before I would be in full-blown labor.

            I couldn’t wait.          

            In the doctor’s office, I was stripped from the waist down, waiting for the doctor to come in to do his exam to see how close we were to delivery. The nurse came in to listen to the baby’s heartbeat.

            I loved listening to James Isaac’s heartbeat. It was one of my favorite sounds in the world. I always hated that we only listened for a few moments.

            Rather than the fast woosh-woosh-woosh-woosh that we had been hearing for the past six months when we’d listen to James Isaac’s heartbeat, all we heard as she placed that monitor on my belly was a slow, methodical ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum. 

            My heartbeat.

            Not the baby’s.

            She moved the monitor to find a better position in order to hear the baby.

            Still mine.

            The nurse said that she was going to get a different monitor because that one didn’t seem to be working very well. She said something about maybe even letting the doctor listen to get the baby’s heartbeat.

            As soon as she left, I looked at my husband, “Something’s wrong.”

            “What do you mean? She said there’s something wrong with the monitor,” he tried.

            “No, that was my heartbeat we were listening to. We should have easily heard the baby’s heartbeat. We’ve never had any trouble hearing the baby’s heartbeat.”

            “Let’s just wait and see what the doctor says. I don’t think that nurse knows what she’s doing.”

            “No, she knows what she’s doing. There’s something seriously wrong.”

            Deep breath.

            Deep breath.

            You can do it, Polly. Just breathe. Wait until the doctor comes in. He’ll tell you what’s going on. Maybe it’s just what happens when the baby drops and it’s time for labor to begin. It’s going to be okay.

            Lord, help us: “But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you” (Psalm 56:3, NLT).

            The doctor came in with another monitor and immediately put it on my belly. He said “hello,” but normally he was more talkative. I knew he was concerned.

            Again, we heard ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum… mine, not the baby’s.

            He didn’t take long, “Let’s go downstairs and have an ultrasound. We’ll find that baby,” attempting to sound more confident than he looked.

            I knew.

            I didn’t need the ultrasound to make it so.

            I knew.

            It was over.

            But I went downstairs as asked, laid down on the ultrasound table, and let them do the ultrasound.

            There it was on the screen—as obvious and real as the sound of the screams that were choking me. A heart not moving.

            James said something about it not being real.

            I looked the doctor in the eye and I choked out, “You fix it.”

            “Oh, Polly. I would if I could. I am so sorry,” he patted my shoulder gently.

            “Can we have a second opinion?” James broke in.

            “If you want,” the doctor said as he left us for a few minutes to go get one of the other doctors in the group. 

            We had seen this second doctor before so we knew him.  We trusted him, too.

            It didn’t take long for him to verify what the first doctor had found.

            A different doctor couldn’t change what wasn’t there on that screen. He couldn’t make the baby’s heartbeat any more than our first doctor could.

            The doctor told us our options: he would have to induce my labor so I would have the baby naturally (yes, that means vaginally) but he needed to know whether we wanted to do it right away or wait a day or so.

            James wanted to wait, but I told the doctor that there was no waiting; we would do it right away.

The arrangements were made for me to go straight across the street and be admitted to the hospital. 

            As we were leaving the doctor’s office, the doctor asked me if we should call someone. (This was pre-cell phone days, mind you.) I told him that we probably ought to call my parents but that the call would be long distance. He told me not to worry about that, so we called my mom and dad.

            Mom wasn’t home yet. 

Dad answered the phone.

            “Praise the Lord, Kinseys!” Dad answered exuberantly, as he always did.

            “Daddy? Oh, daddy,” I sobbed.

            And he knew.

            “Is James there with you? Hand him the phone.”

            And James explained that we were going straight across the street to be admitted to the hospital and the doctor was going to induce my labor and that yes, I would have to deliver the baby naturally.

            I guess Dad told James that they would be on their way as soon as they could.

            I was given a room in the hospital in the far back corner, as far away from the mothers on the floor whose babies were crying and cooing. 

            The doctor induced my labor and the wait began.

We learned that there was no heartbeat on March 16, 1999.

James Isaac was born on March 17, 1999.

I can’t even begin to tell you how long my labor lasted except to say that I was induced in the early evening and James Isaac was born early the next morning. 

            Mom, Dad, Katie, and Baba (my grandma) arrived late that first evening. I noticed almost immediately that my mom had a nasty bruise on her wrist. It looked like a hand wrapped around her wrist. She told me that when she had gotten home from work (apparently just a few minutes after we had spoken to my dad), she had walked in and immediately began talking about what they needed to do for the evening and what she had to do for supper and just talking a mile a minute so that Dad was unable to get a word in edge-wise. To get her attention, he had grabbed her wrist. In his anxiety for me, his daughter, he grabbed her much harder than he’d intended or meant to, leaving a hand-shaped bruise wrapped around Mom’s wrist like a bracelet.

My brother and his family came, as well. My youngest nephew, Nate, was only about four months old at the time. We had all been looking forward to having cousins close in age.  

            I was on some pretty powerful drugs that let me sleep through most of my labor, but I was half awake and half asleep off and on throughout the long night. One time I was in between awake and asleep and I knew the doctor was in the room talking with my family. I remember hearing my Baba say that in spite of everything, I looked really good. 

            I also remember my sister sharing with the doctor the story of how she was there to help me after my cyst surgery, but that she was unable to help me when I went to the bathroom. She told him how she’d brought me a spatula.

            In spite of the circumstances, it was still funny.

            It was a surreal moment for me and I wasn’t even fully awake.

            I can only imagine what things were like for my family as they waited and watched.

            Once it was time for me to begin pushing, the doctor realized that the bed I was in was not a break-away bed. I had never heard of such a thing, but apparently, the maternity wards have beds that come apart special for delivery so the Mom can stay in the same bed for both labor and delivery. My doctor was really upset, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He had to make do with what he had. I was too far dilated and ready to deliver. There wasn’t any more waiting.

            He propped me up on towels the best he could and told me to push when I felt a contraction.

            It did not take too terribly long once I started pushing and my beloved James Isaac was born.

            I couldn’t see, but I listened as the doctor counted as he unrolled the cord from around my sweet son’s neck.

            One.

            Two.

            Three.

            Four.

            I don’t know where it stopped. It was already too much. My husband has said that he heard (and saw) six times. My mom says she remembers the doctor saying seven. Even one was too many. 

            We had our “why.”

            It didn’t make it any easier.

            As soon as the baby was wrapped in his blanket and wiped off a little bit, he was laid on my chest. His precious body was still warm from being snug inside me where my body had been unable to keep him safe.

            He fit in my arms on my breast as if he had been created just to fit right there snuggled against me. 

I loved how he felt.

            My husband and I were not aware of the doctor as he finished removing the afterbirth, stitching me up, and getting me cleaned up.  My husband leaned over me and our baby and we cried as we felt the warmth quickly seeping from the little body in spite of the warm blanket.

            All too soon, the nurse came to take my son away. 

            I slept.

            The nurses brought my son into the room over the next day or so whenever they could.  I was not able to hold him much as I was very weak and in a lot of pain—and on a lot a pain medication.

            I had blood drawn what felt like every hour on the hour. I’m sure it wasn’t that often, but it felt like it. And every single time, it hurt. Bad. I cried it hurt so bad. I couldn’t help but wonder why she was hurting me considering what I had just been through.

            I tried to ask her to stop, but all she said was that she was following orders.

            A friend of mine had come up to see me.  She was a CNA (Certified Nurse’s Assistant); she spoke to the blood nurse and told her to come back at a different time. When the blood nurse left, my friend had my nurse call my doctor and speak to him about all the blood being drawn.

            I did not have any more blood drawn while I was in the hospital.

            (My doctor even apologized later when I saw him in his office. He said that it was simply what he normally did in such situations, but if he had known how much it was hurting me, he would have ordered them to stop drawing blood much sooner. I wonder if that helped him in future situations.)

            James and I both attempted to hold our James Isaac whenever we could. Because of the damage to his neck, we had to be especially careful, so rather than pass him from hand to hand, the nurse actually put our baby on a pillow to be held and transported more easily.

            I sat in my bed, watching my husband as he fell apart—weeping and sobbing—with our son in his arms as the nurse put her arms around the two of them. It took me a while, but I finally was able to get out of the bed and wobble over to take the nurse’s place. 

            The last time we saw and held our beloved baby, I asked whoever was in the room, “Can I kiss him?”

           Can you believe I felt the need to ask such a question? Why wouldn’t I be able to kiss my own son? But I had no idea what we were allowed to do and what we weren’t allowed to do in such a situation. No one came to offer suggestions or to tell us it was ok to love on him just as if…..well, just as if…..

            So I kissed his precious little cheek—his perfect cheek—and laid him back in the bassinet to be removed by the nurse for the last time. 

            It was horrible.

            My husband and I left the hospital that day—just the two of us in a car that had been prepared to be taking home a baby. We went to a home that had been prepared for a baby—baby bed, baby clothes, toys, diapers, bottles, a rocking chair. 

            It was horrible.

            And we still had a funeral we had to get through.

           

            On the day of the funeral, we arrived at the funeral home for a receiving (there would be no viewing) that we had just an hour or so before the actual funeral. I walked into the room where my son’s body was in a tiny box and made a bee-line for that box. I stood before my son’s box and would have crumpled to the floor in my grief had it not been for the loving arms of my mom. She held me up as I wept.

            She finally led me to a chair and the people began filing in. One after another. The line seemed endless. 

            Every single one of my students had come. They were all there.

            I learned later that they were told they had to go to school and were not allowed to leave for the funeral, but every single one of them—and their parents—said that they were going to the funeral and that is exactly what they did.

            While I don’t condone defiance or rebellion, I have to admit that their devotion to me rather than to

the rules warmed my heart as so little at that terrible time did. Even now, fifteen years later, it warms my heart more than I can express in words.

            My doctors came. 

            James, my husband—our baby’s daddy—preached the funeral. All I remember about it was that he kept saying over and over, “I now know the meaning of life. I know now the meaning of life.” I’m still not sure exactly what he meant by that, but it’s what I remember that he said.

            I also remember that during the actual funeral—it was outside at the grave so it was a combined graveside service and funeral, a tiny spider was crawling on my arm and my sister—who is DEATHLY afraid of spiders (if only I could make you understand just how severe her fear is…), swiped it off my arm and killed it—just as calm as you please.

            She had never before and has never since been even half that calm when she sees a spider. It was another surreal moment that stands out amongst all the horrific memories of that time because it was just so odd and unusual as well as so out of character for my sister.

            After the service, we were told to wait because there were people who had not yet had a chance to speak to us. We had a second receiving after the funeral and spoke not only to those we hadn’t spoken to prior to the service as well as many who just wanted to hug our necks a second time.

            It was a long time we had to stand there, but every single person who walked by hugged me and told me how much he/she loved me. In spite of the fact that I was still in a lot of pain and worried about my breasts leaking, it was worth the time and effort it took to keep standing. 

I needed the love.

            Over the next several months, I did whatever I had to do—no more or less. I finished the school year, but the end of that year is a fog. I know I did not work over the summer months, but the only thing I remember is being in my pajamas—a lot. I think I still showered for Sunday services, but beyond that, I don’t think I left the house or showered. 

            I counted down the days—six months—until we could begin trying to have another baby. I lived for the day when the doctor would say that my body had healed enough and we could begin trying.

            This is when I first truly began to feel trapped as if in a deep, dark cave, so dark and so deep that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I was completely alone and scared out of my mind. I had no idea which direction to go to get out of my dark cave. There wasn’t even a pin-prick of light to give me a hint as to where to go.  I had fallen multiple times and had bumps, scrapes, bruises, and pains that made every movement simply unbearable. 

            I made a very conscious decision to sit down on a rock in my cave and stay right there without moving because moving only hurt…..for a very long time.

Panya Ruth: My "Little Panda"

It did not take long before we were pregnant again.  We lost James Isaac in March 1999, and I was pregnant by September. 

            Once I had a positive home pregnancy test result, I went to the doctor as soon as I could get an appointment.

            Everything looked great and we were given our next appointment with the admonition to enjoy the pregnancy.

            On Sunday, November 7, just a few short weeks before Thanksgiving—approximately eleven weeks into my pregnancy, I was on the phone with my sister, Katie.  While I was talking to her, I had to go to the bathroom.  Nothing new.  In my family we had even had a telephone installed in the bathroom in my parents’ home because we were always in there when the phone rang.

I had a little bit of red coloring (blood) on my toilet paper when I went to the bathroom.  I also had some sort of draining.  It was as if I went pee in pants, but I did not pee.  The bleeding was so slight, I thought that maybe I had irritated my skin when I wiped and had just rubbed it raw. 

There was that small part of me that felt that something was wrong.

It really scared me.  I spent a LOT of time praying for a couple of hours.  I am just so scared that something will happen.  I am trying to “trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not unto my own understanding—in everything I do to acknowledge Him and to allow Him to direct my paths,”  but I am just so scared.  I want this baby.  I want a healthy baby.  I want to hold this baby in my arms—to bring him or her home from the hospital with me.  Please, Lord. . .please keep my baby safe. . . .Help me to trust in You. 

            I did not say anything to my sister.

            I also did not say anything to my husband.

Monday was normal.  I do not remember having any bleeding on Monday.  On Tuesday morning, I had just enough blood on the toilet paper to scare me witless. Again, I did not tell James about it. 

As soon as I got to school, I began making arrangements to go see my doctor.  I asked a parent who was on campus that day to watch my class until I got back.  Then I went up to my room and made out lesson plans for the whole day, just in case.  As soon as she came in, about 8:25 am, I went down and called my doctor’s office.  I talked to a nurse and she acted like she did not want me to come in, but somehow or another, she did tell me to go ahead and come in and they would squeeze me in. 

I left immediately.   I did not have much of anything with me.  I cannot even remember if I took my purse with me or not. 

I got to the office within just a few minutes and did not have to wait long.  My doctor examined me (he thought that maybe I was in because I had the crud).  I was not bleeding at the time.  We went and did a vaginal ultrasound.  He could not see anything at all—not even the baby who should have been in my uterus. 

There was nothing there.  He sent me over to the lab at the hospital to have some blood drawn to test my hormone level.  I was back at the school in about an hour and a half.

I was told that I was possibly miscarrying, but I needed to wait and see what happened.

            I was very reassured.

            NOT.

            So I went home and waited. 

            Tuesday plodded along with little change.

The next day at school, when I went to the bathroom and wiped, there was even more blood than there had been the night before. 

            We had chapel on Wednesday.  I sat in the back by myself, praying the whole time, “Please, Lord.  Please.  Please.  Please.” 

I had no other words. 

I fought the tears but in my heart, I already knew the truth.  I just did not want to accept it.  The tears flowed no matter how much I attempted to staunch them.

            By the end of the day, I knew that a miscarriage was inevitable.  The bleeding was getting more and more severe. 

I spoke with my principal at the end of the school day about going ahead and having a sub prepared to come in for Thursday and Friday.  He told me to do whatever I needed to do.  I asked our secretary to take care of it for me and she asked me if everything was ok.  I told her that it wasn’t.  She prayed for me.  I went back upstairs and got ready for the sub to come in for both Thursday and Friday.

            I went home as soon as I could and took a nap.  James left to go to church.  I told him everything I could.  By the time I woke up from my nap, the bleeding had worsened.  I began passing fist-sized blood clots—almost every five minutes.  Then the cramping began in earnest.  I called James at church and told him that I was cramping so bad that I would not be able to make it to church and that my bleeding had worsened. 

At some time during all this, I called Mom and told her what was happening.  She reminded me, “Polly, you have to trust in God.  Hang in there.”  We shed a few tears together. 

My cramping and blood clots got so severe, I finally decided I had better call James and get him to come home.  I accidentally called Mom.  She attempted to reassure me again, “You must let God be in control.” 

To my shame, yet I believe God understood my heart, I screamed into the phone, “God isn’t doing a very good job of handling things right now!”  I then exploded in sobs.

She asked me if I needed her to come and I told her, “I think I do.”  She said that she would call me when she got home from church—around 8:30. 

I got through to James and told him that I needed him to come home. 

In the meantime, Mom accidentally called me back—she was trying to call Katie.  I told her that James was on his way.

The bleeding continued, getting worse and worse with each passing hour. 

James came home and called the answering service and within five minutes my doctor called.  I told him what was going on and he said, “If you are bleeding that much, then it’s obvious that you are miscarrying. You ought to get a D&C.” 

He said that it was my choice. 

As if I felt I had a choice at that point!

I asked him what he thought I should do and he said that he recommended that I get a D&C.  I told him I would follow his recommendation.  He told me to meet him at the emergency room.  We agreed to meet him there within the hour. 

James turned everything off on the stove—he was hungry, but we needed to get going.  A friend arrived with some larger pads, but I did not take the time to change.  (That was el stupido!)

I know this is gross, but I took the blood clots with me—just in case.  (I had been catching them in the sitz bath that I still had from before.  They did not need them.  Oh well.)

            When we got to the ER, we told the girl at the front desk that my doctor was expecting me.  She told me that I still needed to see the Triage nurse.  As we walked over, there was a lady sitting in a wheelchair right outside the Triage waiting area.  She informed me that she was last in line—before me. 

James and I sat down to wait.  We listened to the woman already with the nurse.  She had to tell him (the nurse) every ailment, ache, pain, and type of medicine she took and was allergic to, ever since she was a little girl.  It took her forever to get through. 

I was scared and upset.  And I was bleeding…a lot.

I told James that he needed to ask or find a way for us to be next.  I could not wait any longer. 

(In the meantime, I overheard the girl who was in the wheelchair make a phone call on her cell phone—she told the person on the other end of the line that she had broken her toe (or foot) at the hotel and that she had already talked to her insurance company and the $5,000 that she was going to get would make her foot feel much better!  In case I forget, she was still waiting to see a doctor when I was wheeled out three hours later.)

My husband whispered to the other waiting patients what was going on and asked if they

minded if I went next.  They were all so sweet and said that would be fine.

My relief was palpable.  The other patients did not have to wait long as the triage nurse assessed me and got me back into a room within just a few short minutes.

            I had to change into a hospital gown.  I bled all over everything.  Everything I touched had blood all over it.  My doctor came in to do an exam.  He started to insert the thingy (I do not know the technical terms of these things) to open my vagina and the blood gushed out like water going over Niagra Falls.  He could not do an exam so he started the process to get me to the operating room so he could do a D&C. 

James came in and my doctor tried to explain that the baby had never begun developing as he/she should (I will always believe she was a girl) and that this was “just Nature’s way of taking care of that.” 

            The nurse had tried to start an IV before the doctor came in, but she was not successful.  My doctor told her that they would do it down in the operating room.  (I had nasty bruises everywhere that they stuck me, one on my left arm and two on my right.)

            They wheeled me down to the OR where James prayed over me before they took me in.  I had the same anesthesiologist as when I had my surgery just eleven months prior when they'd removed my left ovary and fallopian tube.  I recognized him by his bushy eyebrows.  He put an IV in and tried to get some blood—it did not work so they had to try my other arm. 

I told him, “I have a place where you can get all the blood you want.”  

He said, “That’s ok—I’ll get it from somewhere else,” and patted me on my shoulder. 

I still cannot believe I was trying to make a joke. 

They got a good vein and quite a bit of blood quickly. 

I started to feel sleepy and they wheeled me into the OR.  I had to get onto the OR table by myself.  There was a hole where I had to put my butt.  I was too short for the table and they had to move the armrest.  I asked them if they were going to strap me down and the guy told me, “Only if you get frisky.” 

We all chuckled.

The anesthesiologist put the face mask over my mouth and nose.  That is the last thing I remember until I woke up in recovery.  They had to put a tube down my throat into my stomach because I had eaten earlier in the day—too close to OR time.  My understanding is that it would catch any food left in my stomach and keep me from throwing up or choking during the surgery.

            I woke in recovery up sobbing.  
            The recovery nurse let me cry.  She told me that she had been through the same thing twice.  She gave me some ice and a lollipop to help my sore throat (from the tube).  She told me that I had been awake earlier and had talked to my doctor.  I do not remember speaking to him after the D&C at all.

            We soon learned that they had put the wrong name on my wristband.  For some reason or another, I was “Carol Watson.”  All of my paperwork had “Polly Anna Watson,” but for some reason, the wristband and a blue card had “Carol.”  It took them a while to get that straightened out.  I do not know why that matters now, but it stands out as one of those surreal moments in a sea of impossibilities.

Someone went out to get James.  They had left him in the waiting room longer than usual.

I was able to sip on some Sun-Drop, my favorite soft drink that I had not allowed myself since I first learned I was pregnant. 

Praise the Lord for small blessings.

I told the nurse I had to go to the bathroom.  Once I went, she helped me to get dressed.  She had given me a shot of a medicine to help my uterus contract and to stop the bleeding.  Then she had to give me a shot of the Rhogam because my blood type is negative.  She gave me my instructions and signed that I could stay out of school until Monday.  James signed the papers, and they wheeled me out. 

(I am embarrassed to say that I took a perverse pleasure in seeing the woman with the broken

toe—or foot—still sitting in the ER waiting to see a doctor.  God forgive me, but I could not help but think that she deserved to wait.) 

We left the hospital right at about 11:00 pm.  A few friends were still there.  Others had come before I went into the OR, but I did not get to see them as they had had to leave before I came out of recovery.

Anger. 

Depression. 

Despair. 

Pain. 

Suffering. 

Hurt. 

On November 10, 1999, I had to have a D&C because, at approximately eleven weeks, my baby had ceased to be.  There is no way to know the sex of the baby, but I named her Panya Ruth in the belief that she had been a girl. 

I had been looking through a baby names book and I found this adorable name, Panya.  It means “Little.”  What drew me to the name this time, though, was not so much the meaning but the fact that it sounded so much like my favorite animal in the world, a panda.  But since to name a child Panda could be considered odd, I felt that Panya worked well for my purposes.  Ruth had been my grandmother’s name (on my father’s side) and I had always loved it, so it was natural that it be her middle name.

At 30, It all Goes Downhill Fast: Cyst

Within a month of our moving back to North Carolina, my husband was offered a pastorate in Taylorsville.  We gladly accepted and headed off to begin our new adventure. 

            Now that James was finished with school, I went off birth control with the plan to begin trying to have a baby within the year, but not to be in any big hurry since we were just starting out in a new place at a new church with new responsibilities.

            We had been in Taylorsville for right at a year when we moved from a rental house to a mobile home we bought.  I’d read that major changes in life were prime times for pregnancy to occur—for whatever physical or psychological reason, I don’t know, but apparently it’s true.

            I was so excited to find that I was pregnant with our first child! 

            To say that I was excited is a massive understatement.

            I had not acquired a full time job during our first year in Taylorsville, but right about the time that we found out we were going to have a baby, I was offered a full time job at a local Christian school, teaching high school English (ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grade) as well as Spanish I and II.  Why the Spanish classes?  The school needed a foreign language teacher and of all the teachers on staff, I was the one who had taken the most foreign language classes in college.  

            So I started the 1998 school year with great expectations, high hopes, and excitement to such a degree that I didn’t know if my life could get any better.

           

            When I was approximately eleven weeks or so along in my pregnancy, I had my first ultrasound.  I hadn’t decided at that point whether or not I wanted to know the sex of my beloved baby, but I was ready to see him/her and to hear his/her heartbeat! 

            After the ultrasound (which was wonderful since I got to see my little peanut), I met with the doctor who informed me that I had a cyst on my left ovary and he wanted another ultrasound scheduled for four weeks later.  He didn’t think it would be anything we needed to be concerned about, but he wanted to be sure that he (the doctors’ group I was part of) kept an eye on it, just to be sure.

            I settled in to a routine and really began to enjoy teaching even more than I ever thought possible even though it is all I have ever wanted to do in life—besides be a wife and mother.  I knew that I was doing what God had ordained me to do with my life—I was fulfilling the gift He had given me by being a teacher.  I absolutely loved my job—and my students.

            Soon after Thanksgiving, I had my second ultrasound.  I went back to school when it was over because no one told me any different.

            I was teaching away when the office called and told me I had an important phone call that I needed to take immediately.  I went down to the office phone and heard the receptionist from the doctor’s office telling me that I needed to get back there as soon as I could.  I told her that I needed to finish out the school day and that I would be there as soon as I could after school.  She said that I really needed to go ahead and come on back to the office NOW.

            I can’t remember for sure, but I think I told the principal what I’d been told and I left immediately.

            I was informed by the doctor that my cyst had grown a centimeter a week between the time of my first ultrasound and the second.  Because it was growing and was at that time the size of a grapefruit, he wanted to do surgery as soon as possible to remove the ovary, and, as he said, possibly part of my fallopian tube, depending on how severe the cyst was.

            I told him that we started Christmas break within the next two weeks, so we could schedule the surgery for just after it started.

            He said that we couldn’t wait that long.  It had to be within the next day or so.

            Wow.  That sounded serious.

            Somewhere in there, he used the term “tumor,” but he mostly called it a cyst.  He gave me some pamphlets, but even to this day, I don’t fully understand what it all meant.  What I knew was that I was halfway through my pregnancy and the doctor wanted to do major surgery.

            I put my trust in him (but more importantly in my Lord and Savior) and scheduled the surgery for just a few short days later.

            Since I was pregnant—right at twenty-six weeks or very close to it, I was not allowed to be put completely under anesthesia.  I was only given an epidural.  There were two nurses on standby who were there specifically to listen to the baby’s heartbeat periodically throughout the surgery to be sure that all was well with the baby.

            I was awake for the whole procedure.

            I remember the doctor opening me up and saying to his assisting doctor, “There’s the baby.  He looks great!”

            I think I called out, “I want to see him!”

            I don’t remember if the doctor told me “not now” or if all of that is something I dreamed, but what I do remember is that I was not allowed to look.  I was not given a mirror or any way of looking.  I couldn’t have seen anything anyway; I didn’t have my glasses on.

            By the time I was put in recovery, I was sound asleep.  I’m told that I spoke with the doctor, but I don’t remember that at all.

            When I woke up, the doctor said that he had had to remove my left ovary as well as part of my fallopian tube and that it was “benign”—no cancer—and that I would still be able to get pregnant and have more children even though I only had one ovary remaining.

            I was in the hospital for a few days mostly so they could monitor the baby.  I was sent home to rest and recuperate and enjoy the Christmas holidays.  My first Christmas as a Mommy!  Just because my baby wasn’t born yet didn’t make it less true and I was excited.

           

            As a side note, a few fun things happened over the Christmas holidays during my recovery.  My sister came for a few days to be with me since I obviously couldn’t go anywhere.  She wanted to do something to help me, so she and her husband got out my Christmas decorations and put them up for me.  While Katie was standing at the window, putting up some lights, my husband came home.  I was sitting in the glider rocker across the room because sitting was all I was allowed to do.

            Katie bent over to pick up a new strand of lights and as my husband walked by, he grabbed her butt.  He said that he thought she was me from that angle.

            To this day, that’s one of the funniest moments ever.  It hurt so bad to laugh but we couldn’t stop!

           

            This is a little gross, but no one told me that after a surgery, you often have trouble using the bathroom.  I was completely unprepared for my first true bowel movement when I got home.  Because of the incision I had running the width of my belly (from one side to the other, just as if I had had a caesarean) and the growing baby inside me, I had no reach.  I couldn’t wipe.  I called out to Katie to come help me, but she couldn’t do it.  She told me she loved me more than anything, but she just could not wipe me.

            Katie did bring me a spatula in an attempt to help.

So what did I do since we were the only two at home?! 

            I wasn’t going to use a kitchen spatula for something like that and not be able to use it anymore, so somehow or another, I bent and twisted and twerked (no, not really) until I was able to take care of business.

            By the time school started back in January, I was ready to be back in the classroom.  I hadn’t been released to do much of anything, so I did an awful lot of teaching sitting down.  My students and boss understood, so we continued on with great excitement and anticipation for the second half of the school year and the joy of inviting a new baby into our home in just a few short months.