My Beloved Little One, Panya Ruth

When I first learned that I was pregnant, six months after James Isaac's stillbirth, I already had names picked out. Even so, from the very first, I began calling him/her "Little One." I wrote in my journal every day of my short pregnancy, always referring to him/her as my Little One. I had found the name "Panya" in a baby name book. I loved that it was so close to panda and then when I read that it meant "little," the name was sealed--at least if we were having a girl, that was. After losing James Isaac, I was almost desperate for my Little One to be safe.

Seventeen years ago today, I spent the day bleeding--knowing in my heart-of-hearts what that meant. I remember using the bathroom late Sunday evening and noticing some blood, but convincing myself that it was just hemorrhoids. Then on Wednesday, November 10, just before school started, there was more blood. We had chapel that day; I sat in the back as far away from everyone that I could get but still be in the actual chapel with my students and cried as I begged and pleaded and bargained with God to make what I feared NOT true. 

By the end of my school day, I knew that I was in the process of miscarrying. I had no idea what to do. No one ever prepares us for THIS. None of the baby books, tv shows, or conversations had told me what the protocol was when bleeding so early in a pregnancy. I was unprepared and scared out of my mind.

When my husband and I were both home from school later that afternoon, I told him what was going on. Since it was a Wednesday, he was focused on church--he's a pastor, you know. We agreed that it would be better for me to stay home. We had attempted to call my doctor's office but had not been given any definitive answer concerning what we should do. 

The bleeding had grown steadily worse throughout the day and into the evening. I was bleeding through pads almost faster than I could change them. I called my husband at church and told him that I needed him to come home; he sent one of our church folks over with some heavy-duty pads.

We ended up at the emergency room where it was confirmed that I was miscarrying. It was determined that a D&C was the best option. 

I remember waking up crying--sobbing--shaking all over with every fiber of my being. I couldn't stop. In spite of being still drugged, my body and my brain knew what I had been through and it was just too much.

Such details are as real to me in this very moment as they were seventeen years ago. It's as if time has not passed. Yet there are other details about that day and evening and into the following days that I couldn't recall if you tortured me in an attempt to get me to give more details. 

My Little One--my Panya Ruth--was gone. Praying hadn't worked. Begging hadn't worked. Crying hadn't worked. Wanting desperately with every fiber of my being hadn't worked. NOTHING had worked to keep from happening what clearly was inevitable. 

I currently should have a son in his senior year of high school; a daughter as a junior; Samuel a sophomore; and an eleven-year old in 5th grade. 

Days like today have gotten easier to get through over the years, but time has not lessened my desperate desire to have ALL my children here with me. I imagine that my "Little One" would be short and stocky, like her mom, with a shy, yet friendly personality--opposite of her mom. I imagine that her favorite color would be pink, but she would hang out with her dad and older brother at any and every opportunity--even if it meant fishing or hunting. So yes, she would wear pink camo--and look absolutely adorably gorgeous! She would have dark hair and brown eyes. She would love to read; she and I would constantly be reading books together and discussing them. 

Don't think that I am falling back into depression again. I'm not. Praise the Lord. It is a simple truth that having lost a very much wanted baby has left a hole in my heart--3 holes when I include James Isaac and Anna Rose, as well. These holes heal, but have left painful scar tissue that is irritated most on anniversaries/birthdays and holidays.

So don't worry about, but please do pray for me. The enemy likes to

attack me more during days like today than usual. I am finally learning how to combat him, though. With the power of the Holy Spirit and the armor of God that I put on daily, I am able to STAND FIRM against him. The battle has already been won. My Little One is in heaven, safe in the loving arms of Jesus Himself, ready and waiting for the wonderful day when I will join her and be able to hold her myself.

In the meantime, God has anointed me with His oil of Joy and I hope and pray that I live a life worthy of His anointing.

Anniversaries are always difficult

Tomorrow is November 10, 2014.  Fifteen years ago tomorrow, my sweet Panya Ruth miscarried.  I have no idea, honestly, if this baby was a girl or not; all I know is what was in my heart.  I had read that it is important to name our beloveds regardless of how long they live.  I had already had a name picked out.  I had found the name Panya in a baby book; it means "little."  I had thought of that baby as "Little One" from the moment I'd found out I was pregnant, so it fit.  Besides, it sounded an awful lot like Panda and since I love pandas, it was a natural choice!  Ruth was my Grandma Kinsey's name (my paternal grandma).

I want to take off from work tomorrow and do something in honor of my Precious.  She would have been fifteen years old this year.  Wow.  I'm old enough to have a fifteen year old.  I have some friends who are my age who are already grandparents and have been grandparents for years, but since my only living son is 13-and a half, I still find it difficult to believe that I'm old enough to have a fifteen year old.

I try to imagine too much what she would be like at this age because it hurts too much, but my imagination--my mind--goes there when I least expect it.  Would she have been a girly-girl and wanted to be involved in cheerleading?  Or volleyball?  Or any sport, for that matter?  Maybe even wrestling, like Samuel?  Would she have been a tomboy?  What would be her favorite color?  Her favorite book?  Her favorite tv show?  Would she have a boyfriend?  Would she follow in her mama's footsteps and be overweight or would she be my inspiration to get healthy?  Would she and Samuel get along?  How would I feel knowing that she would be getting ready to drive?  Would she like to draw?  Write?  What would she be thinking about becoming when she grows up?  

She would be in 9th grade, right?  Would she have gone to Challenger?  

Would she like to shop--with her mom?  Would she like to go to the movies--with her mom?  Would we be close?  Would I be her mom rather than her friend?

I will never know any of the answers to my questions while here on this earth.  I may be sad over the next few days, but this is when my Lord promised to carry me--promised me that I will not have to walk this journey alone.  I will rest in Him and let Him send His comforter.  One day, I will spend eternity with ALL my babies and that is something worth being Joyful about!

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.