In 2005, when Samuel was about
four years old, James finally agreed that we should (could)
start trying to have another baby. I was ecstatic, to say the least!! Early in
the new fall semester, we learned that we were pregnant, and I was over the
moon!
I got an appointment with Dr. Merta as soon as possible since I
knew that I was already considered high risk. Even though we'd had one
successful live birth four years earlier, there had been the two previous
losses prior to Samuel. I was still very nervous, needless to
say.
Things were looking good. I was
throwing up every single day, which many women may see as a bother, but I saw
it as a blessing. As long as I was throwing up, I knew my baby was fine. As
long as I was getting sick, I was still pregnant. I was happy to throw up every
single day.
The
morning I didn't throw up, I knew. I just didn't want to believe it. I still
hoped. But deep down, where my knower knows, I knew.
I didn't say anything to
anyone. I went to school. I acted as normal as possible. It was two days before
Thanksgiving. It was an easy week at school; I had made sure that my classes
were workdays, so my students didn't have to worry if they chose to take the
time to be with family rather than come to class. There were only two students
in the classroom with me that morning. We chatted throughout the hour, mostly.
I tried to get some work done, as did they, but it is difficult to focus when
there are so few people in the room and it's a holiday week.
At one point during the hour, I felt an odd POP in my vaginal
region. Yes, like a balloon had popped inside my vagina. I knew that was very
strange, but I just thought I had peed a little and that I would go straight to
the bathroom as soon as the hour was up--which was in just a few minutes. I
could hold on for just a few more minutes.
As the three of us were saying goodbye and walking out of the
classroom, the gentleman had stepped off to the side to allow me to go ahead of
him. I walked by him and he said, "Where's all this blood coming
from?"
With barely a glance behind me, I knew exactly where it was
coming from.
I screamed and raced from the room.
I spent the next hour in the bathroom sitting on the toilet,
screaming and crying. Crying and screaming. There were several ladies with me.
A few on-campus EMTs came to check on me. An ambulance was called because I
refused to allow anyone to drive me to the hospital; I would not ride in anyone's
car because of how badly I was bleeding. I was scared to get off the toilet,
too, because it was one of those auto-flush ones and I did not know if,
well, if I had already passed the baby. We made sure one of the EMTs looked
quickly as I moved off onto the stretcher.
I was taken out of the bathroom on a stretcher, in front of
everyone. That was when I remembered that the bathroom didn't have a ceiling,
so everyone in the building had been listening to me scream and cry for the
past hour or so and everyone knew what was going on. I pulled the sheet up over
my head and wept.
The next several hours can only be described as more horror.
James met me at the emergency room at the hospital. We spent many hours just
waiting in a room. A doctor came in and examined me, pulling out one blood clot
after another. He was very callous and cold. At one point, he even held one up
and said, "This could be it."
What an idiot. I think James and I both disliked that doctor
with a passion.
In spite of the fact that someone had called Dr. Merta, because
I had ridden in the ambulance, he could not see me until the ER doctor released
me. It was a huge relief to be finally in his very capable and
comforting and understanding hands. He prepped me for a D&C.
I don't know if having a D&C is the right thing to do when
having a miscarriage, my friends. Please don't judge me. The horror of these
experiences cannot truly be described in words on a page like this. I had to do
what my doctor recommended and felt was best for me. I was scared and I trusted
Dr. Merta.
As with my first miscarriage after surgery, I woke up in
recovery, sobbing.
I honestly do not remember much after that.
I do not remember Thanksgiving or Christmas. I think my
family came here that year because I was not up for traveling.
My depression worsened.
I withdrew from everyone and everything, especially my husband.
In fact, he withdrew from me. We withdrew from each other. We both put all our
focus on Samuel and only talked to each other when it came to Samuel or
anything absolutely necessary.
It was during this time that if I could have taken my life, I
would have. But I was not going anywhere without Samuel, so if I did it, it was
going to be with him. I wrote stories about it. I imagined it in full detail. I
knew exactly how I would do it.
But then I would look at Samuel playing and his zest and love
for life and how absolutely cute and adorable he was and there was no way I was
going to ever take that away from this world. The world needed that gorgeous
boy and his laughter, whether it needed me or not.
Samuel saved my life.
It took a long time, but I finally named this baby, too. Again,
we have no idea whether this baby was a boy or girl. I was only 11 weeks
along, again. I decided to use a girl's name: Anna Rose. It is a twist on my
mother's name, Rosanne, as well as my middle name, Anna. And it comes from my
family member's real name, Rosella. Appropriate, don't you think?
I
imagine my Anna Rose would have been my shy one. Quiet. Reserved. The mothering-type
from the womb. Girlie, loving all things pink, and everything the
stereo-typical girl loves. Panya Ruth, I think, would have been my
mini-me--joyous, rambunctious, full of life, difficult to reign in, always
going full tilt! My two girls would have been best friends, despite their age
difference.
You would think that after all these years (I miscarried Anna
Rose on November 10, 2005) it gets easier.
It doesn't.
It just gets different.
