musings
I first learned you were here in a hotel room in Wichita. Could it be true? On the way home, I called the health department for another test. The nurse confirmed and guessed you to be about 8 weeks; she looked at me with concern and asked how I felt about this, my first pregnancy at 43. Never doubt, my child, I was happy beyond measure and wanted you with me no matter what anyone thought or who came or who went. Your daddy had stayed in the car, but knew from my smile as I walked towards him that you were for real. If you had stayed with us, you would have been born near his birthday, the first and only child for both of us. A treasured gift that I know we did not deserve.
A week after I knew of you, I was alarmed to see blood dripping from me and saw the doctor. She ordered a sonogram but you were too small to pick up. She prescribed a pill that was to stabilize and secure you in my womb. Later, I threw those pills away in a rage, but have saved the prenatal vitamins that serve no purpose but to clutter up a drawer in my nightstand. I have both of the faded pregnancy tests.
I had known you and dreamt about you for 4 weeks when my body violently rejected you in that hotel room in Topeka. There was no Comfort at that Inn and I’m surprised my screams, despite being muffled in a pillow, didn’t bring the management to mourn your death also. I held you in the sac in the palm of my hand. Your daddy held you too and did what I couldn’t do. The silence between us as we drove home amplified the ache and the emptiness that we felt. On the way there, your daddy had talked about future trips as a family to visit the zoo. The tears poured like a torrential rain on that drive home and I somehow drove through them.
The doctor wanted to see me as soon as we got home. Your daddy just couldn’t go with me. As I waited to see the doctor, I saw a girl who had been in foster care and almost didn’t recognize her because she looked so good and so healthy. I prayed she would be good to her baby. (Later I learned she wasn’t, and her baby came into foster care too.) The doctor explained I would need to have a sonogram and maybe have my uterus scraped to remove any trace of you. When I described what you had looked like in my hand, she doubted the scraping would be necessary. I sat alone waiting for the sonogram that confirmed you were gone. I felt ripped off every month for a year and a half as I wrote checks to pay my portion of those medical bills. I still feel that way.
Maybe a year or so afterwards, I went back to that doctor for a pap smear. As I sat in the thin cotton cape, she came in with a student and asked me how you were. How I managed to keep my composure is beyond me. I mumbled a reminder that I had miscarried, thinking “let that be a lesson to your student. Read the damn file.”
You would be 3 this year, and I know as I sit here in my almost 47 year old body with it’s aches and pains, I would have been happily exhausted by all of your childish needs and demands. On the wall next to my bed, there are 3 dusty, dried yellow roses from a bouquet my boss had sent when she learned you were gone. I cannot take them down. My tears this morning are as fresh and as endless as they were in that room in Topeka. Your daddy is the only person in the world who tells me happy mother’s day every year and I will love him forever for that small yet monumental kindness. You are loved, you were wanted, and I ache that our time together was too brief.
A week after I knew of you, I was alarmed to see blood dripping from me and saw the doctor. She ordered a sonogram but you were too small to pick up. She prescribed a pill that was to stabilize and secure you in my womb. Later, I threw those pills away in a rage, but have saved the prenatal vitamins that serve no purpose but to clutter up a drawer in my nightstand. I have both of the faded pregnancy tests.
I had known you and dreamt about you for 4 weeks when my body violently rejected you in that hotel room in Topeka. There was no Comfort at that Inn and I’m surprised my screams, despite being muffled in a pillow, didn’t bring the management to mourn your death also. I held you in the sac in the palm of my hand. Your daddy held you too and did what I couldn’t do. The silence between us as we drove home amplified the ache and the emptiness that we felt. On the way there, your daddy had talked about future trips as a family to visit the zoo. The tears poured like a torrential rain on that drive home and I somehow drove through them.
The doctor wanted to see me as soon as we got home. Your daddy just couldn’t go with me. As I waited to see the doctor, I saw a girl who had been in foster care and almost didn’t recognize her because she looked so good and so healthy. I prayed she would be good to her baby. (Later I learned she wasn’t, and her baby came into foster care too.) The doctor explained I would need to have a sonogram and maybe have my uterus scraped to remove any trace of you. When I described what you had looked like in my hand, she doubted the scraping would be necessary. I sat alone waiting for the sonogram that confirmed you were gone. I felt ripped off every month for a year and a half as I wrote checks to pay my portion of those medical bills. I still feel that way.
Maybe a year or so afterwards, I went back to that doctor for a pap smear. As I sat in the thin cotton cape, she came in with a student and asked me how you were. How I managed to keep my composure is beyond me. I mumbled a reminder that I had miscarried, thinking “let that be a lesson to your student. Read the damn file.”
You would be 3 this year, and I know as I sit here in my almost 47 year old body with it’s aches and pains, I would have been happily exhausted by all of your childish needs and demands. On the wall next to my bed, there are 3 dusty, dried yellow roses from a bouquet my boss had sent when she learned you were gone. I cannot take them down. My tears this morning are as fresh and as endless as they were in that room in Topeka. Your daddy is the only person in the world who tells me happy mother’s day every year and I will love him forever for that small yet monumental kindness. You are loved, you were wanted, and I ache that our time together was too brief.
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