“For a moment, wasn’t I the King?
If I’d only known how the king would fall…”
Garth Brooks – The Dance
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the Kings horses and all the Kings men,
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.”
Did I write about that day?
I don’t remember.
I was just in the mood to write it down.
I went into my ultrasound with no apprehension. I was tired, Gary was out of town, the house was dirty, I had laundry to do. I felt sick as I usually do when I am pregnant, and slightly annoyed with Mom being so antsy about me calling her with the results of the ultrasound.
This was an ultrasound with a high-risk pregnancy doctor. Because of Jessie, I have had one with some of my pregnancies –
Ryan
(not with the baby I lost)
and now with who was to become
my Rachael.
The assistant starts, does measurements, etc., and she’s very quiet, very confused looking. Muttering things like something did not look right. I’m laying on a plastic bed with a gown on and nothing between me and the bed but the gown and that sheet of paper. I started sweating – was something wrong? Would they tell me now, or make me wait like the last time ... 2 years prior? Sitting in a small room waiting for the people to try to track down my doctor so she could call me and tell me ‘the results’.
Well,
duh,
if everything had been fine, I would have left that medical building two hours earlier –
I’m not stupid.
Was I being stupid now?
Not stupid.
I was scared,
only scared.
No room for anything else.
The doctor comes in and says:
"Let’s take a look."
Now, some may want things told to them gently,
after the fact,
‘sugar coated’.
If so – don’t go to Dr. Carpenter. As he started, he said: “Something is very wrong here – I don’t see any amniotic fluid”.
“Is that bad?” I asked as he was sweeping the thingy over my stomach. He said yes, it had something to do with the baby’s kidneys. Amniotic fluid is basically baby pee and during the 45 minutes he had been looking, he said the bladder did not fill up or empty - something it should have done at least twice.
He could not find her kidneys.
That was bad.
OK, I’ve heard of dialysis ...
donors.
He kept up his informational dialog with me:
horrifying,
devastating,
coldly scientific
(falling, falling ... falling off the wall…).
A brand new mystery for him. He tells me of a nuchal thickness at the base of the neck, a few other measurements and,
oh,
by the way –
this is highly indicative of a chromosomal defect.
There’s a rushing in my ears,
the room gets so big ...
I’m so small.
He’s so far away.
What is he saying?
(All the king’s horses and all the kings men…)
He wants to look vaginally – a different machine and my pants need to be off.
The nurse helps me up and the paper is gone underneath me. Dissolved with my sweat.
I tell her that’s what terror must do.
She tells me I am doing amazingly well.
I’m breathing and sweating and listening.
Is that really doing ‘amazingly well’?
As I learn throughout the months to follow –
I never figure out how to do this
‘amazingly well’ -
but people can be so kind ...
Then I remember the lady leaving right before me: crying and shouting. The quiet comments of the nurses that she never even had the ultrasound.
Expectations aren’t that high.
I go into my mental triage:
deal with what you can,
leave the dead and dying behind.
There’s nothing you can do for them …
there are so many…
too many…
I want to stay and look,
say goodbye,
say I’m sorry …
Work with the wounded:
the hopeful.
Keep it together ...
don’t fall apart.
Breathe -
ask the right questions,
remember the answers …
keep moving,
keep moving.
keep moving,
keep moving.
They are leaving you behind:
farther and farther with every new discovery ...
Run, you have to catch up!
Talking,
Talking,
Talking.
You need to listen,
pay attention,
leave the dead behind,
you can’t do anything for them –
keep moving…
I am done.
“Discuss this with your husband”,
they say.
“You need to decide whether you want an amniocentesis to verify the findings”.
Does anyone really want a doctor to insert an 8” very large gauge needle into their abdomen?
I found out.
The answer is no.
“Let me know what you decide.”
he says.
But I see it in his eyes -
he already knows.
There is compassion in his eyes ...
he knows what’s ahead.
Not me …
Soon enough….
I get dressed, go down the elevator.
Breath.
Breath.
Where do I go?
Who will help me get home?
How did I get here?
Who will hold me on their lap ...
rock me and tell me everything is going to be fine?
Nobody …
farther and farther with every new discovery ...
Run, you have to catch up!
Talking,
Talking,
Talking.
You need to listen,
pay attention,
leave the dead behind,
you can’t do anything for them –
keep moving…
I am done.
“Discuss this with your husband”,
they say.
“You need to decide whether you want an amniocentesis to verify the findings”.
Does anyone really want a doctor to insert an 8” very large gauge needle into their abdomen?
I found out.
The answer is no.
“Let me know what you decide.”
he says.
But I see it in his eyes -
he already knows.
There is compassion in his eyes ...
he knows what’s ahead.
Not me …
Soon enough….
I get dressed, go down the elevator.
Breath.
Breath.
Where do I go?
Who will help me get home?
How did I get here?
Who will hold me on their lap ...
rock me and tell me everything is going to be fine?
Nobody …
Breath …
Nobody …
Breath ….
Nobody …
Be good,
stay calm,
be professional.
You were given information:
write it down -
it won’t stay long.
The rooms are still spinning, the people are talking but I can’t hear them ...
that roaring in my head.
Write it down.
You will forget.
You want to forget ....
but you can’t –
Mom is calling …
I write it down. It was a lot - two pages in my day planner.
(I wonder if it’s in there? If I go back and look …
why go back and look?)
It is ugly,
it is devastating,
it is scary.
It’s all my hopes and dreams crashing on the rocks of a huge giant surf,
with the wind blowing:
.... loud
I still cannot hear –
just blowing –
I’m still so small….
I write it down,
“The doctor thinks."
"The doctor says."
... but I knew -
In what was left of my heart,
I knew …
I knew I had to get home:
two kids and a mountain of dirty clothes.
Just work with today, get through today - do the laundry.
I don’t have any clean underwear.
Can I find my way home?
Where’s my car?
What is this big building I am in?
I sit down and wait ...
it comes back.
I remember.
I find my car.
Mom.
What should I do about Mom?
I can’t tell her,
I would die listening to her heart break for me and my broken baby.
I can’t do it.
I know in my heart that would be the last straw and I would break,
and I can’t break right now can I?
Oh, God, help me, what can I do?
Help me,
help me,
help me.
He says:
“Marci”
and I am OK again.
Thank you,
Thank you,
Thank you for Marci.
I do the only thing I can: I listen to Him and I call Marci.
“Get a pencil”,
I tell her,
“and write down everything I say.
Please don’t say anything.
It’s important,
it’s bad,
and I am sorry.
Keep writing …
and then you need to call Mom…”.
Marci writes.
Her heart breaks,
but she writes ...
and she is silent.
Just as God said,
I needed Marci.
Got the laundry done.
Ruined a few shirts …
That was Monday.
******
All the Kings horses and all the Kings men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
Nobody …
Breath ….
Nobody …
Be good,
stay calm,
be professional.
You were given information:
write it down -
it won’t stay long.
The rooms are still spinning, the people are talking but I can’t hear them ...
that roaring in my head.
Write it down.
You will forget.
You want to forget ....
but you can’t –
Mom is calling …
I write it down. It was a lot - two pages in my day planner.
(I wonder if it’s in there? If I go back and look …
why go back and look?)
It is ugly,
it is devastating,
it is scary.
It’s all my hopes and dreams crashing on the rocks of a huge giant surf,
with the wind blowing:
.... loud
I still cannot hear –
just blowing –
I’m still so small….
I write it down,
“The doctor thinks."
"The doctor says."
... but I knew -
In what was left of my heart,
I knew …
I knew I had to get home:
two kids and a mountain of dirty clothes.
Just work with today, get through today - do the laundry.
I don’t have any clean underwear.
Can I find my way home?
Where’s my car?
What is this big building I am in?
I sit down and wait ...
it comes back.
I remember.
I find my car.
Mom.
What should I do about Mom?
I can’t tell her,
I would die listening to her heart break for me and my broken baby.
I can’t do it.
I know in my heart that would be the last straw and I would break,
and I can’t break right now can I?
Oh, God, help me, what can I do?
Help me,
help me,
help me.
He says:
“Marci”
and I am OK again.
Thank you,
Thank you,
Thank you for Marci.
I do the only thing I can: I listen to Him and I call Marci.
“Get a pencil”,
I tell her,
“and write down everything I say.
Please don’t say anything.
It’s important,
it’s bad,
and I am sorry.
Keep writing …
and then you need to call Mom…”.
Marci writes.
Her heart breaks,
but she writes ...
and she is silent.
Just as God said,
I needed Marci.
Got the laundry done.
Ruined a few shirts …
That was Monday.
******
All the Kings horses and all the Kings men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
7 comments:
I weep as I relive this with you. I am so sorry.
Don't be sorry! Please don't cry!
As I said in my 'introduction' it is just a memory, no longer a tragedy - just a part of my life.
I just for some inexplicable reason felt the need to share ...
Even knowing it is a memory in your life that is no longer a tragedy, I still want to say how sorry I am for your pain and cry, too. I love you. Thank you for sharing such a emotional part of your life with us. It was touching.
It goes without saying that someone without this experience cannot even begin to comprehend. And yet, with your words and expressions, I feel like I have an infinitesimal look into that day. Of course we cry. Because we love you and are amazed by you. I'm so glad you wrote this. I'm so glad to gain any understanding into that experience and how your brain works and copes. And also to see the blessings you have been given. And I cry because I know alone. We all do, I'm sure. And recognizing alone in someone else hurts as well as makes me want to run and be with them so they aren't alone. But you are right - some paths are meant to be solitary when you walk them. I can't run back in time, and I wouldn't have had one idea what to do if I had been there in the lobby waiting for you. Anyway, all I'm saying is that I wanted to read it, so thank goodness for 3:30am.
Oh, Lori, I know you are past the crying, but we are not. I am so sorry for the experiences you have gone through. Thank goodness for the tender mercy of the Lord by reminding you of Marci, and for her willingness to absorb some of your pain. I know you internalize the blame on this, but there is no blame to be had.
Thank you again for sharing such a heart wrenching moment in your life. Like the others, i cried as I read it. And now, I feel closer to you. I wish I had your gift of being able to express your emotions in writing. I've never been able to do that. I appreciate your sharing that gift with us.
(The deleted comment was by me. I was signed in to Robert's gmail, so it made it look like the comment was from him. Which it wasn't.)
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