No Ordinary Day

The sun came up that day, just like it did every other day.  The alarm sounded exactly at ten minutes before six in the morning, just like it did every single Monday through Friday, and I rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed and mumbling silent curses that we weren't independently wealthy so I could sleep as late as I damn well pleased.  I stumbled downstairs and pushed the magic button that brought the aroma of hot coffee into my brain, and woke up enough to let Sandy the Wonder Dog(RIP) outside along with a couple of cats.  I sipped my single cup of coffee, ate a small meal, and woke up.

The sky was the same color of blue, and there were the same little white wisps of clouds punctuating the horizon.  We got into the car, just as we had done every Friday for the last seven months; the only thing that changed was the name of the doctor.   It had been that way forever, it seemed. My high risk pregnancy had turned out to be rather dull, I thought.  The radio station in the car was classic rock, when they actually played music, but both of us were talking rather than listening.  We had plans to make.

In two weeks, I would be going on maternity leave, but today would be just another routine visit to the perinatologist.  They would check my urine, look at my blood sugar levels, and we would spend a good thirty minutes looking at sonogram pictures of our boy, so they could take measurements and make sure everything was okay.  I enjoyed seeing pictures of my son; he always seemed to be kicking or running inside my belly, and he didn't seem to care that someone wanted to check out the size of his liver or measure his kidneys. 

An ordinary day in our lives. 

On this day, we waited for the doctor to come into the sonogram room to take her measurements, and Zane seemed sluggish. He wasn't moving much at all, although his heart was beating as strongly as ever.  The sonogram tech thought that perhaps Zane was just sleeping, and she didn't seem all that concerned.  However, I was starting to worry.

Finally the doctor came in to the room, and briefly took some measurements while speaking to us. She seemed a little concerned that Zane wasn't moving much.  A phrase jumped out at me: "When you get to the hospital..." 

"What do you mean 'When we get to the hospital?'" I finally asked. 

"You're throwing proteins," she said, looking exasperated, as if I should already know this.  "You'll need to go straight to the hospital after you leave here.  I already called your doctor."

Throwing proteins was bad, we knew.  Pre eclampsia had stolen our first child at nineteen weeks, and I had nearly died.

That day had started out ordinary, too. 

The doctor left the room, and the nurse led us to another room to strap on a fetal heart monitor. The fetal monitor had just been turned on when Larry's phone rang.  He talked for a moment, then handed the phone to the nurse. 

"Who was that?" I asked him.

"It's your doctor," Larry told me.   "He wants us at the hospital right NOW." 

My Ob has been my doctor for over twenty years.  He is usually one of the most laid back people on the planet.   If he said NOW, that meant something.   The nurse was already unhooking all the wires and belts and shooing us out the door.  We made our way as quickly as a waddling pregnant woman can move, and got in the car and got on the road.  During morning rush hour.  Our sense of urgency was not matched by the willingness of the other drivers to move a little more quickly.

The cell phone rang again.  I answered it this time.

"Where the heck are you?" he wanted to know.  His voice was calm, but there was a little edge to it that got my attention.

"In traffic. It's rush hour."  I gave him  an estimate of our time of arrival.

"When you get here, just come right up to Labor and Delivery, don't stop at admissions. I'll be waiting."

As I hung up the phone, I thought about how extraordinary an ordinary day can suddenly become.

This was inspired by Mamakat's World Famous Writer's Workshop.  The prompt was to write a blog post inspired by the word "ordinary".

Sifting through the Ashes

My daughter, Zoe, would have been nine years old today. I imagine that she would have looked a little bit like me, with brown hair and green eyes.  I am sure that she would have been beautiful, like all children are beautiful, with that singular spark of life that makes them glow from the inside.  Zoe would have been spoiled rotten by her grandparents and the apple of her daddy's eye. 

Zoe would have been attending school, and while I don't know if she would have been a good student, I am sure that she would have loved  reading as much as I do.  I had many dreams of sharing books sitting in a comfy chair by the window.  She would have adored her little brother.  Zoe would probably have bossed him around.   Zane would have bossed her right back, little scrapper that he is. 

Except Zoe isn't here to be nine years old today.  She died before she was even born, because of pre eclampsia. It's a common condition that I knew nothing about. Nobody has pre eclampsia at 19 weeks, my doctor said. I almost died, I was told.  People tell me that there wasn't anything that I could have done to prevent what happened, but I had a hard time believing them.  I still hear that little evil voice telling me that it was all my fault.

I held Zoe in my arms the day after her lifeless body was pulled from mine, and a despair settled deep within the marrow of my bones. Thoughts of my daughter colored everything around me, reminding me that she wasn't there. She should have been there; the Universe was flawed without her presence. I even had fantasies that there had been a mix up at the hospital, that she was still living. There wasn't really anyone for me to talk to at the time, the people I did speak to told me to "get over it".  Every pregnant woman around me just drove a dagger through my belly.  I didn't want to die, but I didn't really want to live, either.  To live was to feel the pain of my grief, my rage, and I wanted to be numb. 

But that's not how it works.  Life moves on, even when you want it to stay in one place. I would sometimes go outside in the back yard and look up into the night sky, looking for the star registered in her name.  The distance between my daughter and me was the distance between the earth and that star, I realized, and that distance could not be bridged, no matter how much I willed it.  Time passed, and one day I noticed that I hadn't thought of Zoe in a few days.  I felt guilty, but relieved, too, because the weight of my depression was lifted, for a bit.  Soon the days when I thought of my daughter, and my grief, were few.  I even found myself smiling on occasion.  I had to let go of my daughter's memory to make room for the reality of my son.  That is how it is supposed to be, I suppose.

 Except for today.  Today I remember, and I think about what might have been. 

RemebeRED: The Spark

Prompt: Recreate a pivotal conversation with us this week.

"Okay, that's it. You can sit up now."

My Ob-Gyn pulled off his gloves, and I sat up, clutching my paper coverings around me. The nurse was gathering up all of the items that usually accompany my annual exam and placing them in a tray. Dr. S. rolled his chair over to the counter and began writing in my chart. I stared at my bare feet, shivering a little in the chilly office. Though Dr. S. had been my doctor for twenty years, recent visits had been devoid of the usual doctor-patient small talk. He was a reminder, someone who brought everything from 2003 back in horrific detail.

"So when are you planning on getting pregnant?" The doctor interrupted my foot inspection with his comment. He was flipping through the pages on my chart.

I stared at him, the anger that was always just below the surface stirring. Better to be angry than cry, I thought.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"When are you planning on getting pregnant?" Dr. S. repeated, looking at me expectantly.

"You told me that I could not get pregnant again," My hands clenched into fists and my voice rose, verged on hysterical. "You said that it would kill me if I were to get pregnant again."

"That was two years ago," he said, waving a hand dismissively.

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" Teeth clenched, I was prepared to punch my own doctor in the face for what appeared to be his insensitivity. It did not bode well for our doctor-patient relationship.

"They've done research, there are new drugs on the market," Dr. S continued, ignoring my belligerence.

"Really?" My voice was laced with sarcasm.

"Start taking an aspirin a day," he smiled. "Blood clots may be the culprit."

"You are telling me that I CAN try to get pregnant again? You're telling me that you've changed your mind?" My anger had drained away, as had the urge to cry. Those emotions were replaced by a little spark.

"Get dressed, and we will talk some more," Dr. S. and the nurse left the room. I sat there, stunned, hugging that spark to my chest as if my life depended on it.


***It would take almost two more years after that day, lots of ups and downs, but that spark is now my son.

Remembered: What Cannot Be

Prompt: We all have them. Memories that we wish we could forget…things that we wish we could banish from our minds. Imagine that writing down your worst memory will free you of it.


December 8th, 2003. I was 19 weeks into my first pregnancy. I had had a headache for the past weekend, so I stayed at home that day. My mother-in-law picked me up and drove me to the doctor's office.

My appointment wasn't with my regular doctor, but with a very young man who looked like he wasn't old enough to drink. He was very nice as he took my blood pressure. He was very nice when he told me that I needed to go to the hospital because of my blood pressure.

I still hate that guy.

I hate that he was so nice.

Nice that day implied that my situation wasn't serious.

Nice did not convey the fact that I was in the process of dying.

That doctor was so nice that I didn't understand what he was saying at first, when he came to tell us that our baby was going to have to come out. He had to repeat himself.

Pre eclampsia. Which NEVER happens at 19 weeks, I have been told.

My husband got it; he understood what was going on. I was the one who had to hear it multiple times. I stared blankly at these people telling me what I didn't want to hear. Didn't this sort of thing happen a lot? Didn't they know what to do? People did this all the time. All I had to do was stay in bed for the rest of the pregnancy, and everything would be okay, right?

No. It wouldn't be okay.

My body knew what would happen before my heart did. Just as I was fighting to keep my daughter, Zoe, my water broke and the decision was made for me. I didn't even feel her dying inside of me. Shouldn't you feel something that tells you that a life is passing from your body, even if it's not your life?

And I was done. Finished. Whatever happened to me after that moment was white noise. I asked the nurses for something so I could lose myself in sleep. Maybe when I woke up, this would all be a dream. I just could not deal with the reality.

The next morning, my OB was there, standing at the foot of my bed with that Nice Doctor. I felt a small red burst of rage; if he had been there, this wouldn't have happened, I thought. That anger subsided as quickly as it flared; I truly had given up.

I knew that I was dying, and I guess that I didn't care. That was pretty selfish of me, because my husband was grieving, too, but as they wheeled me out of the room away from my family and my friends, I did not want to live. But I did live.

And I have a beautiful, wonderful, healthy son who lights up the dark places of my heart. I smile and laugh with him and I love him fiercely.

But still...

I live every day wondering if my daughter would have looked like me.