it. But my throat hurts and my eyes feel heavy as I struggle to hold in the tears. He addresses both Gabe and I, and tells us that although it is very uncommon for a miscarriage to occur at this stage, especially with a normal ultrasound, and without other complications such as placenta previa or premature rupture of the membranes, it nevertheless occurs in a very small percentage of pregnancies, most likely due to chromosomal defects.
“What did I do wrong?” I cry.
He assures me I did nothing wrong. “Sometimes these things cannot be explained,” he adds, not quite able to look at me.
I think about my plea to God. If I had been following the teachings of the Bible, I would have never been led into temptation, would never be in this situation. In my hour of desperation, I turned to God again and asked him to lead me to the right path. Perhaps this is a sign, I can’t help but wonder as I squeeze Gabe’s hand.
He shoots me a sweet smile.
Yes, I belong with my husband.
The doctor tells us they will perform a D and C — dilation and curettage — the term sounds so harsh to me. Gabe squeezes my hand tightly as I take in the news.
The doctor tells me it’s busy, but he promises they’ll try to get me in for the procedure as soon as possible the next day.
He goes through the info about the procedure quickly, tells me I will be going under a general anesthetic, checks my file and takes more notes about my history. I tell him I’ve had a general anesthetic before, and that I’ve had a D and C years ago. He tells me I might expect pain and cramping for a day or two.
“Many women do not experience too much pain,” he explains. “It all depends on the woman.” He tells me there will be bleeding for up to two weeks or so.
His gaze settles on Gabe as he adds. “And there should be no sexual intercourse for up to six weeks.”
Gabe looks down at the floor, looking ill-at-ease. I almost want to smile. We don’t bother telling the good doctor that we are separated, that this baby was another man’s. I’m sure he’s not here for an episode of The Young & the Restless.
Finally, just before he leaves us, he recommends trying again after three cycles. We don’t tell him we won’t be trying — there won’t be another baby.
I am wheeled around again, left to wait in yet another hall. Doctors, nurses and attendants zoom by, wheeling patients, and I wonder if it’s always this busy or if I just picked a really bad time to lose my baby. A friendly middle-aged nurse hooks me up to an IV bag. And we wait and wait.
I feel a little lightheaded as I’m wheeled into the operating room. A group of neatly scrubbed professionals surround me. I’m quickly introduced to the anesthesiologist, a tall gangly young man with cool glasses and a head of crazy curls. I hope he’s not too tired today. He holds my life in his hands.
As I count back from ten, the last thing I see before I drift off is my baby…a sweet brown haired boy.
Goodbye, Oliver....
When I wake, I’m greeted by a petite, red-haired woman. She has a sweet young face, but the crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes tell me she might be a little older than me. Her voice calms me as she tells me I did well. “Everything went fine,” she says. There are colorful tiny bears holding balloons printed all over her scrubs; they are just as sweet and friendly as she is. “Would you like a Popsicle?” she asks. And then she lets me pick a flavor. I pick banana — my favorite. This moment takes me back to when I had my tonsils out as a child, but back then it was Jell-O.
I wonder if the nurses in this department are required to wear cheery scrubs and hand out Popsicles. I’m surprised they don’t hand out colorful ‘Sorry You Lost Your Baby’ helium balloons.
I lay in the recovery room next to another woman who asks me about my baby. She seems young; she’s fair, with a thin build and a gorgeous mane of dark hair. She tells me this is her third miscarriage, and she goes on about her and her husband not being chromosomally compatible. I want to tell her she must be