my chest.
My mother brushed the hair away from my forehead, a thing she used to do when I was little girl. “The doctor is going to be in to speak to you.”
“About what?”
She hesitated. “About your condition.”
“Mom…” I took a deep breath. “What happened?”
Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened and I thought for a quick second that she was going to tell me the truth, then someone knocked on the door loudly.
She pulled away and faced the door like a mother hen on the attack.
An old man with a white coat entered the room and her shoulders dropped.
He looked in my direction and his expression brightened. He was an older, balding man with a belly that protruded over his pants, and rosy cheeks. He almost reminded me of Santa Claus.
He looked too happy, too friendly to be a doctor.
“Well, it looks like my patient is finally up,” he said as he walked toward me. He held out his hand. “Dr. Wendell.”
I shook it. “Hi,” I said quietly.
He gave me one last smile before he opened up his chart and got down to business. He sat in the chair right next to me. My mother sat on the opposite side, gripping my hand as though it were a lifeline.
“Now, I wanted to speak to you about what has happened….” His mouth continued to move. My mom stared at me, a grave look on her face. But I couldn’t hear a single word.
In my mind I saw flashes of crimson blood. So much of it. No matter where I looked it was all around me.
My hands and body were drenched with it.
I felt pain. Searing pain in my stomach that made me gasp.
Ignoring the doctor, I pulled down my blankets to my hips and pulled up my hospital gown and saw a hideous scar on my abdomen.
And then I realized the truth.
My baby. The one good thing in my life was gone.
My baby.
My baby.
My baby.
My baby was gone.
“I’m so sorry….” The doctor patted my arm. I felt numb. “I really am.”
My mother wiped away my tears.
I shook my head.
The beeping became faster. The doctor glanced at the machine.
I kept waiting for one of them to say this was all some kind of sick joke. I kept waiting for the nurse to walk into the room with a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms.
It never happened.
The doctor stood. The beeping increased. “Victoria,” he said quietly, “I need you to calm down.”
I couldn’t, and how could he expect me to? My baby was dead.
Everything was gone.
He spoke to my mom. But, again, their voices were muffled.
He called the nurse. She came running in and moments later the doctor administered more drugs into my IV.
“No,” I moaned. My lips started to quiver. “My baby…”
But my words faded and I slipped into darkness.
Give me my baby, give me my baby, give me my baby….
—
I was released from the hospital three days later. I had to walk around my room, proving to my doctor that my C-section scar was healing correctly. Anytime he tried to speak to me about my loss, I turned him away.
I didn’t want to hear it. I was barely making it hour by hour.
The day I packed up, I felt numb. I had a destroyed marriage. A husband who the doctor said had died.
I lost my child.
And I had…I had something else. There was a huge chunk of my memories cut out and stolen from me. But I didn’t care. If they were gone I probably couldn’t handle it. There was a reason they were gone.
As I prepared to leave I told my mom that she could keep the flowers or donate them. I couldn’t look at them. I turned away every visitor that wasn’t my mom or Renee. My mother wanted to drive me home, but I told her Renee was going to pick me up. I couldn’t bear one more pitiful look from my mother.
I left dressed in pajamas and a broken heart. I breathed through the pain and tried to tell myself that it was nothing. I refused to look at the stitches.
It was nothing.
It was nothing.
It was nothing.
The entire drive back to my house I felt numb. I watched the people and buildings pass by but I didn’t really see. Everything was in black and white.
My entire world was destroyed. It felt unfair that everyone else would be so…happy. Why couldn’t they suffer with me? Why couldn’t they feel this pain? And when would it end?
It was nothing.
It was