"Would you know my name if I saw you in Heaven? Would it be the same if I saw you in Heaven? I must be strong and carry on 'cause I know I don't belong here in Heaven" The familiar, baritone voice of Eric Clapton heard and recognized despite playing only faintly in the doctor's office waiting room that day. That dark day. It was a cool, misty September morning with a mix of sun & clouds, as if not able to make up it's mind. The poignant song, written and sung by a grieving father, filled the stagnant air in the stuffy, gloomy place. Overhead music, is provided to create a relaxing waiting room environment, is it not? I was anything but relaxed. The state of calm intended by such efforts was lost on me. Instead, the questions in my head were reverberated by the singer. Strangely, a degree of comfort was sensed in the spirit of commiseration. The music descended from directly above our heads, as if from heaven itself.
The booming voice of the receptionist abruptly broke my preoccupation. I could hear her speak, but the words weren't registering at all. The soft yet resounding music kept begging for my attention, as if needing to be heard. Thank God Scott was there. He did the listening and most of the talking. I tried, but in the foggy, numb state I was in, it was more like I was watching it all happen. In a dream-like state of nothingness, I dutifully followed my husband into the doctor's large cluttered office. I sat in a stiff brown chair a good distance from the only other seating choice for Scott. I don't remember much. What was going to take place was explained. I allowed myself to zone out and let Scott assume the responsibility of remembering and asking any needed questions, which is not like me. I heard "uh huhs" and "I understands" while feeling like a third person looking in or, like I was watching a movie, Funny how the shock and impact of sudden grief can transcend time and place.
We got up out of our chairs and I was instructed to provide a urine sample. "What the heck do they need this for?" I thought, "We know I'm pregnant and we know the baby is not alive" Reluctant to leave the comfort of my husband's side, I became more conscious of my surroundings and of what was going on. Walking down a seemingly never-ending long hall to find the restroom, I observed the old, worn dark brown walls; ugly, depressing wallpaper, chipped paint and nearly no wall hangings. Was my grim perception of this entire office colored that much by my current state of mind? Was this intentional? Were choices fashioned to match the mood of this man's specialty? Why did they pick all of this darkness? I'm not sure if the somber decor made me feel worse, or if matching the tone of my state of mind was in fact validating. I don't suppose bright sunshine and cheery flower designs would have made sense. Sigh....... Oh, what these walls have seen, their darkness screaming out dread and loss. I entered the narrow dank restroom to provide my sample. The room was beyond dank. It was downright dreary. Dark thoughts passed through my mind, as they had over the last few days. My thinking just wasn't right; wasn't me. Hormones, unmedicated narcolepsy and devastating heartbreak severely clouded my mind. I recall looking through the hazy narrow window on the restroom down the three floors to the parking lot. "They really shouldn't have an office like this on the third floor." I thought, "I mean, they send someone like me in here with this window? It would be so easy to unlatch this and just jump. They should at least have the windows more tightly secured" I was in no way suicidal, which makes theses thoughts, which seemed perfectly natural and reasonable at the time, all the more haunting.
I really had no idea what to expect from this appointment, I just knew that we were meet today and tomorrow go for the D & C. What a strange name. So many medical procedures have strange names. Dilation and curettage. Basically, it is opening the cervix and cleaning out anything inside that is not supposed to be there. Done for many reasons, it is often associated with miscarriage (miscarriage, another bizarre word) and abortion. A curette is the instrument used to do the cleaning. At first when I heard this word, all I could think of was something cute. A curette. It sounds like something cute and nice and pleasant. No, it is for scraping, and in the case of miscarriage, this means scraping out and removing your dead child. I say it with striking blunt abrasiveness precisely because this is not in any way shape or form what people want to hear but it's the truth. It's something many women endure and go on to carry daily in silence and isolation. The curettage part is actually the easiest for the recipient. I got to sleep through the ordeal and wake up to the offer of a single Percocet before leaving. Accepted, thank you very much. I was not in much physical pain, but I took it anyway. I see why people turn to substances, particularly narcotics, to not feel. It works, sort of, for a while. The dilation, by contrast, was no picnic. It is hard to explain. It felt kind of like multiple long thin needles being placed throughout the inner walls of my cervix. At first, they stung a little, like a cut being cleaned with hydrogen peroxide. Then it stung a lot, then more, then it burned really REALLY bad with simultaneous mild contracting. Scottie held my hand and felt me squeeze harder as each wave of discomfort intensified. I saw how helpless he felt. An involuntary tear streamed down my left cheek, escaping the others I was holding back. The stun of the burn allowed it's release. The stun of the burn melted my defenses and numbness. Our baby is gone but still inside of me. Lots of cramping took place throughout the rest of that day which helped take my mind off of the emotional pain. This was a sign that my uterus was opening in preparation for the procedure. I already knew what childbirth contractions were like and these were strangely reminiscent.
The next day at the hospital was a blurr. I only unmistakably remember three moments from that day. The first was when the anesthesiologist dutifully asked me what procedure I was having done, to which I answered bitterly, "fetal demise" echoing my care providers and cynically validating the medical dehumanization of the event. Then, having already received an initial dose of anesthesia, I remember that while being wheeled into surgery I involuntarily muttered, "Bye bye baby. Bye bye baby" God provided an angel of support and encouragement in the form of a nurse who, having overheard me, tenderly pressed my forehead and said, "You will always have your baby in your head" then shifted to my chest and added "You will always have your baby in your heart". The physical sensation of her gestures felt intense, likely heightened by drugs and emotion. I wish I knew who she was. I would thank her. I wonder if she has any idea what that meant to me.
"Beyond the door there's peace I'm sure; and I know there'll be no more tears in Heaven"
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