*If you haven't read my first post on pregnancy loss, you might consider doing that, first...*
Ann plans and God laughs.
No? You learned it
differently? Well, maybe. But that seems to be the way that adage plays out in
my life.
I always wanted two
children. I married James knowing he wanted four. But, after Sarit was born I
kept finding myself LOOKing for someone else. A third child. It would be risky,
I knew, having a third kid. I had two hips and could carry them at the same
time when I walked short distances. When it was time to go somewhere I would
say “Girls! Let’s go!” Or, “Ladies! Time to leave!” How would I get three
children out the door? Especially if one was a BOY?
But I decided. I
planned. I wanted another.
I have a pretty
sensitive stomach so when I went to the doctor for stomach pains, I thought
we’d agree that I had food poisoning, I’d get a prescription for medication—and
ginger ale—and that would be that.
“Mmmm. Do you know
when your last period was? I think we should give you a blood test.” “Um, OK.”
Next week
“Hi. I was wondering if the results of my, um,
test were in?” HIPPA privacy regulations and all. One must be discreet.
“Yes. They’re positive.”
“Positive?”
“Yeah. One week.”
“One week?! Aaand that’s based on HCG, not LMP, right?”
Two can play at this “privacy” game.
“Right.”
I went to my OB-GYN
when I figured I was about six weeks pregnant and we scheduled the first round
of now-standard prenatal testing. One day a few weeks later, at the end of
November, I dropped Gavri off at school, strapped Sarit into the stroller, and
sang to her from the pages of her nursery rhyme book as I lay on the table for
my routine ultrasound: “Hush little baby, don’t say a w—“
“I’m going to get the
doctor.” The sonographer walks out of the room.
“OK…” That’s normal.
Isn’t it?
She walks back in.
With a doctor. Not mine.
Click. Swish. Click. Swish. Click. Swish. Gagoom. Gagoom.
Gagoom. Gagoom. Gagoom. Click.
“Normally, at this
point, we would see the baby’s brain fully developed. This HOLE wouldn’t be
here. It might be nothing. Come back in a month to check. In the meantime, you
can go across the hall for the blood-work.”
A month?
MY doctor called the
next day. “It might really be nothing, Ann. But you don’t have to wait a month.
You can come in next week.”
Next week.
I started to pray. Out
loud, in English, I asked God to heal the baby. I started singing. Because
there’s a teaching that when we’re singing, it’s like we’re praying twice. I
sang running errands. I sang washing dishes. I sang walking Gavri to school.
“Mommy, are you praying?”
Then I thought I was
being impractical so I just asked for the strength to deal with whatever came
next. Then I decided I was allowed to be selfish. I wanted a perfect
child. So after asking God for everything else, I finally asked for a
miscarriage. What kind of a mother asks
God to take her baby?
My doctor called. The
blood tests had come back. There was a four out of five chance that the baby I
was carrying had a chromosomal abnormality: Trisomy 13 or Trisomy 18. “Either
way it’s bad. They’re very bad. Not compatible with life. Call back tomorrow
and we’ll schedule you for a meeting with a genetic counselor.”
So I did. And we did. And
we learned that there was about a 90% chance that I would miscarry. Some time before
the end of the pregnancy. Some time. And that abortion was an option. Abortion. But they recommended a
follow-up test for further information first. So I could come on Friday. And
then I could schedule an abortion.
James wanted to meet
with the rabbi. We shouldn’t make these decisions on our own, without rabbinic
counsel. But I had already decided: I couldn’t be pregnant with this baby. I
couldn’t wear maternity clothes and have people ask when I was due. Have the
girls ask when the “new baby” is coming.
“Oh, actually,” I would say,
patting my belly, “this baby’s probably going to die. We just have to wait and
find out when!” I would smile cheerfully, shrug my shoulders, and move on.
“It’s the mother’s
decision,” the rabbi told us. “Not only do you have to support it, James, but
you have to tell Ann that you support whatever choice she makes.”
I cried myself to
sleep that night.
After the longest week
in my life, at 12 weeks and five days of pregnancy, I woke up bleeding. I
called my doctor, giddy. She said I had to wait. There was no reason for me to
come to the hospital right away. So I took Gavri to school. I volunteered at
the book fair. I emailed lesson plans to my principal, saying I was pretty sure
I wasn’t going to make it in. I called a friend to watch the girls, telling her
I was miscarrying and on my way to the doctor.
I took the bus. And
the subway. I couldn’t DRIVE. I was BLEEDING. I might pass out behind the wheel
of the car. I told James I would call him when I was on my way into surgery and
he could meet me there. I was sure I’d need surgery. This had happened before.
By the time I made it
to my doctor’s office, it was all I could do to keep from squatting in the
waiting room, the cramping was so intense. Then the nurse called me in. As I
started to sit, she said, “You know what? The doctor’s probably going to want
to do an exam. Why don’t you go change?”
So I did.
Then it happened.
And I looked.
And I saw it.
And I screamed.
And no one came.
I sat on the exam
table. The doctor knocked and entered. She wasn’t MY doctor. Tears welled up in
my eyes and I said, “I think you have to check the toilet. I think I just
passed a mass.”
And she did.
And I had.
“That looks like your
fetus.” I know. I saw it. At the bottom
of the toilet. It was the size of my
thumb. It had hands and a face…
“I’m sorry. Do you
want me to leave?” She walked towards me. The tears spilled out. The words
joined them.
“No! Please. Don’t
leave me alone…I’m sorry…I have two little girls…What a horrible thing to
happen to a baby…”
Years later I sit in a
room full of women training with me to become foster moms. I had to become a
foster mom. It was kind of my only option. I had a little boy. A two-year-old.
“Rami.” He had just weaned and I knew I
couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t go through another pregnancy waiting for the
next doctor’s appointment, waiting to hear the heartbeat, waiting to see the
FULLY DEVELOPED BRAIN. I couldn’t do it. But James wants four kids. And I need
desperately to hold babies. To know that I’m keeping even one baby from crying.
The social workers are
explaining that some women simply CAN’T parent their children. The natural
response is "TSK. But every mom WANTS their baby. Every mom SHOULD want
their baby." But I know better. I slink down in my seat. I'm afraid
they'll see me. And they'll know. I was that monster. I was that
"girl." I was that MOM. Who didn't want her baby.
But I did.
I did.
I just.
I wanted.
Perfect.
