Cracked Roots & Roses 17: A New Club

I heard in passing that I needed to call the hospital if there was no movement. This was one of those times, but I wasn’t really sure. I didn’t want to bother the people at the ER or make a blank trip if I was just imagining it. So, I moved my stomach for a few minutes in an attempt to wake him up. Still nothing. Worry was setting in.

I ripped the bandaid off and called the ER. I was told to come in immediately. I wasn’t nervous until that moment. One of the new sales guys at the dealership, named Ahmad, saw my face and offered to take me to the ER. I ignored him because my mind was somewhere else, and why in the world would another man be driving me to the hospital?

Jeremy pulled up within 20 minutes. I can still feel the evening breeze that hit me as I walked out to the car on that June 6th evening. I closed my eyes on the way to the ER and willed my son to move. Still nothing. I felt bubbles, like a gurgling, but that was it. While willing my son to move, I was willing the traffic to dissipate. One of those things worked because Jeremy pulled up to the ER door about 20 minutes later.

I went directly in, and he went to park the car. As soon as the nurse saw me in all of my full-term glory, I was put in a wheelchair and taken into triage immediately. The nurse pulled out a fetal Doppler to listen for the heartbeat. Still nothing. Another nurse wheeled in a portable ultrasound machine, and the doctor on call checked for a visible heartbeat. But… still nothing. The place where his little heart used to beat was just a black oval on the screen.

I knew, but I could not hear it—not right then. I was not ready. The doctor flipped the monitor off and coldly said, “This baby is dead.” The air was knocked out of me. I heard what he said but couldn’t comprehend it. How could this be? This was never a thought in the front of my mind. The back? Yes, but not the front.

He then started writing notes like he hadn’t just changed my life. I was now inducted into a new club: mothers of stillborn babies. I carried this child for nine months. I was due the following week. I think about it now, 24 years later, and I realize that I knew. I knew long before I got to the hospital. That pregnancy was not right. I developed bad acne, I was unusually tired, and I didn’t buy any baby things. I was due in a week, and I only had two receiving blankets and some tees. Knowing this didn’t make things any better. I know now that my mind had never fully received him. The fear of another miscarriage was always at the back of my mind. I didn’t know as much about thoughts or self-image back then.

The doctor abruptly said, “Do you want to go home and wait for the fetus to expel itself, or do you want to stay to be induced? I have to warn you that if you go home and labor hasn’t started in two days, come back immediately. Sepsis could happen.”

I didn’t hear him. I was trying to grasp what he just said. My son was now a fetus that needed to be expelled. This young doctor had the worst bedside manner I had ever experienced. I wanted him to shut up and go away. I needed to cry, but I would not do it in front of him. He was waiting for an answer, so I said, “I just want to go home. Can I please do a C-section? I need to get this over with.”

It had never occurred to me that I would have to go through full labor, with all the pain and recovery, and have no baby as a reward. He said, “No. That procedure is for live babies.” Another gut blow of reality.

After he left, I told the nurse I would stay to be induced. In my mind, I could not go home knowing my son was dead. I could not wake up and shower knowing my son was dead. I simply could not. I’ve dealt with some pain in my life, but this was too much to come back from. Something in me broke.

Jeremy came in, took one look at me, and knew. I expected more reaction from him, but there was none. He sat quietly in the corner. I couldn’t look at him. I felt like a failure, and all of this was my fault.

I was admitted and taken up to the opposite side of labor and delivery. I didn’t know this side existed. It’s kind of like how you don’t realize they have a full morgue. This side was dark and quiet. Little to no monitors because there was no need for them. The occupants in the rooms were somber because we were all new members of this club.

I was put into a room at the far end. They gave me an IV, and that was it. Nothing for my son. The nurse came in and gave me a pill and a cup of water. She told me this would induce labor within a day or two. She also told me that my doctor had been notified and would be right over when I was ready to deliver.

After the nurse left, Jeremy told me he had to go because his sister needed help moving. I told him I really needed him to stay. He said he couldn’t because he was the only help she had. I guess he hadn’t noticed I was alone in the hospital, about to give birth to his son. He said, “I’ll be back later,” and left.

After he left the room, I cried for a bit and then called my mom to tell her that I lost the baby. The first words out of her mouth after hearing what I said were, “What did you do?!” I quietly said, “I didn’t do anything.” I felt tears coming and knew I couldn’t cry with her on the phone, so I straightened up and said, “I have to go,” and hung up. I cried some more. I needed to talk to someone who knew Jesus, so I called my job and asked to speak to a woman named Patricia. Marilyn transferred me to her office. She prayed for me, then told me she had a friend who worked at UIC and she would send her over to sit with me. I thanked her and hung up.

The only light in the room was over my bed. It was just so heavy, dark, and depressing. The tears continued flowing until my eyes were swollen and half of my hospital gown was drenched. Another nurse came in and handed me a beige folder with a brown line drawing of a baby in a giant hand and a scripture on the cover. The scripture was Isaiah 49:16: “Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hand.” She said, “Look through this and let us know how you would like to proceed.”

The folder had a funeral catalog in it. I flipped through, trying to figure out what this was, and then I saw the smallest casket was the size of a kid’s shoebox. I slammed it shut. I had to go home. I could not do this. When the nurse came later to ask about arrangements I told her I could not. She said would you like us to handle things? I asked what did that mean? She said we would do the burial and everything. I agreed. That is the one thing that haunts me. I do not know what they did with my son and where he’s buried. That is all I will say about this. 

Right when I felt myself detaching from reality, the scripture on the cover came alive. This past Sunday my pastor was in the middle of his sermon; he stopped, walked down the five steps, and said, “Next week someone will need this: ‘God will hold you in the palm of His right hand.’” He looked around the congregation and pointed in my direction—to me.

I turned on the TV and flipped to TBN. The pastor on the screen said the same scripture, so I left the TV on. It seemed that God was talking to me. About an hour after admittance, there was a light knock at the door. The nurse brought in a large bouquet of peach roses and left them on the tray table. Right after she left, there was another light knock at the door. I looked at the door, and before I said, “Come in,” a tall Black woman was in the room.

She was wearing a navy business suit, a white shirt, and a blank gold nameplate. She had chin-length brown hair, strong jawline and was dark honey-complexioned. I figured this was Patricia’s friend or the hospital chaplain. She stood at the door, smiled softly, and said, “What do you need from the Lord?”

I said, “I just wanna have the baby and go home.” She walked over to my bed, pulled my blanket back, went under my hospital gown on the side, started praying in loud tongues, and rubbed my stomach vigorously. I suddenly felt warm oil covering my stomach, but she had no purse or bottle of oil.

One of her hands covered my full term stomach completely. I glanced up at her face as she was praying and saw that her eyes didn’t have any whites, but I wasn’t afraid. After a few minutes, I drifted off to sleep. I woke up about 10 minutes later in full-blown labor. I knew it was about 10 minutes because the same program was on.

My contractions were intense. Two nurses ran in when she heard me screaming and tried to ready me to push after seeing I was fully dilated. I knew from their faces they didn’t expect me to be in labor that soon. There was no time to give me any pain medication or the epidural I was promised.

Right as I began to push, Dr. Davies rushed in to facilitate the delivery. A couple of pushes, and he was out. There was no noise from the baby or anyone in the room. They cut the cord and took him away. The nurse came in later and asked if I wanted to see him. I shook my head no and turned over.

She was an older Black woman. She came to the side I was facing and said, “I know this is a hard thing, but you should consider holding him. Don’t leave here with any regret.”

So I said, “Okay.”

She brought him in wearing a T-shirt, diaper, and hat. He was swaddled perfectly. She told me to sit up, and she placed him gently in my arms. I began to cry. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “See? Isn’t he perfect?”

He was. He had jet-black, thick, straight hair, dark eyebrows, and crimson red lips. He was perfect indeed—except for he had no life in him.

The nurse took him back to the nursery while I spoke with the doctor. 

Dr. Davies asked, “Where is your husband?”

I told him, “He had to help his sister.”

He looked angry. “He should be here.”

I didn’t say anything. What could I say?

Dr. Davies said, “We will do an autopsy if you would like. I couldn’t identify any cause just from looking at him. There was no cord around his neck, and your placenta was in perfect condition.”

I said, “I don’t want any autopsy. I just wanna go home.”

He nodded, offered his condolences, and left.

Jeremy came in hours later. I told him, “I had the baby.”

He said, “Oh. When will they discharge you?”

I said, “Don’t you wanna hold him?”

He said, “Do I have to?”

I said, “You don’t, but he is your son.”

He agreed. The nurse brought him back in and let him hold him.

The next morning, while waiting for my discharge paperwork, I got a call from my job. It was Marilyn. She said, “Someone wants to talk to you,” and handed the phone to Ahmad.

He said, “Hey, how are you feeling?”

I said, “I’ve been better.”

He said, “I’m so sorry to hear you lost the baby. Can you have visitors? Marilyn and I might come up and bring you some pizza.” He laughed a little.

I said, “I’m being discharged now.”

He said, “Did you get the flowers I sent?”

I said, “No. Did you send me flowers?”

He said, “Of course I did.”

I then said, “Is Patricia there?”

He said, “Yes.”

I said, “Transfer me to her office.”

He said, “Feel better,” and transferred the call.

When Patricia answered, I thanked her for sending her friend to pray. She said, “Oh, I didn’t have a chance to call her because I started selling a car.”

So I told her to describe the friend. She said, “She’s Hispanic with dark curly hair.”

That wasn’t the woman who came into my room.

When the nurse brought in my discharge papers, I thanked her for everything and asked for the chaplain’s name so I could call later and thank her.

The nurse gave me an odd look and said, “We don’t have a chaplain, and you didn’t have any visitors yesterday.”