Chapter Amy

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=125 BGCOLOR="#BFBF00" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="05b467d1dwoxjb.png"> <bR> <div> <B><IMG SRC="275207d0.jpg" border=0 width="800" height="125" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=189 style="border-right: 1px solid #CCCCCC;" BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="WovenWord Press"><B>home</B></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id89.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="new from the press/Mother Blessings/Jour"><B>new from the press</B></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id30.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="catalog"><B>catalog</B></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id31.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="how to order this book"><B>how to order</B></A><B> </B><A HREF="id31.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="how to order this book"><B>books</B></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id32.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="who we are"><B>who we are</B></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id33.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="links"><B>links</B></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id34.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="contact"><B>contact </B></A></div> <div> <B>    </B></div> <bR> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=355 width="100%" BGCOLOR="#FFFF99" TEXT="#080000"> <div>               </div> <div>                      </div> <div>      <FONT SIZE="6" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Verdana" ><I><B>c h a p t e r   s a m p l e</B></I></FONT></div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Journeys</B><FONT SIZE="7" COLOR="#CC3300" FACE="Century Gothic" ><I><B> </B></I></FONT></div> <div> <I><B>Stories of Pregnancy after Loss</B></I></div> <bR> <div> <I><B>                                     </B></I><FONT SIZE="6" COLOR="#FFFFFF" FACE="Century Gothic" ><I><B>-</B></I></FONT><I><B>Amy L. Abbey, Editor</B></I></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B>Solomon’s Flowers</B></div> <bR> <div> I’m standing on a foundation and have no farther to fall. </div> <bR> <div> <I><B>                                   Smilla’s Sense of Snow</B></I> by Peter Hoeg </div> <bR> <div> From my kitchen window I can just about see the green shoots on </div> <div> Solomon’s flowers. I call them Solomon’s flowers because I </div> <div> planted them after I lost the second baby, early October 2000. Solomon’s </div> <div> flowers are fighters, just like Solomon was. They pushed through the hard </div> <div> earth when the temperature here was in the mid-thirties. I don’t even </div> <div> remember what I planted, tulips maybe. It’s just as well. I can barely </div> <div> remember how I survived my nightmare. </div> <bR> <div> My journey started on March 5, 2000, a typical Sunday night. I was in bed </div> <div> watching TV with Eric. The new game show “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” </div> <div> was all the rage and I was pretty good at it. I knew if I just could somehow </div> <div> become a contestant on the show, an easy $32,000 could be won without my </div> <div> even using a lifeline. I would buy our baby the most wonderful things and </div> <div> take a long maternity leave from my job. I was hungry, being almost five </div> <div> months pregnant and all. And I did something I never do: I ate in bed. Abig </div> <div> no-no in my book, for my dad drummed into my head for years, “No eating in </div> <div> your room.” Not only was I eating in my bedroom, I was sitting in my bed, </div> <div> tucked in under the down comforter, munching on a bowl of Cheerios. </div> <div> I must have fallen asleep after the game show ended. I remember Eric </div> <div> channel-surfing and seeing bits of various programs, a mini-series on the </div> <div> 1980s, some racing cars, the weather. I remember dreaming about water and </div> <div> feeling wet. And then I woke up. </div> <bR> <div> I was wet. Everything around me was wet. My underwear, my pajamas, </div> <div> the sheet — everything. I thought I was bleeding. I’d had spotting all </div> <div> through the almost twenty weeks of pregnancy and even had one episode </div> <div> of a minor placental abruption. I wasn’t supposed to worry about losing our </div> <div> baby but somehow I knew I was in trouble. I flew down the stairs of our </div> <div> home to the only bathroom we had. While running I was leaking big time. I </div> <div> could feel it rushing down my legs and couldn’t get to the bathroom fast </div> <div> enough. I sat on the toilet and heard a plop. I was terrified to look but when </div> <div> I did, I didn’t see red or a baby as I’d thought I would. I saw some gray </div> <div> fluid and tissue. I wanted to be relieved. </div> <bR> <div> I went back upstairs to the bedroom and told Eric something was </div> <div> wrong. I phoned the medical service who paged my doctor. I told him I </div> <div> thought I’d passed my mucous plug because that was the only thing I could </div> <div> think could have happened. I didn’t read far enough in the What to Expect </div> <div> While You Are Expecting to know exactly what happens when you pass your </div> <div> mucous plug. My doctor sent me to the emergency room of the hospital. </div> <div> Sitting shocked in the ER waiting room I was amazed at how helpless I </div> <div> was. I wasn’t a candidate to go to the labor and delivery ward, as I wasn’t yet </div> <div> twenty weeks pregnant. Such an arbitrary determination! To this day I still wonder </div> <div> if some other outcome could have been achieved if I’d just been sent to L&D. </div> <div> After waiting for what seemed like hours I finally was taken back into the </div> <div> ER to have a sonogram. The resident had me undress so he could do an internal </div> <div> exam as well. Up on the screen, there was our baby, alive and kicking and </div> <div> pounding away, as I’d seen so many times previously. He or she was such an </div> <div> active little thing. Hurray! I thought. But right there on the resident’s face was </div> <div> ‘the look.’ He must have known right then. I wouldn’t have this baby. </div> <div> My OB arrived and I was admitted. After I was settled in, Eric went </div> <div> home to get some sleep, feed our three cats and gear up for the day ahead. </div> <div> When I woke in the morning, I discovered my roommate had just given </div> <div> birth to twins. How ironic I thought as here I was, desperately trying just to </div> <div> have one baby. I’m sure I fantasized about her giving me one of her babies. I</div> <div> had another sonogram in the afternoon and my baby was still alive, but I </div> <div> had lost most of my amniotic fluid. Unless it was restored in my uterus, our </div> <div> baby would die. My options were discussed. </div> <bR> <div> What hell. I’d had a full preterm premature rupture of membranes </div> <div> (pprom), something most women have after thirty seven weeks. At this </div> <div> point there is very little done to save the pregnancy and most doctors will </div> <div> work to save the mother. I remember crying for hours. </div> <div> This was Monday. My mother came to see me, my dad and my grandma </div> <div> came, friends of my parents, and my friend Terry. I called my boss and </div> <div> some of my friends. I needed prayers, for me, for the baby, for everything. I </div> <div> felt I was losing not only the baby, but my mind as well. </div> <div> I think the prostaglandin suppositories to begin my labor were started </div> <div> Monday evening. They were to be given every few hours until my cervix </div> <div> dilated to five centimeters and I could deliver. This wasn’t what I’d </div> <div> planned. This was supposed to be a wonderful experience, having my first </div> <div> child. Instead, I was in the hospital, crying, with my Dad sleeping in the bed </div> <div> beside me so Eric could get some rest at home. </div> <bR> <div> I was given some reading material about pregnancy loss on Tuesday, as </div> <div> I was still not dilated. I requested to see a Rabbi and would have settled for </div> <div> any member of the clergy. Rabbi P. walked in. An Orthodox Rabbi, a short </div> <div> man with a black hat and payis, who sat in a chair across the room from me </div> <div> while I cried and asked questions about why this was happening to me. The </div> <div> Rabbi explained God had a soul whom he needed to place for a short period </div> <div> of time, and he chose me. I thought this made sense and clung to it, as if </div> <div> I was doing something noble. </div> <bR> <div> I felt our baby kick for the last time around five P.M. on Tuesday. I </div> <div> decided I wouldn’t stroke my stomach anymore or try to get our baby to </div> <div> move. I had to stop paying attention to the life inside of me. I had to move </div> <div> beyond thinking and being a pregnant woman. I started to pray I would </div> <div> dilate already and get this ordeal over with. Little did I know, this was just </div> <div> the beginning. </div> <bR> <div> Wednesday morning, March 8, the contractions started. They hurt a </div> <div> lot. And to think I didn’t even have to dilate to ten centimeters as if I </div> <div> was at full term. I took a shot of Demerol and that hurt. But at least I </div> <div> could get some rest. </div> <bR> <div> My friend’s aunt called to comfort me. She said, “Do you know what a </div> <div> vitamin does? It gives you strength. I will be your vitamin today.” </div> <div> Near three P.M. my OB told me I was just about ready to start pushing. </div> <div> Was he crazy? If I pushed and delivered this baby then I wouldn’t be </div> <div> pregnant anymore and I wouldn’t be a mommy and there wouldn’t be </div> <div> anything special about me. How could my doctor ask me to do that? </div> <bR> <div> But with Eric behind me holding onto my arms and my back, and my </div> <div> OB in front of me, in just a few pushes, I delivered my baby. My whole </div> <div> world collapsed. I remember hearing the silence in the room, and then the </div> <div> sobs of some woman crying and it took a minute to realize that woman was </div> <div> me. I remember how sad my OB looked and how thankful I was I didn’t </div> <div> have to see Eric’s face. I clung to Eric’s arm as if I was going to float off into </div> <div> the universe. I’d never failed so much before in all my life. </div> <div> Our baby was taken away since I had instructed the staff I didn’t want </div> <div> to see it, nor did I want to know what it was. This was the advice given by </div> <div> the floor nurses. Looking back I wonder if the L&D nurses would have </div> <div> advised otherwise. </div> <bR> <div> I immediately asked for a social worker consult and to be allowed to </div> <div> get up and go to the bathroom. I wanted out of the hospital so badly. I’d </div> <div> been in the hospital room, in the hospital bed for over three days straight. </div> <div> I’d eaten nothing except green Jell-O, once, in three days. I put on the </div> <div> raggedy old sweatpants Eric brought for me. I refused to be escorted to the </div> <div> hospital exit in a wheelchair. Why bother? This wasn’t the joyous ‘new mom </div> <div> leaving the hospital with baby in arms Kodak moment’ it was supposed to </div> <div> be. I was suffocating and just needed to be outside. </div> <bR> <div> Walking through the hospital doors I was struck by the streetlights in </div> <div> the darkness. I had no sense four hours had passed since my delivery. I just </div> <div> wanted to be at home. Eric opened the sofa-bed in the living room for me </div> <div> since I wasn’t allowed to climb the stairs for a few days. I remember </div> <div> answering the telephone and cursing out a telemarketer. Didn’t he know I’d </div> <div> just given birth to a dead baby? What the fuck was wrong with the world? </div> <div> How could he ask me to think about changing my long-distance carrier on a </div> <div> night like this? </div> <bR> <div> I lay at home for days crying and feeling sorry for myself. In the extra </div> <div> ten days I took off from work, I had to figure out how to go on with my life. </div> <div> Nothing really mattered to me. I was post-partum, bleeding, hormonal and </div> <div> grieving. My breast milk came in. Wasn’t that a trip? I got to sit around with </div> <div> icepacks on my breasts to make the milk go away. It was probably then I </div> <div> learned not to ask, “What else could go wrong?” since it seemed something </div> <div> else always could. </div> <bR> <div> I came home on a Wednesday and Alex, my stepson, was coming to </div> <div> stay for the weekend. He wasn’t even five years old. He couldn’t wait to be </div> <div> a big brother. Now what was I supposed to do? As things evolved I was the </div> <div> one who told him the baby had died and wouldn’t be coming to live with </div> <div> us. He looked so sad and so serious and wanted reassurance I was OK. </div> <div> Alex would turn out to be a true friend to me on this journey. </div> <bR> <div> I thought I could be like Eric, just walk out of the hospital and not look </div> <div> back, focus on healing and getting pregnant again. What a joke. That was </div> <div> definitely not my M.O. I angrily called the Social Work office at the hospital </div> <div> as I’d been told I could do. I was thankful no one was there to answer my </div> <div> call; the anonymity of the answering machine was wonderful. Within a few </div> <div> days, Anna called me back. I remember feeling very hostile and bitchy on </div> <div> the telephone. She told me she had a support group forming for other </div> <div> women in my position. My position? I thought. What was that? A failure at </div> <div> womanhood? Cows, dogs, even cockroaches manage to have children and </div> <div> here I’d lost the most precious thing to me in the world. I was nothing. I </div> <div> told Anna I would try to come but I wasn’t going to stay in a room with </div> <div> other women just crying for an hour. </div> <bR> <div> <B>_______________________________________________________________</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id160.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Author Amy"><B>about the author / amy abbey</B></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id159.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter Amy"><B>sample book chapter / journeys</B></A></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id30.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="catalog"><B>catalog</B></A></div> <div> <B>                  </B></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B>                                     </B></FONT><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#66FF99" FACE="Arial" ><B>    </B></FONT><B> </B><A HREF="id31.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="how to order this book"><B>How to Order this Book</B></A><B> </B></div> <bR> <div> <B> </B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B>Journeys: </B></FONT></div> <div> <I><B>Stories of Pregnancy after Loss</B></I></div> <div> <B>Amy L. 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