Three Minus One: Stories of Parents' Love and Loss (28 page)

Then I look at the bending trees and the shaking leaves. My son is reminding me that I am strong. That I may bend, but I do not break. It is because of this strength from my son that I was able to become pregnant again, and inside my home now lies Noah’s little sister. I fought to get her here. I fight to keep her here. She is my rainbow after the storm. I know that I have my rainbow—beautiful and perfect, full of life and color—but here I am, still facing the storm.

How does one live that way—incomplete? Half of my heart went to heaven with my son and half remains here with my daughter. How can I ever give either of them my whole heart when each has a half
so far away from the other. This is what consumes my mind—the things a mother should never have to consider. That’s what makes me a different mother, full of insights and appreciation. The insights I wish I did not have to learn the way that I have.

I decide I should wrap up my grieving for the night. I walk back inside, wet with the raindrops of my son’s life. No one will know the grief and tears I have left lying on the floor tonight; by morning it will be dry. That’s what is expected of me: to move on, to not be so depressed, and to be thankful for my life. I sit in my home, “protected” from the storm that carries on despite the shelter—the shelter that is still standing but damaged regardless.

I watch my daughter sleep and thank God that she is so healthy, that she is even here with me. After Noah died my world was over, but when she arrived, there was a little hope, a reason to live. My dear son, I have some work to finish in this life, but do not give up on me. I will meet you at home when my time is through. And my final thought rests in this before I go to bed: Three minus one does equal zero. But what does four minus one equal?

Tear Drop Toes
Amy Dahlenburg

Kelly Kittel

A
ndy kissed me awake early. I drew in my breath, realizing my contractions were getting more uncomfortable.

“I hope these are working,” I said. “That nurse better check my dilation today, or you’ll have to.”

“Gladly,” he said, grinning.

Easing out of bed, I followed him to the kitchen. After months of bed rest, waiting and worrying, I was ready to have this baby.

“Have a great day,” I said, kissing Hannah and Christiana. “Maybe today we’ll have a baby.” For the first time in ages, I watched them skip off to school. The sun reflected off their blond hair and the dew in the grass, the spring air sparkling with new growth and possibility.

Andy and I headed back down the hall—I to shower, he to dress Micah—and soon I heard them arguing. “Pleeeeze, you only have to wear them for an hour.”

Micah skipped in, dressed in the corduroy pants he hated. “See, Mom? They swish when I move. Are you coming to my music?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” I laughed. I’d missed so many of my kids’ milestones over the past months, and today was his final performance of the year. My appointment with the nurse was at 10 and his program at 9; I’d stay for half and go directly from there.

Andy drove us right up to the front door of my neighbor’s house, and Micah and I eased our way down the basement stairs to where Joanne was busy setting up. “I hope my water doesn’t break on your couch,” I joked.

“Oh, it’s an old couch,” she said.

My friend bustled over and sat next to me, excitedly asking, “So, do you think today’s the day?”

“I sure hope so, fingers crossed,” I said, rubbing my belly. I’d already arranged for Micah to go home with her to play after the program.

The recital began with the kids singing a few songs before Joanne said, “Now grab a partner for the circle dance.”

“Come on, Mom!” Micah said, pulling my hand to help me up. All the parents were joining their kids, so I waddled over a few steps to take our place in the circle. The song began, and we all shuffled around like a large, undulating amoeba in a small petri dish. Whenever the music paused, we followed the instructions, clapping our hands or standing on one foot. I moved only my upper body, happy to simply stand there holding Micah’s hand while the others touched their noses to the carpet.

I felt a gush between my legs and thought,
Oh my God, my water
has
broken!
Scooting into a bedroom at the bottom of the stairs, I whispered, “Quick, get me a towel!” Andy tossed me a hand towel from the adjoining bathroom, and I stuffed it between my legs. Leaning forward, I pulled the front edge of the towel away, tentatively, expecting to see the telltale wetness of my baby’s bathwater.

The white towel was bright red with blood.

Andy and I exchanged wide-eyed looks of panic. I managed to get off the bed and up the stairs without creating an incident, our crisis unfolding to the sweet voices of five-year-olds singing “Slow Poke Fred.” Nobody missed a note as we made it out the door and into Andy’s red Blazer, speeding off to the hospital while Andy phoned the doctor on his cell phone.

Inside, I was screaming, but “Hurry” was all I managed to say as I clenched my legs together, trying to seal my leaking cells, my fingers pressing firmly against my baby’s life, now ebbing into a towel.

We arrived in about ten minutes—an eternity—and parked at the entrance. I was just starting to tell the admissions gal what was
happening when I spotted our favorite nurse. “The Kittels are here,” she sang with glee.

“Terri, I’m bleeding,” I said, wiping the smile right off her face.

I hope I haven’t ruined Joanne’s towel
, I thought, pulling it from between my legs and tossing it in the sink.
What am I doing in here? Hurry, hurry, please God, hurry, hurry
, I chanted to myself, pulling the gown closed behind my back but not bothering to tie it.

“Hurry, hurry, please God, hurry, hurry,” I chanted to myself, pulling the gown closed behind my back and ignoring the ties.

“Get on the bed,” Terri instructed. She climbed right up, kneeling over me and palpating my stomach while peppering me with so many questions. “How long have you been bleeding like this? How long has your tummy been hard like this? When was the last time you felt your baby move?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

I didn’t even know my tummy was hard. All I knew was that I was bleeding. A lot.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t answer her questions. My mind spun away from my body in panic.

“How long has your tummy been hard like this? How long has it been hard?” she demanded over and over.

I kept saying, “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.” It was all happening so fast and yet so slow.

“When was the last time you felt your baby move?”

Finally my brain recognized a word.

“Baby?”

“When was the last time you felt the baby move?” Terri repeated, saying the magic word again:
baby
.

My mind snapped to attention, flashing to the night before, me reclining in my Lazy Girl chair, the three kids settling down, ready for bed. The baby was doing its nightly gymnastics inside of me, flipping around, throwing out a knee or elbow. We all felt my belly, laughing and playing with the pointy protrusions. Hannah said, “Mom, I think this is a heel!”

Christiana and Micah danced around until they each grew tired, leaning over to kiss both me and the baby’s bumps. “Good night, baby. Good night, moon.”

“When was the last time you felt your baby move?” Terri’s voice interrupted my reverie.

My adrenaline-filled brain finally managed to stop the video filling its screen, directing my mouth to answer, “Last night?”

While I was busy with my flashback, an ultrasound technician had arrived by my side and hooked up her machine. She had a student shadowing her, who stood at the foot of my bed next to Andy. As her mentor set to work, she turned to Andy, smiling, and crooned, “Sooo, is this your first baby?”

Maybe I should have answered, explaining that no, in fact this was our fifth baby; we buried our fourth nine months ago.

But neither of us said a word.

The tech squirted her bluish gel and I felt the coldness spreading in concentric circles around my distended belly while she searched and searched with her ultrasound wand. I prayed it was a magic wand. She paused to turn the screen away from me, then continued examining my baby in its watery world, pushing harder to carve her pattern like an ice skater drawing compulsory circles around the frozen surface of my skin, but selfishly keeping her figure eights all to herself. I held my breath, waiting for her to exhale a sigh of relief. Waiting for her to say something. Her silence was deafening. I examined her face, her eyes, her hands, like it was my job, not hers, waiting for her to smile, begging her silently—keep looking, keep skating, don’t stop. I beseeched God to get in here. Paging God to my room,
now
.

And I repeated over and over to myself,
This cannot be happening to me, this cannot be happening, this can not be…

Silence filled the room.

No tiny foot kicked her magic wand away.

Nothing moved beneath the stretched skin and clenched fist of my belly, once so lovely to touch, now as hard as ice, an icy oligotrophic lake—nothing living in it.

I lay there, waiting. Waiting for the inevitable pronouncement. Slamming my ears shut and blocking them to keep my baby in the present tense.

Don’t you say anything, don’t you dare say a word
, I warned everyone wordlessly while I waited impatiently for someone to do something. Whisk me off to surgery, cut me open, save my baby, take my life if you must, but
just do something
!

Instead, everyone seemed to move even slower, like we suddenly had all the time in the world. Slowly, slowly, they unplugged and wheeled their machines out of the room, asking no more questions, and leaving me lying there with my protruding belly exposed, a dead end covered in cold gel.

While I was holding Micah’s hand, shuffling around in a circle, changing into my Johnnie, or trying to find answers for too many questions, my baby was dying. My baby had drowned.

Dr. H entered the room and dared to break the silence. Abruption, she’d explain later. For now, she kept it simple. “There’s no heartbeat. There’s nothing we can do.”

I wanted to plug my ears like a child and scream to keep from hearing her terrible words. They had given up. But I hadn’t. I was stubborn. I was desperate. I was Irish. But I didn’t know how to save this baby. I didn’t know what to do. My mind reeled:
No way, no way, no way, this can
not
be happening.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said.

I closed my eyes and thought,
Not again.

Maria B. Olujic, PhD

Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

I
t’s Wednesday. I am waiting alone in the Petrova Teaching Hospital in Zagreb, Croatia, while my husband is leisurely having a Turkish coffee across the street. The hallway with the flaking orangish fiber-glass chairs serves as the waiting room. All the chairs are bolted to the wall and filled with ladies who are “inpatients,” as well as people like me who are “outpatients.” The inpatients are wearing hospital gowns of varying colors and shapes, with deep pockets that bulge with boxes of cigarettes and lighters. Some of them are chain-smoking, and all of us are waiting patiently for our turn with the ultrasound.

I notice a woman coming out of the ultrasound room wearing a flower robe and a radiant smile. “It’s a boy!” she exclaims. “I guess she’ll keep it,” whispers a woman sitting next to me. Her statement reminds me of a colleague’s work in demography and the “one child policy” in China. I ponder how technology has enabled women in the Third World to have selective abortions because they are carrying a daughter—ending a life is a lot easier when the desired gender is male. Even now, the summer of 1988—on the eve of the Yugoslav war—an ultrasound is used as a tool for selective abortion of unwanted female babies.

Finally, it’s my turn. I am lying on the hospital table, and above my head large windows are covered with
cerada
, army green tarpaulin. The room is semi dark except for the monitor that is blinking a
bluish-green light. There are several men and women in the room, all in white lab coats and white clogs. I later learned they were interns. Dr. Feri
ć
slides his chair closer and applies cold gel to my lower abdomen and swipes the wand back and forth. He asks one of the interns to help him apply more gel. The pressure on my abdomen is hard as he swipes the wand sideways, up, and down. “Is the professor back?” he asks casually. This is an honorific reference to a physician, Professor Kuzmi
ć
, a leading gynecologist at the teaching hospital.

After fifteen minutes Professor Kuzmi
ć
walks in—the one who verified my pregnancy five months earlier. He looks at the monitor; at the same time Dr. Feri
ć
shoots out a single word in English: “Without.”

I look up at Dr. Feri
ć
, trying to make sense of what he tried to say as Professor Kuzmi
ć
said emphatically, “It’s okay, you can tell her. She understands because she speaks English.”