A Midwife's Misstep

I went to the doctor's office yesterday. They want me to go twice a week now to check for a heartbeat.  Our entire experience with doctors would require a blog all by itself.   Shenanigans.  Pure Shenanigans.

We saw a midwife that we hadn't seen at this office before.  She walked in apologizing for running late with a big smile on her face.  She greeted us with, "So you're twenty weeks!  You're half way there!" She fumbles through the chart chatting about my recent weigh-ins and any facts she can spew from her quick glances at my chart unknowingly acknowledging that she knows nothing about me.  I felt embarrassed for her. I couldn't figure out how long to let her continue talking before I broke the news.  It felt like forever, but I think I was sensitive about how long I allowed it to continue before, as politely as possible, breaking her chatter by wincing as I ask, "Do you know we're going to lose the baby?"

She looked up at me suddenly with a look of shock that told me she heard what I said and responded, "What?" 

I smiled compassionately.  For me, this was more about her moment than mine.  "We're going to lose the baby.  We're just here to hear whether the heart is still beating." 

"I'm sorry."  Was all she said as she picked up the doppler heart beat monitor and came toward me.  She said nothing else.   

It was kind of strange.   She heard my solid heart beat and I looked at her and said, "That's mine, right?"  She nodded and softly smiled but didn't move the monitor. She just listened and listened until she found the baby's heart beating.  Suddenly breaking through under my heartbeat came the rapid beating of Lydia’s heart, a steady 142 bpm beating solidly underneath my equally strong heart beat of about 78 bpm.    As I think about it now, it feels so symbolic and lovely--her heartbeat nestled snuggly and securely under mine.

"She's amazing.  She just keeps fighting." I said in a choked voice fighting back tears.  I looked at Jeff and he was smiling.  Still no words from the midwife.

She wiped my belly, I sat up and I asked her if she had any experience with this kind of pregnancy.  She said, "no." I asked her a question about carrying a baby without amniotic fluid.  She said she knew of no research that said it would feel any different.  I can already feel a difference, so I know there is one, but I can see she's anxious to see us out, and I know I can wait until the next visit with our doctor.

It occurs to me later that day that our doctor has not seen any of the pictures we have seen in ultrasounds.  All of his information has been passed to him in reports. I wonder whether he might not know the size of the cyst on our child's head.  That would explain why he thinks that after we don't hear a heartbeat we'll just head over to the hospital and deliver our dead baby naturally.  It suddenly becomes clear to me what was once a little confusing.  I don't understand why he talks like this would be a natural delivery, but I accept it as though he knows more than I do, and obviously he doesn't seem concerned so I probably shouldn't be.   He must know something I don't. But I can't shake the fact that I  can't see the feasibility of how this will work.  And I begin to swallow the fact that I might have to break the news to him what this child actually looks like and that this delivery might not be as simple as it seems.  And yet I still hope he does indeed know all of the facts, and he does know more than I do and knows that despite what I see, a natural delivery will be possible.  I am so, so hopeful for that.

It kind of makes me sad.  I can't even find words to describe all of the reasons why.  It's some disappointment in my healthcare (that carries over from other disappointments).  It's embarrassment for the professionals.  It's a feeling of loneliness and that when it comes down to it, I do have to take care of myself and trust God to lead me in doing so.  It just feels sad.

I talked to a few good friends yesterday.  It was the first day that I talked to more than one person on the phone or in person about my life right now.  It was very natural.  There was laughter.  It was matter of fact.  And I know I did sound good.  But at the end of the day, around 11:00pm when I received a short note from my cousin (the carpenter I was referring to in a previous post--who I never did call) letting me know that he would drop everything for me and for my child, I just fell apart and wept.  I wept, and I wept, and I wept.  I wept because it's just so sad.  And I wept because I have many people in my life who love me, who would drop everything for me if it would make even the tiniest bit of difference.  And when you start to absorb something like that,  I don't know how you can do anything but weep.

And weep. 

And weep.

I love you friends.  All of you who send notes and call and write and text I cannot thank you enough.  I don't get responses out to all of you, but you will never know how much they mean.