Last Night I Dreamt in Pink

Yesterday afternoon, following THREE DAYS of being told that my results from the chromosome analysis had arrived but couldn't be given to me until the doctor(who was "busy delivering babies," I swear that's what the nurse told me, as she tried to explain why it was taking so long for him to look at the damned file!) reviewed them, I FINALLY got a call from the office. Since I learned the additional information about LPD and the consequences of not treating it in a pregnant woman, after all the damage had been done of course, and during the post-D&C fog that envoloped me while I tried to grieve, I have felt a certainty that the results would be: 46 normal chromosomes, with the XX pair defining our embryo's gender.

Odd as it may seem, I knew this, knew it in a way I sometimes do, knew it in that part of me that is never wrong, even though there's no explanation that defines how I know. Carl Jung would understand, and I'm sure mystics and voodoo priestesses and the like the world over would think they understand, but really only Dr. Jung's understanding would be accurate and true. As much as I like being right, as much as it serves as fuel to the constant flames of advocacy and justice that burn inside me, this is one of a few times when I seriously, absolutely, positively wanted to be wrong. Crazy even, overly imaginative, paranoid, maybe on account of the hormone storms that accompany pregnancy and its subsequent loss.

See, if there had been a defect of any sort, then I think I could have let the whole thing go. Sure, I'd have composed one of my trademark tersely-worded letters to the doctor, explaining precisely why, even though my embryo couldn't have survived, he STILL should have listened to my history and made notes about it in my chart (which he didn't, as evidenced by the total lack of the letters LPD anywhere in the entire copy of the file I have in my possession). I'd have waged verbal war in that letter, pounding into his thick skull that, despite what has worked for him for the 30+ years he's practiced obstetrics, many women do NOT, in fact, like to be poo-pooed and patted on the head and told to just go home, relax, eat a few bon-bons, and not worry about their pregnancies. Some women want, no need to play an active part in their care, are equipped to do so, and are therefore highly insulted when they are summarily dismissed.

Unfortunately, I wasn't wrong. Our embryo. That's how I've made myself think of her until now. The idea of assigning personhood to her, much less a gender-specific pronoun, was too painful, and made the loss seem so very much greater a thing. She wasn't quite big enough yet to be called a fetus, when the endometrium that should have sustained her but couldn't because the doctor was too self-important to listen and check my progesterone levels and then TREAT them so that My Daughter might have a fighting chance at life finally failed.

Her heartbeat had been strong and clear before that, twice, and we saw on the screen the miraculous growth she had achieved in just the few short days between one episode of bleeding and the next. She went from a tiny, blurry blob on that screen, a seemingly empty gestational sac, to a living being, still totally dependent on my body to sustain her, but nevertheless a new and unique creature, a miraculous result of the combining of strands of DNA from mother and father, a divine innovation that had never before existed. And never will again.

"HELLO!" that heartbeat said, "I'm here! Don't be afraid, I'm healthy and well, and I'll grow and thrive and them come out and greet you soon." Our daughter. Our girl. Our baby, had she been born, would have finally been able to wear the cutesy little girl clothes that her maternal grandmother handmade for our daughter's cousin Erin, the first of the girl grandchildren, the clothes I've been saving for her, knowing in my heart she'd one day arrive, and knowing how perfect they would be on her. She'd have had this honor after her other cousin, Sicily, not yet born, but kicking away and on her way to meet the world any day now, outgrew them, right about the time Our Girl made her own appearance in the world. But then, after more blood, so much that there simply wasn't an adequate source of life giving nutrients left for her to hold onto, that heartbeat ceased. Our girl died.

My husband, our children's father (all three of our children), is in California, so I had to give him the news over the phone. I had been out on the road when the call came, and pulled over the moment I saw the number. The nurse, Tracy, only this Tracy maybe not so wonderful as I once thought OB nurses with that name must all be, called, irritation in her voice at having had to correspond with me SO frequently over the past few weeks, and said this:
"Hi Ms. Cakes, it's Tracy at Dr. Breakyourheart's office. He looked over the results, and said they don't show any chromosomal abnormalities or anything, so you don't need to keep worrying about any kind of genetic problem. He said that means there must have been some kind of problem with an organ or something, like probably the heart didn't develop properly. So, you can stop worrying."

"So chromosomally, everything was normal then?" I said.

"Yes." She replied.

"And what about the gender? Is it indicated on the report?" My heart pounding in my ears, stomach lurching, and me trying to calm things just long enough to keep from vomiting until I could complete the call and throw open my car door.

"It was a girl."

I drew on my last little bit of strength then, from way down deep in a place I know exists, but can't figure out exactly where, and said to her, "Ok. Can you please mail me a copy of that report? I signed off on that already when I signed the release to get the rest of my chart at my follow-up visit. It specifically states that copies of the chromosomal testing should be mailed to me."

"Yeah, sure, I can do that for you."

The conclusion of our call and my being hurled back into full-force grief happened simultaneously. I sat in my car, engine running, only partially blocking the driveway, and wept, screamed really, until I felt like I might pass out. Safety-minded as always, I forced myself to stop, to just breathe, long, slow, deep breaths, until the bruise-colored sparkles in front of my eyes disappeared and I could see clearly again. ("Sparkles," by the way, is a monkeyism. The elder monkey described that blacking-out that happens after great spins and quick changes of position from sitting to standing, that diversion of blood to the brain, as "seeing sparkles.") And eventually I could, so I moved my car out of the busy parking lot and next door to the weedy driveway of an abandoned business. There, I shifted it into PARK, and wept some more. It came out of me in choking, coughing, bursts, that sadness, little explosions from whatever parts of me had been holding it at bay but could no longer shield me from my own ugly pain.

After a minute or two, I phoned Mr. Cakes, who is presently in CA. He was angry, but not surprised, since he apparently puts much stock in the things I insist I "know," when really I can't. He commented then that even though he doesn't agree with the people in front of abortion clinics, he does understand how they can be so nutty. For them, it's like it was for us yesterday. That tiny cluster of cells, that girl, SHOULD have been born to us!

I should still be pregnant with My Daughter!

She should have grown up, worn pigtails, skipped to the bus stop, fairy princess lunch box in hand, jumped rope, played with dollies, and written her name in glittery ink all over every notebook she ever owned.

She should have climbed trees, wrestled with her older brothers, and devised clever and sneaky ways oto get back at them for chasing her through the house with frogs and bugs.

She should have put lipstick on them in their sleep, or tied pink ribbons onto their backpacks, or any number of other girl-boy sibling shenanigans.

She should have sung songs, danced, made jokes, written poetry, been a math whiz, a writer, a politician, a doctor, a mother, a grandmother, our daughter.

She should have, but she won't.

She won't because her doctor didn't believe that a woman, not just any woman, but that little girl's mother, might possibly know a thing or two about her own body, and therefore might be able to help him keep it a healthy and hospitable place for that little girl to grow from embryo to fetus to living, breathing, person.

She should, but she can't, because now she's dead, and no one can bring her back.

I can't bring her back, but if I do nothing, there will likely be more just like her, and I can't live with that. So, I'll meet with an attorney, and I'll see what measures can be taken, and maybe, just maybe, I'll be fortunate enough to affect change. I won't hold my breath, but it could happen.