This is how it's supposed to be...right? |
I think the OBGYN is my least favorite place to go. The cramped waiting room and brushing elbows
with pregnant women. Their smiles of
hope and touches of life on their bellies.
The haunting noise of heartbeat thuds from Doppler’s in surrounding rooms. I sit there, close my eyes, and remember
exactly what it felt like when Quinn was alive inside of me. I remember her bulging butt up against my right
ribcage. Her tiny fingers tickling
me. Her hiccups which I felt to the left
of my pelvic bone.
Then… the nurse’s long eyes, pursed lips, and tilted head as
she calls me out of the waiting room. She
knows. I can tell within seconds of
looking at people. And then I saw
it. “Full term
fetal demise.” This is the
medical term describing the death of my perfect, innocent, beautiful baby. These are the bright red words that infect my electronic
medical chart and pop up at the top of the screen. The words
that will forever define me.
I stung when I saw it.
It is painful to have the life and death of my baby wrapped up into one
single, cold, medical phrase. I still
can’t believe that title in red letters belongs to me – full term fetal demise – surely you are talking about someone
else in the waiting room.
During the intake, the nurse was going over my medical
background and seemed to be surprised by my clean medical record. Yep, that’s me – perfectly healthy and fit,
but birthed a dead baby. She asked me my
height and when I said, 6 feet, she responded, “Boy am I jealous!” Well lady nurse, the Universe got me
back. After a lifetime of being tall and
skinny, the joke is on me. How I would trade tall and skinny or anything to have Quinn alive and
healthy today.
Upon exiting the OBGYN and traveling through the waiting
room of life-to-be, I step aside from my jealously and silently say a wish that
their babies make it through the journey of birth alive.
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