Uncharted Waters Part 2: Port Terminal|A Mother’s Journey from Death to Life #PILAM #PregnancyandInfantLossAwareness

PORT TERMINAL

A few months after coming back to the U.S. from Ukraine, I went to the doctor for a routine ultrasound. As I rested on the examination bed, Billy picked up April and sat on a stool right next to me.

"So," I patted Billy's hand, which he had placed on my belly. "If it's a girl, I get to name the baby Natalie, but if it's a boy, you can name him. Deal?"

"I know just the name," he grinned and ran his fingers through his auburn hair. "Ever since I saw the movie, Return of the Jedi, as a kid, I've wanted to name my own son, Luke."                                                                                   

"I love that name, but it's a girl." I winked.

The ultrasound technician, a cheerful, blonde middle-aged woman, asked my daughter, "Are you ready to see your baby brother or sister on the TV?"

April said, "Yay!" clapping her hands.

The tech squeezed the warm gel on my belly and guided the ultrasound receiver across the area of my womb. The outline of our baby’s profile appeared on the TV screen. 

We could see a little heart beating. The screen turned red in that spot as the technician took measurements of the size, heart rate, and blood flow.

"I'm sorry, guys," said the tech, "The legs are crossed, which makes it impossible to determine the gender."

"Aw, maybe next time," I said.

As our little one moved about in my womb, the technician did more measurements. She spent a long time scrutinizing the monitor with her lips sealed into one flat line.

"You all hang tight. I'm going to need the doctor come in." She excused herself and came back with my obstetrician, Dr. G.

He used the ultrasound equipment to examine the baby and nodded to the tech with a serious look. He printed the results and handed me a tissue. “Please get cleaned up and come with me to my office.”

After wiping the gel off my belly, we followed him down the hall.

Why did the doctor check the ultrasound? Why do we have to go to his office?

Is there something wrong with our baby?

Dr. G directed us through a doorway to his mocha leather armchairs. “Have a seat, Mr. and Mrs. Griese.”  

The chair was cold against my skin, which made it difficult to relax.  I kept crossing and uncrossing my legs. My thoughts were anything but calm.   

The doctor rubbed his gray head and stared at the ultrasound results. Then he looked up. “I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t find the baby’s kidneys. It looks like there are no kidneys.

All at once, my fingernails bore into the armchair. No kidneys?! What does that mean?

The doctor wrote something on a notepad. "I’m going to have to refer you to a specialist. I think I can get you in today.” He walked to the door, waiting for us.

I felt too overwhelmed to speak. Billy and I stood and followed the doctor to the receptionist. She telephoned a high-risk obstetrician, who could see us that day.

GRAVE DIAGNOSIS

Billy drove me to the office in silence. He walked me to the door and hugged me while holding little April's hand. "I think we should drop her off with a babysitter. I'll be right back, okay?"

My brow scrunched tight as I nodded. He snapped April into her car seat and sped away.

The other women in the office, all pregnant like me, read magazines while they waited. Some of them had reddened eyes and wrinkled foreheads. I wondered if there was something wrong with their babies, too.

Billy arrived back just in time for the nurse to call us in. We were led into another ultrasound room and greeted by Dr. C, an older doctor who had white hair combed over and large square glasses. He examined the baby with higher resolution equipment, then directed us to his office.

The room was freezing. My body shook from both the frigid temperature and fear. Billy held me close to keep me warm.

Dr. C began by asking us a question, “Do you pray?”

We both nodded.

“Well, then, you need to start praying, because your baby has bilateral renal agenesis, meaning, there are no kidneys, and that’s not compatible with life.”

My chest tightened. I could barely speak. “Incompatible with life? My baby is going to die?”

Billy blurted out, “Are you absolutely positive there are no kidneys?”

“There’s a seventy-five percent chance I’m right.” His forehead wrinkled.

“How can we know for sure?” I hoped beyond hope he was wrong.

“You can try an MRI, but that might not be conclusive, either.”

“I’d still like to try it,” Billy said.

"Me too." I held his hand tight.

We left the office without saying a word. I peeked at the printed ultrasound picture of my baby, then stared ahead. The whole world seemed to darken before me.

Each arduous step to the car was an effort against the weight of my own body wanting to buckle beneath me.

Before picking up April from the babysitter, we stopped at a restaurant for lunch but didn’t make it through the front doors.

I don’t remember who started crying first, but we both sat outside on a bench weeping, wailing, and clutching each other. I could sense people walking past us, probably wondering what was wrong.

We sat there, unable to move, not wanting to eat, wishing this day had never happened.

The Lord is my pilot, I shall not drift,

He lighteth me across the dark waters;

He steereth me in the deep channels,

He keepeth my log.

He guideth me by the star of holiness

For His namesake.

Yea, though I sail mid the thunder and tempest of life,

I shall dread not danger, for thou art near me.

Thy love and thy care, they shelter me.

Thou anointest my lamp with oil, my ship rideth calmly.

Thou preparest a harbor for me in the homeland of eternity.

Surely sunlight and starlight will favor me on the voyage I take,

And I will rest in the port of my God forever.

From “The Sailor’s Psalm,” by Captain J.H. Roberts (1874)

For Part 1, click here.

Next post, Part 3.