Five years. It’s been
five years since I lay on that table, joyfully looking at the screen, waiting
to see that little light flash steadily, solidly. Five years.
Five years since the silence and darkness of that tiny room enveloped us
as the technician quietly asked us to wait a moment. I knew.
I knew right then. Case didn’t
want to believe it and CJ was so tiny, but I knew. Then came the motions, walking across the
street, waiting for the blood draw, the long drive home from Philadelphia, the
sleepless night, and the phone ringing, ringing, ringing at my desk. I didn’t want to answer because I knew.
“Courtney, the baby is gone.
I think you need to come in so we can help.”
Was it silence or deafening screams that I heard? I don’t remember. I just remember taking notes like I always
did for an exam. Numbers low. Cramping might occur. Come in on Friday. We can find out why. I’ll take care of you. Swallowing the dark air that suddenly filled
the room. That voice of the stranger (me).
“I understand. I
understand. Yes, I understand.”
Click as I set the phone down, the hollow dial tone as I
picked it back up to call for a ride.
“Come and get me. Our
baby is gone and I can’t get her back.”
The quiet days that followed. Waiting to drive back to Philadelphia, back
to the hospital where CJ was born, back to see Dr. Shawl with his endless jokes
and kind eyes, only knowing that this time I’d leave empty. Empty in a way that I never thought possible. Dropped CJ off and headed to wait. Wait for hours and hours. The clock rhythmically clicking. Almost all day. Had to fit me in between all of those blessed
women who were sweating and crying as they brought those beautiful souls into
the world.
“McGinnis?
McGinnis? It’s time to go. Walk across next door.”
The long walk. The
fleeting thought that they would be wrong.
She would be happily sleeping nestled against my heart. That the dating was wrong. That they forgot to hook up the heart
monitor. Changing into the gown. Silent
tears sliding down my cheek. Case always
there. Holding my hand. Avoiding my eyes. Staying strong. Excusing himself as the kindly nurse came to
prep me.
“I know what you are going through. I’ve lost eight myself.”
My eyes closing as the wheels start to move. Bright lights. Young eager faces poking me. Their excitement at a new procedure for the
day spilling over me. Technical
language. Steps to the “procedure”. Tears
starting to flow.
“What’s wrong? Are we
hurting you?”
“It’s just been a really bad day.”
What do I say to that young, eager face? Your triumph toward your education is my
worst nightmare? Your excitement about
ripping my child from her warm soft bed is a bit off-putting? My life will never be the same and you will
go out with your friends to celebrate? I
am not going to survive this?
“What will happen to the baby? Can you give it to me?”
“It’s too small.”
They said there was no reason to “put me under”; a local
that will make me sleep would be enough.
The blackness overwhelmed me. I
woke, eyelids fluttering, to bright lights, a dull thud in my head, a hole in
my heart, an emptiness that will never be filled.
“You put up a good fight.”
“What?”
“You put up a good fight.
We had to put you all the way out.
You wouldn’t stop kicking me.”
I fought for her. It
gave me some comfort. To know that until
the end, I was her Mama. I fought for her. I fought… but I still left empty handed,
empty hearted. Out the doors. To the cold car. Stopping to get our beautiful boy who spent
the day playing and eating meatballs.
The days to follow were a blur. We ran out of town to our favorite place as
if escaping the house, the town, and the world would change things. The flowers came, the cards, the whispered
phone calls as I lay, armed draped over my empty womb, on a wet pillow trying
to figure out how to get up.
“She’s okay. She can’t
talk now. Maybe next week.”
Next week came. I
went back to law school, to work, to being a Mama and a wife, returned phone
calls, and wrote thank you notes. The
days stretched endlessly and the nights were even longer. Sleep eluded.
My child breathing in and out kept me up on vigilant watch. Somehow convinced that he was next, I couldn’t
stop looking at him. If I couldn’t
protect the child in my womb, how could I protect the one walking around? Days passed and the phone rang.
“She was a girl. She
had Turner Syndrome. You can try
again. It’s not likely to happen twice.”
We named her then, Lucy Marie McGinnis, our beautiful
daughter. It’s been five years. I still miss her. I am grateful for her beautiful sister who
came less than a year later and her amazing brother who was my lifeline
then. I tried to listen to everyone say
it would be okay. That time heals all
wounds. Five years. Life moves on. Days are happy. The sun shines. I love my life. I love my family. I am strong.
I am not whole. Every
night I still say good-night to my sweet Lucy.
Why did she have to go?
