The day seemed to be going perfect. Our house was cleaned, the cooking was done and all we had left to do was wait for the guests to arrive. I was tired, but so wasn’t Chris and the baby had just fallen asleep for an afternoon nap.
Once our guests arrived things were great. Bradley was excited to see a bunch of new faces and the food was finally being eaten. It was fabulous. That evening we all sat down to play cards. Everyone was in and out of the bathroom, because they had been drinking and it was quite noisy. I went in to use our toilet and was trying to hurry because I KNOW someone is going to walk in on me, but then I got scared. I was bleeding. All I could think was, “I’m not supposed to bleed and I hadn’t bled like this during the last pregnancy.”
I walked out of the bathroom as quickly and as calmly as I could. I called Chris’s name. He couldn’t hear me above the crowded noise. I called him again. He looked and I said I really needed to talk to him. He came over. “I’m bleeding. And I’m bleeding more then I did last time.”
“Well call your doctor, everything will be ok.” Alcohol reeked from his breath.
I called. They took a message and I waited. If it was longer then twenty minutes before I got a call back, then I had to call again.
Chris tried to console me, slurring his speech, saying it’s going to be fine. I cried. I pushed him away. Why couldn’t he be sober? He said he wasn’t really going to drink much.
Chris went to the office to look up miscarriages online. I went down to talk to one of my friends to see if she could stay. She said of course and called work.
The hospital was calling. It was a resident. Hmmmm. Not a real doctor.
“Well,” she said, “It’s normal to bleed a little while you are pregnant, especially if you have had sex.”
“Look, I know what’s normal. This isn’t normal. I have bled previously because of sex, it doesn’t fill a tissue paper and isn’t bright red.”
“Well, I’ll page Doctor Paul and see what she says. She may have you come in just to be checked out. If you don’t hear back within twenty minutes call the hospital again.”
I waited. Doctor Paul called within five minutes. She wants me to come in and get an ultrasound and see what’s going on. I said ok and cried. Chris came in and I told him what we needed to do. I told him he couldn’t drive. He drank too much. “I’m fine.” He slurred.
I repeated he wasn’t driving and then said, “I guess I should pack something.” I grabbed a big black canvas tote and didn’t know what to pack, so I just threw in a pair of underwear. If I was miscarrying, all I could think of was I would need new underwear.
We went downstairs. I put on my shoes. Chris pulled a few of his friends outside. I grabbed everyone’s attention inside. I didn’t want them to think we were being rude. I told them the doctor thinks I may be miscarrying and we had to go to the ER.
I couldn’t find my purse. I was freaking out, screaming and yelling at whoever got in my way because I couldn’t find it. I needed it. Chris grabbed the car keys and said he would look in the car. I yelled at him that he wasn’t driving. He said he knew. My purse was in the car.
We left and I drove. We didn’t talk the entire time, only when I questioned, forty-five minutes later where I should park.
We got to the hospital and Chris said he had to pee and couldn’t hold it. He ran in the parking lot out of sight. I wasn’t going to wait for him. I didn’t want to wait for him, so I started walking, alone, to the emergency room door. Chris caught up. The smell of liquor made me want to vomit.
They called my name as I was registering. The receptionist said Chris could finish the paperwork for me. I went in double doors. They took my blood pressure, temperature and story of what was happening. I hoped I was being paranoid. The nurses just said, “We’ll see.”
They gave me a bag with a cup in it. They wanted me to pee. I didn’t want to pee. I didn’t want to see the blood again. But I did what they asked. They then told me to go to the waiting room until I was called.
When they called my name, my obnoxiously drunk husband came with me. They took viles of blood, one to see if I was pregnant. It didn’t make sense to me, so I asked why. “Couldn’t they figure that out from the urinalysis? Am I still pregnant?”
The nurse looked at me. “It should be posted on the computer. I’ll go check.”
He came back. “It’s not posted, but I’m sure it’s in your chart.” He drew my blood and took me to my room.
They hooked me up with an IV. A saline drip. It was cold. It made me cold. Chris covered me with a blanket. He started sifting through all the stuff they had in the room. It pissed me off.
We waited. We waited until my IV was gone. We waited longer then that.
Chris finally called the nurse, slurring demands on getting help. She went to see what was going on. They were taking me to get an ultrasound. Tom, he’s the guy that wheeled me in my bed upstairs to the tech.
I don’t remember the tech’s name. But she was nice. I went to the bathroom twice in her care. The room was dark, very low lighting. She said either way she wouldn’t be able to give us any answers.
She did the test. And we saw the baby. The precious little thing was just sitting there. Arms in front of him, just sitting there. We asked questions and she couldn’t and wouldn’t answer, but I knew at that time.
When she left all I could think to do was to ask Chris if he thought the baby was alive. He said yes. Then I asked him why the baby wasn’t moving. He suggested the baby was sleeping. Then I asked if he was just saying that to make me feel better or if he really meant it. He said he meant it.
I was wheeled back to my room. It wasn’t Tom this time. We got there and we waited. We waited more and then the doctor came in. It was hard to understand him; he had a heavy accent, “The baby’s heart stopped. Ok. The baby’s heart stopped.”
I just stared at him.
“Ok. The baby’s heart stopped. Do you understand?”
“So the baby’s not alive?”
“No.”
I turned, looked up at the ceiling, but I didn’t see it. I gasped. I tried to hold it in, but it didn’t work. I looked over at Chris whose head was down on my bed.
The doctor said he would be back and he left. He had to wait for the official word.
I gathered myself and saw my husband’s eyelashes puddle with tears, eyes glazed over. “Why,” he asked. “I have such bad luck.”
I reminded him he didn’t believe in luck. He said nothing goes right for him, it’s all wrong. I reminded him he has a little boy at home who loves him very much and a dog that absolutely adores him. I reminded him how much I loved him.
He wanted to call his brother. I gave him my cell phone and he bent down to give me a kiss and all I could do was sob. Then I gathered myself and he left.
When he came back the nurse came back shortly thereafter. The doctor wanted to “scrape some tissue away.” We just wanted to go home. The nurse kept apologizing to us. The doctor let us go home. We couldn’t just leave. The nurse came in and I had to sign some papers. I didn’t want to because it meant my baby was dead. It was the hardest most difficult time I ever had signing my name.
We left after two in the morning. We had been there five hours. We decided we would call family the next day and send everyone else an email or text message. I didn’t want to talk to anyone or see anyone I knew.
When we got home, we took Bradley, who was awake, into our arms, gave him a hug and a kiss. He slept with mommy and daddy that night and all the next day when he took naps.
As I sit and type, I am still pregnant, carrying an unborn lifeless child, who will never have a name, other then Baby Campos. We will never know whether Bradley would have had a little brother or little sister but we can dream that one day he will.
