The first ultrasound she’d received, the baby looked like a little kidney bean. Today, it looked like a full-fledged baby. She could make out the head, the body, even the little nose.
“Here we are, mama.” The tech tapped and zoomed and clicked on the keyboard, then hit a button, and the room filled with the noise of a beating heart. It sounded like it came from under water.
“Is that me?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Nope. That is that little person right there.”
Daisy stared at the image and realized that a part of her had hoped the cramping and bleeding meant the worse. The tech left, and she lay there, cold and shivering under the thin blanket they left her. She analyzed her feelings, digging through, and finding the root of the disappointment.
Shame.
Despite everything, she still felt ashamed by what she’d done. How could she get past that?
Before she could start a conversation with herself, the doctor came into the little room. “Ms. Ruiz, how are you feeling?”
What a loaded question. She bit back the sarcasm that sprang to her tongue and said, “I’m still cramping.”
“I’m sorry. You can take something from an approved list.”
Out of nowhere, a sob escaped. The doctor sat on a stool and slid closer to the head of the bed. “Is the pain that intense?”
She put a shaking hand over her eyes. “No. I—” She gasped and cried and struggled to find the words again. “I just found myself hoping that this was over. That somehow, God had intervened on my behalf.”
How could she feel this way? This little child inside of her with that beating heart belonged to her and her alone. Despair overwhelmed her heart until a bitter taste filled her mouth.
The doctor slipped a pamphlet out of her jacket pocket. “Is the father with you?”
Daisy fisted her hand and hit the bed. “No. I imagine he’s with his wife somewhere.”
After a long pause, she said, “I see.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The storm had passed. Embarrassment clawed at the back of her head from her emotional display. Shame filled her heart from the thoughts she’d had.
“Your blood work is good. Your HCG levels are on point. The baby looks great. That little heart is beating perfectly. There doesn’t appear to be any distress. The ultrasound showed a small subchronic hematoma. That’s when the placenta has slightly detached from the wall of your womb. It’s not uncommon, and I don’t see evidence of a serious risk factor. What you should do is go home and rest. You need to stay hydrated. Call Doctor,” she paused and looked on the paper, “Reynolds in the morning. She’ll have access to our reports and imaging and will be able to monitor it. If the hematoma doesn’t get bigger, you have nothing to worry about.” The doctor set the brochure on the tray next to the bed. “I’d like to add that if you’re not ready for a baby, you have other alternatives.”
As soon as she realized what she meant, Daisy’s eyes widened, and she gasped. “No! No! I couldn’t possibly.”
“It’s not a recommendation. But, sometimes, your emotional state is worth protecting, and sometimes termination is the best way to do that.” She stood. “Do you have any questions?”
Daisy’s mind whirled with questions, but she didn’t want to talk to this particular doctor anymore. “No. I’ll talk to my doctor tomorrow.”
“I understand.” She walked to the edge of the curtain. “I’ll send the nurse in here to discharge you.”
Daisylay on the bed, staring at the still ceiling fan above her. She noticed a cobweb that reflected the light and realized she should probably dust. Letting out a deep sigh, she rolled over onto her stomach.
She hadn’t left her bed for anything other than necessities since Thursday evening. She lay there, blankly staring at the television as she binge-watched some ridiculous television drama, and over and over again thought about how she felt as she went into that emergency room thinking she might lose the baby.
All evening Thursday, all day Friday, all night last night, the thoughts overwhelmed her until her mind swirled. She answered texts from Ken with generic platitudes but didn’t engage him. Camila came by, but she didn’t get out of bed, and she left after making sure she was “okay.”
“Okay.” What did that mean, anyway? No, she was not okay, and she didn’t know how she would ever be okay again.
Now, like a whisper in her ear, she thought of how much easier it would be if she had just silently lost the baby. Most people she regularly dealt with would never even know she’d ever been pregnant. She wouldn’t have to face her grandparents, experience their disappointment. Ken wouldn’t have to pretend to connect with another man’s baby.
The sob tore through her, surprising her. She curled into a ball, as tightly as she could, pressing her knees to her eyes. The idea of what she wished had happened actually physically hurt her heart. Did it point to a lack of trust in God?
A horrible sound filled the room, something that would come from a wounded animal. She gripped the covers and pulled them over her head. Even though she knew she should pray, she couldn’t find the right words. How did one pray in a situation like this? For what should she appeal to God to do?
Make the “subchronic hematoma” bigger and, in doing so, place that perfect baby she’d seen on the screen in mortal danger? Is that what she actually hoped for?
