A young
lady sits in the waiting room of the OB clinic at Womack Army Medical Center. She gives out a quiet yawn. She is tired.
Three emergency room visits in two days has really taken a toll on
her. Around her are pregnant women and
their husbands. They are smiling and
giggling. Their husbands rub their
bellies and look up at their wives affectionately. The young lady looks at her husband. He gives
a compassionate smile and grabs her hand.
His hand is warm and sweaty. He gives her hand a squeeze and then looks
somewhere else. She knows what he is
thinking, but he does not tell her. He
is trying to be supportive. It is hard:
they have never had to deal with this before.
The waiting room television is unusually loud. She stirs in her seat. Her mouth is dry. It tastes like the cup of coffee she down
before coming in. She sighs. “How long are they going to take?” Finally
after what seems to be a half an hour, they call her back.
The smell hospital grade Lysol
pierces her nose. The hallway is
bright. After the usual blood pressure,
weight, and temperature checks, they take her back to the examine room. The nurse comes into the room. She is of average age and has a very inviting
smile. The nurse asks about the young
lady’s other two pregnancies. They make
small talk about the couple’s two year old daughter and the adventures of potty
training. For a moment, they laugh. She asks about the bleeding. “Is it
normal?” The young lady thinks to
herself, “Normal? How is bleeding during pregnancy normal?” She tells the
nurse, “I never did with my two other pregnancies.” The young lady takes a glance over at her
husband. He straightens his uniform and
fiddles with his dog tags. He cannot look
at her. She can see the worry on his
face. “Please put on this hospital
gown. The doctor will be in shortly,”
the nurse says as she walks out of the room.
The young lady does as
instructed. Her husband makes a wise
crack about her choice of underwear. She
gives him the “after everything that has happened this weekend do you think I
am concerned with underwear?” look. He
apologizes. The hospital gown is rough
and itchy. As they wait, she looks
around. On the walls of the examine room
are public service announcements for breastfeeding and cessation of smoking
while pregnant. Also on the wall are gestational
growth chart. She reads them to keep her
mind off of how long the doctor is taking.
She turns to her husband who looks asleep in the chair, “We would have
heard the baby’s heart beat this week.” There is silence. Tears start to fill her eyes. She chokes them down as her husband rubs her
back. “No, I am not going to think that
way. They did not tell us we lost it in
the emergency room, and until this doctor tells me different, I am not breaking
down!” she thinks to herself. She then
turns to her husband with a fake smile and says, “We still might be able to, I
am getting ahead of myself. We must
think positive thoughts. It is in God’s hands now.” There is a knock at the door. The doctor walks in. “Finally,” she thinks.
The doctor is polite and
enthusiastic. “Let’s do the ultrasound and go from there.” She puts on a
compassionate smile. There is a great deal of prodding and pulling, and also a
great deal of silence. The young lady studies the doctor’s face. She contemplates every eye wince, every head
shake, and ever whispered question to the nurse. The silence starts to become unbearable for
the young lady. Just as soon as she
feels she is about to break, her husband reaches forward. He grabs both her hands and kisses her
forehead. Finally, the doctor turns the
ultrasound machine off and writes in the chart.
After about five minutes, the doctor
finally looks up. “Here is the thing,” she says as her eyes chase away to avoid
meeting the young lady’s gaze. “You are
eleven weeks and a couple days.” The
young women’s husband’s foot is tapping wildly.
This has always annoyed her. The
doctor continues, “The baby is measuring about six weeks.” Now her foot is
tapping wildly. The doctor goes on to
tell her that with the bleeding and the baby measuring small that she most
certainly miscarried. The room is still.
The doctor studies the young women’s face.
The young woman is stoic. She
does not move, only to shake her head to show she understands. She
can see her husband put his face in his hands.
“Hold it together, hold it together,” the young woman thinks to
herself. The doctor continues to tell
her the process of how she will have to “pass” the baby. The young woman keeps her eyes fixed on the
doctor’s eyes. The smell of the doctor’s
hand sanitizer seems to overwhelm the room.
The doctor gives the young woman
discharge instructions, the medicine to “pass” the baby, and a very sympathetic
“I’m sorry.” To leave the clinic, they
have to walk out through the waiting room.
They have to walk pass the same smiling pregnant women and their husbands. One of them looks up at the young lady and
smiles. She smiles back. Her husband grabs her hand and leads her out. The car ride home is silence. To the young woman, the colors of the passing
world are dull, lifeless. Her husband
has not said a word since the doctor’s office.
She studies his face. She is
searching for a hint of emotion. He
catches her staring at him. She sees a
tear in his eye. For a moment, she sees
his weakness. Then he smiles and says,
“You look beautiful.” She takes his hand
in hers. The young couple is left to
deal with this on their own.
