Rebekah’s Story – Baby Orali

This post is part of a series of posts in honor of National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Today’s post comes from Rebekah.

In May 2005, we learned I was pregnant. We were overjoyed. It was our first child. We had dreams. We made plans. We were ecstatic and excited to welcome this new life into ours. As two we were one, but now as three we felt complete. We couldn’t wait to meet our little February baby. I researched a bit. I made a short list of supplements to buy, stuff that I read is needed for a healthy pregnancy. Mother-in-law comes to visit. Should we tell her? No, let’s wait awhile before we tell family.

Nearly one month into the pregnancy I turn 21. A cake is being made. I am careful to avoid the raw eggs. One drops on the floor. I want to clean it up, but Chris reminds me about the baby and takes care of it. I can’t be too careful – all that stuff I’ve heard about raw eggs and miscarriage. I also have given up litter box duties. Can’t complain about that one.

We roam the local college campus in the early AM hours. We talk; we dream. We laugh as we run through the sprinklers. It’s not an unusual night for us. But there is one difference – our little one is now a part of these conversations. We are excited about the road ahead.
But one day that all changed. One day those dreams were put on hold. The light fades from our faces.I started bleeding. It’s a small amount. Hopefully it will stop.

The cat is acting up. The neighbors are being unreasonable. I am stressed. The bleeding increases. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I was mistaken about being pregnant? I don’t think too much more about it. I can tell something is different, an emptiness in my heart. I’m depressed.

We plan a trip to see my grandparents. It will be refreshing to spend time with family. We leave town.Things go well during the visit. The bleeding slows some. We are happy to be with family.

Several days into the visit I’m not feeling very well. I’m cramping a lot. At dusk the cramps become stronger. I tell Chris about it and lay down. He stays by my side. He talks to me about pleasant things. He tells me the meaning of a Greek word. I am trying to enjoy our conversation, but the cramps are distracting. He gives me a hug and leaves to go to the bathroom. While he’s gone the cramps are unbearable. When Chris comes back we discuss the situation and decide to go to the hospital. Chris drives as fast as he possibly can, and we arrive in about 15 minutes. I’m in so much pain I can barely walk inside. I immediately head for the bathroom. I can tell I’ve passed something. I check and it is (what I later learn) the sac. It is grey. I don’t know what to think. I’m not even sure what it is. I flush it. I open the door and tell Chris about it. Eventually I make my way out of the bathroom, and there is a wheelchair waiting for me. I am taken to a room. I change and wait. And wait. The nurse comes in to take down information and ask questions – how did I know I was pregnant if I didn’t take a test? Well, I just knew. They do a blood test. It shows that I’m 2 ½ months into the pregnancy.

via dcdistrictdiva.com

A sonogram is done. Afterwards, as I am being wheeled away, the technician pats me on the leg and I notice she has a sad smile. Ominous.

Finally the doctor arrives and has a look. He doesn’t say much. He leaves for awhile. He comes back. He talks. I don’t remember any of it except for one sentence, “There is no life in there.” Those words have echoed in my mind ever since. We were miserable. Deflated. But more than anything, we just wanted to go back to where we were staying. However, we can’t go yet. I am told I need a Rhogham shot. So we wait…and wait….and wait some more. After two hours of waiting, Chris goes to see what the hold up is. He learns that the shot has been sitting in the lab for the past 45 minutes, waiting for someone to retrieve it. Grumble, grumble. I’m given the shot. We can leave.

By this time it is daylight. We were in the hospital all night. We are totally exhausted. There is a deep, painful, stabbing misery in our hearts. We are empty. We grab something to eat and head back to my grandparents’ house. Over the course of the day we tell different family members of our loss. The nightmare isn’t completely over, however. The nurse said that in a few weeks I would need to have a follow-up done and a D&C once I was back home. I do this. I go to the follow-ups. I’m miserable. An ultrasound is done to know for sure that I need a D&C. Everything is unpleasant. I’m not a person; I am a patient. Everyone is cold. Some say unbelievably insensitive things to us. I am disgusted. I don’t want to see these people ever again. Oh, but the D&C. I have to have that, don’t I? So, grudgingly, I press forward. My misery increases with each visit.

Finally, the day of the D&C arrives. Everything apparently goes okay. I wake up from the anesthesia. I am sobbing. I put my face into my hands and cry so hard. My heart feels more empty than ever. I am in some sort of a holding area and alone except for a nearby nurse. I ask for Chris and am told that he can come back now that I am awake. I am also told that while under anesthesia I said a lot of things. This makes me uncomfortable. I have no clue what I might have said. And no one will tell me anything. I go home. I feel frozen. I want to crawl into a cave and not come out for a long time.

Something that I have always resented about my miscarriage is that, apparently, I was supposed to be past it and my life back to normal within a few days to a week afterwards. As though it was nothing. If only it were that easy. The days and months that followed were very dark and bleak. I felt like a failure. A loser. Broken. Inadequate. Unfit. Half a person. The list goes on. It was several months before I felt somewhat okay again. And it wasn’t until my oldest was born (over two years later) that I felt whole and healed.

We both felt that our baby was a girl. We named her Orali. It means “my light” in Hebrew. Because she was our little light.