Friday, December 18, 2020

All I’ve Been Through

 Reading an entry from my journal — back when I was 19.... 

So, I went into a room and sat back in this really comfy-looking seat which appeared way better than it felt. I found myself thinking, “This seat is a lot like me.”

The room was decorated in a sickeningly-sweet flower theme—as if anyone who goes in there (to get an amnio test) wants to feel all flowery and happy. Just before I could rip the border off the wall, a very plump nurse entered the room.

She totally lacked empathy and I felt worse sitting in her presence. She sucks as a nurse and should really find a job at a hair salon where people aren't pregnant with complications. She'd done her hair up and I bet she'd make one Hell of a beautician.

She said how sweet and refreshing I am, but my tear-streaked face didn't believe her as she laughed, and talked, on and on. She said she wanted to be honest, since I'm a smart kid. Then she told me how I should end the pregnancy because I should do what's best for me; like I'm so freaking amazing or something. She asked if I'm married and how old I am—as if the baby didn't matter. I told her I want to have the baby unless he has trisomy and she said he'll probably die shortly after being born anyway. I seriously thought about walking out until she produced a needle—like a magician discovering a rabbit in his hat. That needle was the size of Milwaukee!

It takes a lot to scare me, it really does. I went through a natural childbirth with Ruby, and was quiet pretty much the whole time. Not that it didn't hurt, but my family taught me how to be tough. I've got a relentless pain tolerance, but that ungodly needle—of all things—took me off guard. I stopped Miss Sunshine right there and asked if she wanted to kill me. 

It seemed like a poorly written horror film where the baby will die so they kill off the mother too.

She laughed and told me to relax. I wanted to say, “Over my dead body,” but decided she might take the advice. She didn't really care about me anyway. That nurse was the textbook definition of self-absorption. She said if I moved she could hit “the fetus” as if she didn't want to get in trouble or something—forget she might hurt my son.

She punched through my skin. It didn't hurt as much as I'd expected, as far as needles the size as Milwaukee go. I saw my baby on the ultrasound and the needle the nurse used. I held still, not wanting that stupid thing to touch my son. He kicked a couple of times. Poor little guy, he doesn't know there's anything wrong with him. Anyway, they said the results will come back soon. It won't be soon enough though. 

When God made me, He didn't throw patience into the deal. So, we still don't know if our baby has trisomy. I'll get back to you on that later, but right now . . . I need to go cry.


And I keep thinking, if I could go through ALL of that at 19, why is stage 4 cancer at 37 so hard?

P.S. I’m glad I kept my journal about Zeke, my son who died. Other than my relationships with family and friends that (later) book I think is one of the greatest things I’ve done in this life. Maybe this will lead to another book as well. Who knows?

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