Forever Goodbye
I sit staring at the pale whitewashed wall, with a transparent plastic container holding pamphlets. I look down at the screen on my black iPhone 3. I see the red box with a number "5" hovering over the blue Facebook application button. I click the button and read my status from earlier: “What do you think we’re having, boy or girl? Today’s the day!” I scroll down the screen and read all the responses: “boy,” “girl,” “twins.” Everyone is excited to find out. I hear a familiar friendly voice call out “Rachel.” I get up and walk towards the slim, blonde nurse wearing blue scrubs. As I walk through the waiting room, I notice the usual: people talking, phones ringing, and the daily routines of everyone in the room. After all my vitals are checked, I’m placed in my room. It’s in the corner beside the doctor’s office, with a big gray door and the words “Exam Room 3” on a plaque right in the top middle of the door. I sit on the exam table; in my mind I’m going over all the questions I have been wanting to ask: "Should I feel this nauseous?" "Is my stomach growing enough?" "Is it weird that all I want to eat are lemons?" I can hear muffled conversation through the walls, then a gentle knock, knock on my door. My doctor walks in the room. She tells me to lie back on the table, and then I hear the plastic tube squeeze as I hold my shirt above my belly. I feel the cold slimy gel on my stomach, and then the pressure of the Doppler wand as it glides around my protruding stomach. Then I hear it, the sweetest sound, thump, thump and again thump, thump. My mind goes blank and I enjoy the sound of the little fluttering heartbeat. I forget about my questions and just feel the butterflies dancing in my stomach. My doctor then tells me it’s time. I walk down the wide hall, stepping on different colored carpet squares. Once I’m in the ultrasound room, my eyes try to adjust to the lack of light. I feel the cold chill down my spine, but none of it matters. I’m about to see my beautiful baby on the monitor. This time the slimy gel is warm and again I feel the pressure of the wand moving all around my belly. Suddenly, the technician looks at me with worried eyes and says, “There seems to be low fluid. I’ll have to talk to the doctor.” I’m placed back into my room, and I wait. My doctor rushes in and looks at me, then says, “You’re going to want your husband here.” She tells me a quick description of what is wrong, “Your baby has no kidneys. Your baby won’t be able to survive. I’ll make an appointment for you in Little Rock. They will be able to give you termination options.” All at once, I am unable to breathe. I’m paralyzed. Everything is silent, and her mouth is still moving, but I can’t hear anything she says. All I can hear is my heart beating faster. All I feel is my stomach twisted. All the butterflies were gone and replaced with an aching pain. The experience of losing my daughter and the days I survived, from finding out to saying goodbye, changed me as a wife, mother, and person.
