I Love You I Never Met You Goodbye
I do not want to be writing this. I do not want to be writing anything. I do not want to be at work, or in front of computer, or doing anything other than holding Mrs. AbsinthePassion while we eat ridiculous amounts of junk food and drink potent alcohol and watch television shows and films that will seem immeasurably deep and complex while we’re drunk. I want out of this pain that runs so deep even the Marianas Trench would be afraid to peer over the edge of the yawning abyss. I also want to spare you, SINful friends, of this pain, so be warned, continuing further down this path finds only sorrow and despair. Continue at your peril.
Sunday night Mrs. AP and I learned we lost a child. We’d not yet met this child of ours, this glorious new life formed as our union made manifest, and in one long hospital visit learned we never will. Nothing on this earth is more devastating than losing a child, and the pain seems magnified over the realization that we never got to even say hello to whom we must now say goodbye.
Mrs. AP and I have known for nearly 6 weeks that we’re pregnant; we realized in early September that she’d not had her period since Mid-July. She usually runs on a 35 day schedule, and by the time it dawned us that the schedule was long overdue we had already noticed the signs of increased sense of smell, difficulty keeping down certain foods, etc. I mentioned previously, I have 2 bio-kids and Mrs. AP has 3; we’re neither one new to the mysteries of pregnancy and the early warning signs. We both wanted to keep quiet until after we new, beyond reasonable doubt, that everything would continue without a problem. We thought we hit that when we crossed the 12-week mark last week that we were in the clear. We had the county health center confirm via urine sample last week to help facilitate an update to insurance so we could get OB care through Mrs. AP’s preferred doctor. We were picking out clothing and furniture and running off the innate sense — one of a perfect record — that Mrs. AP had regarding the sex of our slowly forming little one.
Saturday afternoon Mrs. AP had one bout of light spotting, but it passed and we thought we’d mention it in the upcoming OB visit this week. Sunday afternoon she noticed pink and some clotting when she wiped, and in the space of the next 2 hours she began to feel increasingly weak. The bleeding did not get work, but it did not abate. Within 3 hours of us waking up we were in the emergency room. We were run through the ringer, with them drawing blood, scheduling her for a RhoGam shot, and sending us over to Maternity for an ultrasound. The exterior ultrasound was having difficulty detecting anything, so they switched to vaginal, a first for both Mrs. AP and me.
After more waiting, and the application of a RhoGam shot, we were then informed that there is no fetal heartbeat. Estimates from the ultrasound put the growth having stopped somewhere in week 9. Here we were, nearly 13 weeks in, with no warning signs of anything being wrong, and this hammer, this devastating blow, was delivered upon us.
We are both crushed and devastated. Worse, Mrs. AP is anemic and still has to pass everything or be put through D and C. Regardless, we have to see our OB this week, which is where our frustrations and limits are being more fully tested.
I don’t carry insurance through work (nor paid days off for any reason, even medical emergencies that necessitate I take the night off), and Mrs. AP hasn’t been able to land an interview out of hundreds of resumes submitted over the past 2 years. She and the children are covered under Medicaid, but there’s not a single OB office — not even the one attached to the hospital in who’s ER we were treated — that will accept Medicaid. Our purpose for visiting the health center last week was to get the requisite forms to have Mrs. AP updated to Pregnancy Medicaid. That update is still pending.
Furthermore, test results show Mrs. AP has a UTI, despite noticing no symptoms of it at home. The prescription given us needs be filled, but the 2 pharmacies we’ve tried thus far do not accept the Medicaid-associated HMO through which drugs are covered.
Mrs. AP now has increasing amounts of pain in her pelvic region, back, and lower abdomen. We got our ex-roommate to come spend the night the next two nights while I’m at work. I have to pick up an extra shift Friday to make-up for the time and money lost by not working Sunday night.
Emotionally, we’re both wrecks.
I’ve dealt with loss before. My ex-wife and I suffered 2 miscarriages together before we got married and later had 2 beautiful children. In the past 5 years I’ve dealt with the deaths of 3 grandparents and the blackballing by all my blood relatives. You’d think I’ve be better at handling this, but I’m not. I’m a wreck. I can’t go more than an hour without breaking down into deep, heartbreaking, gut wrenching sobs. I’ve got more snot production tonight than an entire Kindergarten class during flu season. I’ve cried so much my face might as well be a salt lick. This is abjectly wrong. I want my baby!
We were too early in to stand any chance of learning whether we were going to have a boy or a girl. The best I could see on the ultrasound machine was a blob that looked much like a snowman in blizzard — indistinct and cold.
I want to find a silver lining in this. I know we were ahead of schedule, and that our current household situation doesn’t lend well to having an infant. I know we would need a car capable of hauling around 6 people. I know we need a better job from me and income from Mrs. AP’s freelancing to support the changes we need to make. But damn it all to the coldest blackest hell Dante can imagine, we were going to make this work! And it’s gone, ripped away while leaving us with these broken pieces, and all while the ridiculously fucking broken medical system in this country gives us a giant finger and tells us to spin on it.
I will not be well any time soon. I know Mrs. AP won’t either. Right now I want nothing else but to go home and hold her and somehow, through that, make everything alright.
Goodbye, my dear sweet innocent child-to-be. I never met you and never will, but I love you forever.
Stay SINful, friends.