The Daily Hailey

So. Here we are on October 7th. My Monday ultrasound I so badly wanted to not need. Brady and I sat and talked while we waited for my name to be called. What did we want from the ultrasound? With Theo, we had a similar situation, where I took the medication and the baby didn’t come out, and the ultrasound showed an empty uterus. Lo and behold, though, baby dropped seemingly from nowhere about five days after that. So he was in there, just tucked, or low, or something like that. I assumed it would be the same this time, and we would just be waiting to see. Housebound. Completely in limbo. Again. 

But as things tend to surprise me along this road, the ultrasound showed baby completely tucked in there, just the same as the week before. 

I would need a D&C.

And I was SO mad. I was relieved to finally have a direction to move in, but my pregnancy was officially being erased. I never got to watch an ultrasound. I don’t have a single picture. And now, I wasn’t even going to get to “have” the baby. It was being taken out of me. I would have NO proof that this whole thing ever happened. I was so hurt. But I had to roll with the punches. And that meant I had arrangements to make. 

So began an afternoon of frantic planning and figuring, speaking to friends, asking for help, fielding multiple calls from Dr. Guselle as she called me and the hospital back and forth, trying to find where I fit and when I could get myself there. I had made the mistake of eating a sliver of Waverly’s apple during her lunch, and that set me back hours from when I could’ve originally went in, but rather, Brady and I were asked to be at City Hospital emerg for 4pm. Carrie J willingly came and hung out with my kids for a couple of hours after school, and Willa came and traded her out to do supper and bedtime with the kids. 

I threw some little items in my purse, not exactly knowing how to “pack” for a D&C, but figured I’d try. I grabbed deodorant, a brush, chapstick, a pair of underwear, my wallet, and a pen. 

Brady and I got to emerg just a little after 4:00. We walked into the ER holding hands, ready to do whatever this was going to be together. We were NOT brave. We were surviving. Having never been to City Hospital emergency before, we were unsure where to line up. We picked a spot, and thankfully, chose right as a whole bunch more people lined up after us just moments later. We beat the rush! I was called in and sat beside a desk where two women typed like mad and checked my vitals but didn’t talk to me. Finally one of them put her head up and said “What the trouble?” I told them what Dr. Guselle had told me to say. 

“I’m here to see Dr. Mirosh for a D&C.” 

Her response was “You’re not on her expected list,” but she didn’t even know my name yet, and the other lady with all the typing corrected her and said I was on the list. Ok, more typing. Finally I was given a hospital bracelet and directed to wait in the waiting room. So we did that. After maybe 20-30 minutes, someone came and retrieved us and asked us to follow her to bed one. Once we were ushered into our own area, she plunked down beside me on the hospital bed and introduced herself. She was to be our OB and surgeon for the evening. And I immediately loved her. 

She was funny. Dry and sarcastic, like me. We bantered pretty easily. She was also very professional. She took down all kinds of info and listened while I retraced our steps from the last month, and then from our past losses in 2017. I felt good knowing as much information as I knew, and she happily received what input I had. We talked fertility, which was good and bad. She said the fact that I have five perfectly healthy, complication-free children makes it clear to her that I can have children. She is confident there is really no answer to find as to why this last year has been what it is. She was encouraging but straightforward. She was strangely like Dr. Guselle, where she could say honest things that weren’t necessarily hopeful but she still left me feeling light and positive. I don’t know how they do it, but MAN its a quality I hope to have someday. 

Conversation strayed from baby-having into her wanting to inquire about the rest of our family. We discussed Brady’s work and how much she loves and respects carpentry. She said her family growing up had a completely round library, and how she remembers it being built, and what a huge undertaking it was. It was nice to talk life outside of the heavy stuff. I also love when people recognize Brady in all of this. People forget the husband sometimes, and thats sad. Yes, this is all happening to my body, and that counts for something big, but its just as much his baby as it is mine. 

We wandered our way back to talking about the procedure ahead. Talked process, people, and risks. She told me they would start getting me over to the day surgery unit and get me set up with a bed there. As we were talking, a nurse popped her head into the doorway and said the OR was ready when we were. The doctor was surprised, and commented that she hadn’t reported me to the OR yet, and the nurse laughed and said something like “You might not have told them about her, but they know about her!” So with that. I was told to follow along, and Brady and I walked up to the operating room together. 

It was kind of surreal, honestly. I was brought up to this area of the hospital that didn’t look like it was really made for people. I got dressed in the gown and robe in a supply closet. It was funny, and everyone kind of was poking fun at it. They kept saying “We’re usually way more organized than this!” but I reassured them that my life was far from organized and it didn’t put me off at all. Brady and I sat in a little corner with three chairs while people in scrubs came and went. I filled out consent forms and agreed to what was about to happen. Everyone gave me lots of room to ask questions or take time. 

The best part of all of this is about to come, guys. A positive! 

The anesthesiologist. He came and sat himself down beside Brady and I so we could talk anesthetic, history, and questions. He introduced himself, and I stared at him. I confirmed his name and looked at his name tag to make sure he was who I thought he was. Dr. Derek Boechler.

He was the amazing, warm, patient resident who had delivered Dekker into my arms eight years ago. Guys, I could’ve cried. I had LOVED that man. 

I totally fan-girled, and told him my memory. He was surprised, but happy. I told him not to worry, that he didn’t have to remember us, but that we had really liked and appreciated him. We got back to the task at hand pretty quickly, but truthfully, I was so thrilled to run into him. He had been such a bright light in Dekker’s delivery, and I had always wondered if I’d run into him again, maybe for an epidural or something. But clearly not, because he found his way to a different hospital. It just felt like a crazy, full circle moment for me. I felt so at peace. 

I consented to the anesthetic, and stressed to him that I wanted to be OUT out. I couldn’t handle even being remotely lucid. I didn’t want to feel any of it. He totally understood and said NO ONE should ever feel such a thing, and he would make sure of it. He reassured me that he would be there the entire time. All 5-8 minutes of the procedure. 

I admit, walking into the operating room on my own two feet was a bit surreal. I had a moment where I was entering the doors and saying goodbye to Brady where I started to tear up a little. Not because I was sad even, but just nervous, and…ya, maybe sad, too. It just sucked. It all sucked. 

But I walked into a room with about 6-7 people in it, and everyone was SO friendly and warm. I was directed to lie on the operating table (again, surreal), and as I slipped my robe off, someone came behind me and held my gown closed, to save my dignity a little. She even whispered and asked if I was wearing underwear, seeming to try and keep it classy. I lay down and was immediately wrapped up in a warm blanket. Now I know that for pretty much every procedure, they strip you right down and basically tie your arms back. Very exposing. I remember feeling people tie my arms up in my previous appendix surgery, and I went under panicking. This was not like that at all. People moved around me carefully and gently, lifting my gown here and there to stick little monitors on me. They tucked my feet into the blanket and joked here and there with me. My anesthetist had told everyone that I had known him in the past, so we talked about that. I puffed him up pretty good and told everyone how lovely he was. How he was the most patient person I saw the day Dekker was born. How safe I felt. Turns out, he did eventually finish his residency, clearly, and he is an excellent anesthesiologist. He told me everything he was doing as he was doing it. He was clear and efficient. He was still very warm and loving. He joked that it was a good thing he had shaved that day, so I couldn’t see how grey he had gotten since we last met. I pointed out that I too was eight years older. We both laughed. It felt SO calm. SO peaceful. So strangely different from how I thought it would feel. Everyone in the room knew why I was there. They knew how much I desired more children. They knew my heart. I felt cared for in an extra special way. 

When the mask went over my face, I knew it was time. The anesthetist told me to take some breaths and apologized for the stinky smell. The second breath I could tell was it. I nodded, maybe to notify them I was on the way out? Maybe just my brain nodded. I’m not sure. But that was it. I was toast. 

I woke up feeling tired, but not really groggy. I was aware there were people around me. I forget what they said but I knew at the time, and was able to respond. It wasn’t unpleasant. I remember smiling as I talked to the nurse beside me. Neither the surgeon or anesthesiologist were there, which made sense, but I admit I wish I could’ve spoken to them and thanked them. The nurses were lovely though. Things had gone smoothly and easily, and I was quickly moved out of recovery into my own room. We actually beat Brady to the room, and the nurses called him on his phone to tell him I was back. He was all smiles when he came in, totally surprised I was already out and awake. I was brought apple juice and digestive cookies, and he sipped his coffee while we made jokes about “date night.” 

It was kind of a horrible date night, but it was also weirdly peaceful. It could have been so much worse. In some ways, it was the last piece of the ridiculous puzzle we’d been working on for the last few weeks. 

I was in grief, of course. I still am. But as my heart was naturally recovering and trying to move forward, my body refused to go along with it. I was living in a constant state of frustration, waiting for my body to just give in and let go, and it wouldn’t! I was fearful that I would be emotionally healing, and suddenly, the baby would come out, and I’d be back to square one. And I didn’t want that! But I also was mad that our little baby was being overshadowed by the frustration of the medical side of it. Just maddening. 

I’m learning that God’s mercies don’t always look how you expect them to. I believe God is in control, but I confidently believe that His plan, in this case, for me to have a D&C. To have a concrete answer. A “You’re done now” moment. Relief. Strangely, the procedure felt like a gift. I accept that gift willingly, regardless of how unconventional it seems. I never would’ve thought I’d be peaceful on the receiving end of a D&C, and while it obviously wasn’t our ideal end game in terms of conceiving and delivering another healthy baby into our family, the process was relieving and so very correct for us. 

He hasn’t forgotten us, or any of our children.