SORROW AND RAGE

“Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.” Psalm 127:3

The pungent aroma of eucalyptus and peppermint seeped through the elevator door before it opened. Two steps into Dr. Gordon’s waiting room and the stark reality of what I faced could not be ignored. The décor of the office boasted the revolutionary science of joint replacement – kneecaps and hipbones in lit glass cases. Men and women thirty years my senior sat on the seats of their walkers or held fast to a cane.

Two weeks had passed since I’d received the news in Colorado, but because of a cancellation I was able to get an appointment with an acclaimed rheumatologist . Even the nurse pointed out my ‘luck’ for getting an appointment so soon.

Luck. Was any of this luck? It was coincidence that I picked Dr. Gordon, one of the top rheumatologists in Houston, who had a cancelation. I filled an empty slot.

Dr. Gordon, an attractive woman in her forties, examined me with the same tenderness as Dr. Sutherland’s nurse. She took hold of my hand flipped it over in her own, examined the knuckles and then pulled my hand towards her to stretch out my arm. With the edges of her fingertips she pressed down on different areas of my body and over every joint, stretched them out, and examined the reflexes. She inspected every moveable part of my body and asked questions, sometimes asking the same question two or three times.

At first I thought she wasn’t paying attention but then I realized she was testing me to see if I’d give more information or change my answer.

When she asked for the third time about dryness of the mouth I couldn’t keep quiet. “What are you trying to determine?”

“There are various diseases associated with a high RNA and ANA count. Rheumatoid arthritis is the most common but masks the signs and symptoms of some more complicated diseases like Sjogren’s and lupus. However, from what you’ve given me I think we can rule out Sjogren’s for sure.”

She ordered more blood work and once again I left feeling depleted. I walked briskly past the elderly patients and floating plastic joints to the elevators. The vice in my chest tightened a notch. It felt harder to breathe and my knees and ankles hurt from walking fast which increased my anxiety and frustration.

My breathing tapered once I was in the car and behind the wheel. When I tried to press down on the clutch my legs shook and the dull ache magnified in my ankles and knees. My jaw clenched and my throat burned with the need to wail as I pushed through the pain and drove out of the parking garage, away from the medical center.

This isn’t fair. My thoughts turned into a day nightmare. I envisioned myself in a wheelchair sitting by a window looking out into the beautiful sunlit day but unable to go outside because no one was there to push me. Neal took the diagnosis in stride, certain we would have long productive lives together, but I wasn’t sure he thought about me being an invalid and wiping my bottom.

This sucks. I punched the car into fifth gear as soon as I hit the on ramp for the highway. I had a bad habit of conjuring up the most pitiful scenarios. Like movies they played out in my mind, depicting me as a shriveled up woman, writhing and moaning in pain with no one there to help.

On a better day I envisioned Neal pushing me around in a wheelchair. I saw myself as still young but my hands pathetic twisted limbs curved into fists lying on a blanket over my lap. Neal was in a few of the scenarios but more often I’d conjure up another woman for him. The sordid affair he’d have because I would be too shriveled up to enjoy life. These thoughts took away from what little sex drive I could muster.

Poor Neal. Double whammy. A wife with no sex drive and certain to become crippled.

It was a miracle I made it home. I ran into the house and flung myself on the bed to indulge in a colossal melt down. I felt sorry for myself and didn’t care. I was still on the bed when Neal came home an hour later.

“Hey.” He got on the bed and rolled me over. “What’s wrong?” The worry etched in his face caused fresh new tears to erupt. “Hey now.” He leaned down and kissed me, wrapping his arms around me. “Talk to me.”

I felt stupid for feeling sorry for myself. I knew it wasn’t healthy or something he wanted to hear. I knew it was ridiculous but the fear had a hold of me and I couldn’t shake it off. I couldn’t hold the façade. “Maybe you should leave me now?” A sob broke through and I buried my head in his chest.

“What?”

“I’m not a good wife for you,” I said. “I don’t give you what you need and now I’m going to be all crippled up before who knows how long. It’s better you leave now.”

Neal laughed. “You’re so dramatic. I’m not going to leave you because you might be crippled one day. And I’m not going to find anyone else just because you think you aren’t good enough for me.”

The enemy filled my head with enough lies to demolish my self-esteem. I didn’t respond but I didn’t believe him either. I was certain I was no good. For years I felt like damaged goods because of the rapes and then freed and renewed after finding my way back into church and going to confession. Here I was, married to a man who was a direct gift from God but I had taken my sight off of God. I put all of my worth into Neal and our marriage. Yet the thoughts plagued me. What good will I be to Neal? I was attacked by a disease that could physically cripple my body the way my spirit felt useless.

Like a sinking ship I was overcome by dark waters of negativity, lack of hope and unworthiness. I went down fast. It was what I’d known for too long.

I needed to feel in control again. I was desperate to feel as if I had a plan, one I could vision and work toward. A plan that wouldn’t leave me feeling useless.

One year into our marriage I wanted a baby. I was twenty-three, about to be twenty-four, and a baby would take all of my attention and effort. We didn’t have money but we reasoned if we had kids young we could be young parents when they graduated high school. By then maybe we’d have the money to travel, as long as I was physically able.

Dr. Gordon assured me I’d be fine to get pregnant on the medication I was taking for the Rheumatoid Arthritis. She would work closely with my ob-gyn when the time came.

This meant sex, which was a win/win for Neal. The dark cloud of anxiety and insecurity that hung over me in the bedroom disappeared. Now I was the one who initiated and wanted to make sure this child was created out of love. I felt desire and longing that had been squashed by the images and feelings that plastered my past.

But the timing was off. I traveled four to five days a week, lifted suitcases in and out of airplane bins and ran through airports. This exacerbated my RA symptoms and I was bloated and swollen from the medication. After the first month of trying to conceive I got my period. I sat in the bathroom and cried. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I felt defeated.

My job search increased and I found a job as an office assistant for an oil rig drilling manufacturer. It offered a substantial increase in pay and I was home by six o’clock every evening. Everything fell into place. I should have been delighted and less stressed but disappointment hit monthly as I felt like a failure. To make matters worse my periods were heavy and long which didn’t leave much time to try for a baby.

Usually this was not an issue for me but now it felt as if my body continued to betray me. Determined and with my eyes on the goal, I made an appointment with my ob-gyn.

Tests revealed the hormones I took since I was seventeen to reduce the heavy menstrual cycles caused the slow release of my ovaries. How was I to know that when the doctor put me on the pill for a cyst on my ovary at seventeen, I would suffer for it later? The same drug that helped prevent an unwanted pregnancy, especially after the rapes, now prevented a wanted pregnancy. It was enough to send me back to church and on my knees in prayer.

Neal didn’t need to be convinced to join me on Sunday morning. We went to Mass on occasion but more often than not we slept in and made feeble excuses for missing one of the four Masses offered. Well, I shouldn’t say we made excuses. Neal never argued about going to Mass. Our attendance rested squarely on my shoulders. If I wanted to go, he went. If I instigated the excuse to let Sunday slip by he didn’t protest.

On the right side of the sanctuary Neal and I nestled in-between two families full of children. They played with each other and fumbled with their little toys. The littlest sat on mommy’s lap.

I slid to my knees and cradled my forehead in the palms of my hands. “Father, I want a baby so badly. I know I haven’t been the greatest at keeping up my end and coming to Mass. I know my request seems pointless when I don’t ever find the time to pray to you. But I promise you, Lord, I promise if you allow me to have a baby I will make sure I am in here every Sunday.”

My head was bent so that my hair covered up the tears that stained my cheeks. My heart ached. Who was I to beg and make deals with God? I knew better. I knew God would bless us in time but I still held onto the lie that maybe this was another punishment for all the bad decisions I’d made in my life. Maybe God didn’t think I could be a good mother.

I sat back in the pew. Neal put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

I looked up at Christ nailed on the cross and knew Neal was right but I couldn’t help but think, “Is it?” I wasn’t thinking of God’s plan for me or His timing. I wanted a baby. I wanted to know I could obtain the goal and be in control. I couldn’t trust God’s promise because deep down I was angry. Why did God allow men to rape? Why did He let diseases destroy peoples’ lives and make them anxious about their futures? I was angry because I didn’t feel good enough for His love or for a baby.

Years of manifested anger boiled deep inside my spirit and it changed my personality. The pent up resentment and frustration caused my mood to fluctuate. My incessantly recurring menstrual cycle compounded the mood swings and left a monthly reminder of my inability to get pregnant.

Neal did everything he could to lift my spirits. To satiate my desire to nurture he came home with a puppy, a twelve-week-old crystal blue eyed husky named Rocky. Rocky had an uncanny amount of intelligence for a dog and a knack for getting into predicaments. He was the last of the litter. No one wanted him because his snout was swollen twice the size of his face. As a young pup he sniffed out a red ant hill and the ants got the best of him. He was free, which met our budget.

For awhile Rocky was my baby. He sat in my lap and I’d rake my hands through his silky black and white fur. He licked the tears from my face when I realized it wasn’t the month I could surprise Neal with being a daddy. Rocky gave me comfort and purpose. He was a dog to love and loath.

We left Rocky in the backyard when we went to work or ran errands and would come home to find him missing. We’d search the neighborhood calling out his name and he’d bound around the corner, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. He’d rush past us straight into the backyard as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’m here. Where’ve you been?”

We couldn’t figure out how he got out of the backyard. There were no holes dug. The fence we built to keep in our five-year-old Golden Retriever, Bear, was brand new and in tact.

On the many occasions of Rocky’s escape, Bear would sit on his hind legs and look at us, look at Rocky, and then back at us as if to say, “Really? You wanted this dog?” If dogs could talk Bear told us we were fools.

One afternoon I came home from work, walked into the house, and was assaulted by the strong stench of dog poop. I threw my keys on the counter and turned the corner into the living room narrowly missing the pile of poop in the middle of the floor. The back window was wide open. I had closed it that morning. At least closed enough to where a dog couldn’t squeeze through. It was April and the weather was nice enough to leave the windows open a sliver, I knew I hadn’t kept it open any wider. Yet the window was open wide and the screen that was on the window had been removed.

“Rocky!” I looked toward the hallway that led to the living room expecting him to run into the room. A faint jingle came from outside. Rocky was at the back window and when I looked at him he turned his head to the side with a quizzical gesture. The evidence was clear. The chewed screen lay on the ground in the backyard. Rocky had bitten it until it came off, and then he pushed the window up enough to crawl in, then took a dump and went back outside. I would’ve been impressed if he hadn’t left the ‘gift’ inside.

Rocky tried my patience but he also kept my mind off of the emptiness that plagued me month by month. Eleven months passed and my ob-gyn prescribed Clomid to increase ovarian production. Two months later, after a year of trying, and eight Sundays on my knees begging, I took a pregnancy test and was blessed with two pink lines.

Victory! I’d endured evenings of torture and pain refusing to take the steroids for my arthritis flare ups and the endurance brought a huge pay off. I never knew joy felt so good.

We had tried for so long I didn’t bother with a drawn out reveal to Neal. He came in the door and I practically shoved the pregnancy test in his face. “We’re pregnant!”

Grabbing me at the waste he hoisted me up and then brought me into a bear hug. “That is awesome. Does it mean we have to stop trying?”

I wiggled out of his embrace and punched him in the arm. “Oh stop.”

Nausea kicked in immediately. I hated being sick but I welcomed the early morning queasiness and tender breasts. Fatigue hit like a slap in the face but I pushed through and still made it to work every day.

I was anxious to see Dr. Baker and make sure I did everything I’d heard an expectant mom should do. Over the phone she congratulated us, put in a prescription for prenatal vitamins, and made my appointment for four weeks from that day. Four weeks? I was stunned. I thought for sure I’d be seen right away. I didn’t realize doctors waited until eight – ten weeks of gestation to get an accurate measurement and hear the heartbeat.

Neal and I were on top of the world. I made certain to fulfill my promise to God. The Sunday after I found out I was pregnant, Neal and I went to Sunday morning Mass. This time my hair didn’t need to cover shame or tears. Thank you, Lord, thank you. Thank you for making our family whole. I’ll do the best I can to be a good mom. I promise.

Neal and I spent every night talking about the baby and potential names if it were a boy or a girl. We made love without my normal anxieties. We were in love. We embraced our marital vows and our life together. Life was good.

One morning as I got ready for work I noticed dark blood spots on my panties. Oh God, please no. The pounding of my heart bruised my chest. My hands shook as I took off the soiled undergarment. It wasn’t a lot and I read spotting happened in the first trimester. This is normal. Bleeding happens in the first trimester. Pain pulsated through my chest with each heartbeat. It’ll be fine. The baby will be fine. The thought of losing the baby tried to push through. The baby will be fine, I repeated in my mind and ignored any other thoughts. I put on fresh clothes and got ready for work as if everything were alright.

“There is often spotting in the first trimester.” My mind switched back to the article I’d read in What to Expect When You are Expecting. I rummaged around what was to be the baby’s room for the book my mother-in-law had given me and looked up spotting. Once again I read the article and felt my heartbeat slow enough to stop the pain. The author suggested to call the doctor when this occurred. Relieved, I put the book back on a pile of boxes and went to work.

I called the doctor as soon as their office opened and got an appointment for that afternoon. I couldn’t concentrate. I sat at my desk and kept my legs crossed so nothing else would come out. Unable to stay calm I rushed to the women’s restroom. Monica, a zealous Christian co-worker, followed me and sat next to me on the couch in the lounge area.

“Shannon, what’s going on?”

“I think I’m losing my baby!” The fractured dam on my emotions broke and I sank into my co-worker’s arms.

Without missing a beat she put her palm on my head and prayed. “Come Holy Spirit,” her voice bounced off the bathroom tile. “Jesus heal my sweet Shannon and her precious unborn baby. We pray for your will in all things but you’ve taught to ‘ask and you shall receive’. Lord, Shannon wants this baby. Please stop this bleeding right now.”

I peeked up at her and saw her eyes squeezed shut and a determined look on her face.

Her voice raised an octave. “In the name of Jesus I pray this baby is healthy. And I renounce Satan and all of his lies and negative thoughts that he tries to use to bring us down. Lord, we know you love us and we trust in you. Thank you Lord. In Jesus’ name we pray.”

Any other time I would have rolled my eyes and made fun of her charismatic tendencies. But this time was different. My spirit clung to every word she prayed. My only hope was God listened to her because her Christian life was authentic. Monica was not a hypocrite. Her faith was lived in every moment. She didn’t beg God, she asked in His name and within His will. She wasn’t like me who faltered and bounced over both sides of the fence depending on which one had the illusion of greener pastures.

After she prayed I was overcome with peace. “Thank you.” I rest my head on her shoulder and we sat together in silence until I felt strong enough to work.

Neal met me at the doctor’s office. “Are you okay?” His eyes were wide with fear.

I smiled to calm him down but I could see it would take a tiny heartbeat to accomplish this feat. Before long Dr. Baker had me on the table, shirt up and jelly on my abdomen. She rubbed the wand around and stared at the screen. Neal and I studied her face intently but she neither smiled nor frowned.

It felt as if time stopped before she looked at me. “Well, apparently my machine isn’t doing that great today. I need you to go next door to the hospital and we’ll get you checked out by one of their new machines.”

My throat was tight with the effort to hold back tears. “How long will that take?”

She smiled. “Oh, not long. They’ll fit you in right away. And then they’ll hand you the pictures and report and you can bring them back here.”

Neal looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. He took my hand and helped me off the exam table. In silence we walked hand in hand next door to the Women’s Hospital of Texas. There was no wait. I was asked to undress and get on another exam table. I never found out the name of the doctor who inserted a long wand inside of me to get a better view.

Neal’s grip on my hand hurt. I watched the woman’s face as she punched buttons and took pictures. I looked up at the screen. Neal leaned over me to get a better look. She saw us and with little discreteness turned the screen away so we couldn’t see what she was doing.

I felt the heat from Neal’s anger. “What’s going on?”

The doctor cleared her throat. “I’m trying to get a few more pictures before I can make an accurate assessment.”

Neal’s fury rose and his grip on my hand tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The pain in my chest returned as my heart pounded. “Neal, chill out.” I couldn’t handle it. I had a wand stuck up my most private area and my husband about to tackle the ultrasound technician.

She turned the screen back towards us so we could see it clearly. On the screen were two distinct circles except one looked to be broken at the end and faded into the shadow. The other circle had a little white form inside like a raisin sitting at the bottom of a balloon.

“You have two embryonic sacs but only one is viable at this time.” She pointed to the complete circle with the raisin at the bottom. And then she pointed to the empty circle that was broken and faded. “This one is being absorbed, or in other words, it is miscarrying.”

Two sacs? One is alive and the other is not? Neal and I stared at the screen in stunned silence.

“You measure to be about 10 weeks pregnant. Unfortunately, at this time we are unable to tell you if this embryo,” she pointed to the complete circle, “will continue to be viable.”

The pounding in my chest ceased. I couldn’t breathe. Will continue to be viable? She doesn’t know if my baby will live? I stared at the side of Neal’s face. He wouldn’t look at me. He stared at the screen with the images frozen in time. We lost a baby?

Like zombies we walked back to Dr. Baker’s office with the pictures of our babies in my hand. I stared at the clear shot of both embryos, the one fading and the one living. How could this be? How will the one living stay alive if the other isn’t able to?

Dr. Baker offered no clear answers except to encourage us to focus on the viable pregnancy. She gave me two weeks. Two weeks to lay in bed while my body naturally miscarried the baby. An ultrasound was scheduled at the end of the two week period. Then we’d know if our baby was viable.

I lay on the couch, chest tight with anxiety, worried about the baby that was alive and dreading the moment I knew was inevitable, when my body would fully reject the dissolving pregnancy. The phone rang. I was surprised to hear Dr. Gordon’s voice.

“Shannon, I spoke with Dr. Baker and wanted you to know I am very sorry about what you’re going through. I know this is a hard time. She and I discussed in length the medications you’ve been taking and the general complications RA can have on a pregnancy. I want you to know that we both agree this was not a result from RA or taking steroids. I didn’t want you to be concerned this disease would prevent you from having children.”

She read my mind. These concerns plagued my thoughts and she answered many of them. “Thank you, Dr. Gordon. It means a lot to know this.”

“I know this is an unusual case and please know I am here for you if you have any questions or need anything at all. You take care of yourself and do as Dr. Baker tells you to do. I know this baby has a fighting chance.”

I put a protective hand on my belly. “Thank you, Dr. Gordon.”

Neal paced the room. “What can I do?”

I knew it had to be as hard on him as it was on me. “Nothing, sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

By the third evening he was like a caged mountain lion.“Are you feeling anything? Has anything happened?”

All day I’d felt deep low cramps in my pelvis. I didn’t want him to hover over me while I lived through the nightmare. “Why don’t you go see what the guys are doing? I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone.”

I looked up from the couch and smiled. “I’ll be fine. You need to get some air. Besides you’re driving me crazy hovering.”

He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be at Willie’s. Call if you need me.”

The first contraction hit moments after Neal walked out of the house. I felt my stomach tighten as if someone squeezed the uterus in their hand between their fingers. The pain shot up my back. I jumped off the couch and ran to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet and stared down at the deep red stain on the maxi pad. Another contraction hit. I didn’t know what it felt like to deliver a baby but the pain matched that of the stories I’d heard. Except with each contraction instead of progress to a beautiful baby it was torture with clumps of blood clots. My legs shook. I wept. It was over within the hour.

Did I lose them both? Are both my babies gone? My legs trembled as I tried to stand. I looked down at the crimson bowl and forced myself to forget that a part of me was about to be disposed of by the most heinous means, in the sewer. My hand shook when I touched the lever that flushed the toilet. Neal can’t see this. I pressed the lever down and stumbled back into the wall. I can still be pregnant. I can still have a viable embryo. I touched my stomach and kept my hand there to protect it. As best I could with one hand I cleaned myself and crawled into bed.

Neal came home to find me in bed. He climbed onto the bed and lay next to me bringing me into his embrace. He knew. I didn’t have to tell him details.“Are you okay?”

I nodded into his chest. My body shook with grief.

It took a few days for the bleeding to slow and then stop. My two week appointment was a few days away. I stayed in bed and prayed and hoped a baby remained.

In Dr. Baker’s office we stared at the blank ultrasound screen waiting for the result before it was turned on. Neal had my hand in a death grip and I couldn’t help but hold my breath. Dr. Baker rubbed the jelly over my stomach and the screen came to life. There, as big as a grapefruit, was the circle and inside was something the size of a peanut with a small flutter.

“Congratulations.” Dr. Baker smiled. “What you see is a very healthy baby and one fine looking heartbeat.”

Our baby survived.

Neal made a sound like a balloon letting out air. “Thank you, Jesus.”

Content to focus on the pregnancy I pushed the memory of what I’d experienced weeks before into the recesses of my mind. I couldn’t relive the moment of seeing a part of me as waste one second more. I had a life inside of me that needed my full attention.

The pregnancy went as expected with only a hitch or two such as above normal rapid weight gain and a surge of hormones that amplified my hostility, anger and rage. By my seventh month I gained forty pounds, my nose grew two inches in width and acne pocked my face, chest and back. The baby kicked and moved around so much I couldn’t find the right position to sleep. I was miserable.

I was in a state and everyone around me caught my wrath, including my beloved Rocky. The cute, loveable puppy that left unbelievable, but amusing messes was a pain in my side.

Two months before my September due date Rocky put me and my pregnancy in jeopardy. It was a scorching summer afternoon. I had on a tank top and maternity overalls cut off into shorts. I walked outside to feed the dogs and realized Rocky was nowhere to be found. “Rocky!”

I heard his bark but couldn’t find him. I called his name a few more times and heard him bark in response. I realized he had to be stuck somewhere so I put on some sandals and waddled around the corner to look for him.

Padlocked to a tree, Rocky had a chain wrapped tightly around his neck pushing his snout up against the tree trunk. All he could do was let out a bark. With his hind legs he tried to back away from the tree but he couldn’t get loose.

Fury coursed through my body and unleashed the pent up rage that waited for such a moment. I marched up to the front door of the neighbor’s house and incessantly rang the door bell. The door opened but the screen door stayed in place to separate me from this rotund middle-aged woman and her grown son who held a shotgun in his hands.

“What are you doing with my dog?” I was wild with rage and my face felt like it was on fire. I had no sense of restraint. The shotgun in my face didn’t phase me. I forgot I was pregnant. All I knew was an injustice was done and I needed to fight back. Later the shame came with the memory of living out a moment meant for the “Jerry Springer” show.

The woman jammed her finger at me and yelled with a deep Texas twang, “Ya dog keeps comin’ over her’ and diggin’ in ma yard. I’ve called the dog pound and he is stayin’ where he is till tha get her!”

I released a slew of expletives at the woman and her son and squeezed in, “That – is –my –dog- and- you- will- give – him – to – me – now!”

Our exchange would make any Jerry Springer or Maury Povich fan proud. In the end I stood next to two policemen in her front yard with a ticket in my hand and the dog pound unchaining Rocky from the tree.

I was ashamed. I was not brought up to behave in such a manner but this shame conflicted with the sweet release of fighting back, taking control, not letting down. It was not the right time, place, or behavior any counselor or psychologist would recommend. What it showed was that Fr. Richard was right…I was a ticking time bomb with hostility off the charts.

Five weeks later our little baby boy had grown so much that he broke my water and came into this world two and a half weeks early after eighteen hours of strenuous natural labor. I didn’t want an epidural. I wanted to be in control of the labor, of everything going on around me including the pain. My doctors wouldn’t let me deliver anywhere but at the hospital for possible complications with lupus but I still managed to have a doula (labor coach) to help guide me through the labor pains.

Neal Ryan Deitz II weighed 7 lbs 14 oz and 21 inches.