Worth the Pain

 

Worth the Pain is a descriptive account of my journey from teenager to motherhood and struggles that I have endured; overcoming domestic violence, surviving marital rape, and getting a handle of the anguish of six miscarriages. All the while, holding onto my faith in God and the belief that one day I would hold a promised child in my arms.

My story invites you into the heart of a splintered history, as I share each struggle with graphic true-to-life details. It is my hope that through each endeavor you find yourself feeling the raw emotion and enter into the psyche of a woman fighting to overcome her hardship and experience the dramatic rise to crescendo, as I persevere towards childbirth.

 

Worth The Pain  is available of Amazon! Or stop in and get a signed copy!

#6

Chapter 1

 

               “This wasn’t supposed to happen, again.” I cried grappling to my mom’s arm. “I thought this was over.” I curled into a ball on the hospital gurney, holding my belly as the tears cascaded out of my swollen red eyes and down my flush cheeks.

            Hooked up to tubes with IV’s, breathing apparatus and heart monitors, I was laying in a pre-surgical room waiting to be wheeled through the double doors and down the hall to a surgical room, in order to have yet another D&C. I was having another miscarriage!

            I couldn’t believe I was back in this place, again. The taste of vomit started to rise up in my mouth. A ball of devastated emotion sat in my throat. Boogers and tears now covered my face. My husband, standing by my side, trying with all his might to comfort me. He rubbed my back; his hands were warm and tender. He leaned down and attempted to hand me a tissue. I didn’t care what I looked like or how much snot was on my face. He wiped the tears from my eyes. All I could feel was the burning of my eyes and the aguish in my heart. I lost another baby. Lost? Like an unborn child is something you could misplace. 

            I didn’t notice the nurse step out from behind the curtain. Pulling it further open, “You ready?’ She asked.

            I didn’t respond.

            She stepped on the black pedal on the gurney, unlocking the break and putting it into motion. The thud of the breaks releasing made me jump, bringing me out of my own inner torment, and taking my breath away. “You ready,” she asked again.

            Another wave of tears streamed down my face. How can anyone be ready for this? How do you prepare to let a surgeon go into your uterus and separate you from the embryo that was supposed to grow inside of you? I was supposed to be that baby’s momma, protect it from the world. Now I’m letting the world go inside me with a scalpel and take away the life that meant everything to me.

            My mom kissed my hand that was still holding onto her. My chin quivered forcing my lower lip into a pout. “Momma, this wasn’t supposed to happen again.”

            “I know sweetie, I know.” Her voice cracked. I could tell she was fighting back her own tears. She wanted to be strong because I was so broken.

            My husband leaned down, kissing me on the cheek. I felt my tears squish between his dry lips and my tear-soaked face. “I’m not going anywhere.” He said. I looked into his eyes; he was hurting too.  I could tell he was scared. He had vowed to take care of me “in sickness and in health” and this was out of his control. He could do nothing to save me or our baby.

            The gurney moved forward, catching the curtain on the way by on the edge on the bed. The nurse kept moving forward anyways. I watched as it glided all the way along the side of the bed. It balled up like dirty laundry, then pushed into itself and folded like an accordion as the rings scraped along the top of the curtain rod. I focused on the curtain because in that moment, in that hospital, that curtain was my barrier. The last barrier I had between me and the impending shadow that lays behind it. As the last drape of fabric fell off the metal rail on the side of the bed, I took a deep breath and rolled back onto my back. I was accepting that I had no other option than to just go with it. I was on autopilot and some other force was in control of my situation and I had to give in to it.

            I felt another bang as the foot of the bed pushed into to double doors revealing the surgical room. I followed the orders of the surgical team. I moved from the familiarity of the gurney to a cold metal surgical slab. All the noises around me began to fade. My mind was going numb. Separating myself from this wretched place. Disguising the possibility of clear memories, my gaze went hazy. I could hear voices but had no idea what they were saying. It was as if I was part of Charlie Brown and his teacher spoke in a muffled incoherent utterance.

            I laid on the slab looking up at the surgical lights, hoping to feel a warmth from their glow. Getting nothing. Someone spoke again. I didn’t know they were talking to me until they touched me, getting my attention. I flinched. It was the anesthesiologist. He asked me to count backwards from 10. Then he places a mask over my face.

            I inhaled the chemicals, feeling more light headed and separated more from myself and my thoughts. I was fading fast with each breath, every number I said. The last thing I remember is a single tear dripping from my eye.

And I was out.

 

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