I’d finally agreed to an ultrasound. Corona fever was dying down, I could let myself out of the house. And I was excited to see our baby. When I walked into the doctor’s office, I’d almost forgotten about the frightening orange stain I’d noticed earlier that day. I’d almost forgotten to pray that our baby was okay while waiting. I prayed that I would easily find my husband after the appointment was over. I’d lost my phone a few weeks previously and suspected our arranged plan of “I’ll meet you downstairs” might not pan out. I imagined proudly holding the ultrasound picture to my husband, both of us in awe, that through us G-d had created new life. In the end, neither of us even glanced at the picture.
The doctor looked nice, sounded nice, asked me questions that the secretary usually goes over. When she pressed the ultrasound piece against my abdomen, I worried something was amiss. Instead of staring me plainly in the face, the fetus was hard to find. She told me that the fetus was too small for 14 weeks. This she could deduce before even measuring. I took a deep breath, I thought I knew what this meant: genetic abnormality, genetic testing. But I could handle that. I mean, I’d been through that before, when they said Elisheva was too small. It didn’t mean there had to be an abnormality. Then she said, there’s no heartbeat. I didn’t know what to think. “There’s two,” she said. I knew it. I’d told my husband weeks before, I think there’s twins. When I’d prayed, I said, G-d let our child, or our children be healthy. She confirmed that neither of them had a heartbeat. Apparently with this type of twin, when one dies, usually the other one dies too. My husband walked in just as as the ultrasound ended. On our way back home, we followed a truck, which said America, in Hebrew letters. In Hebrew, America can mean the United States, or “empty mother.”
I thought her terribly apathetic. Sure, she said “I’m very sorry.” But she didn’t cry. Her voice didn’t break. I couldn’t imagine her returning home, sighing to her significant other that her last patient had been a twin miscarriage. I guess, just like everyone else, when you see something too often, it doesn’t phase you.
In hindsight, I appreciate her attempt to break the news gently. Though she conceivably immediately identified dead twins, she divulged the information bit by bit, lessening the shock.
I’d arranged to have a D&C with Dr. Carmel, the doctor who had delivered my two VBAC babies. She’s intimidating. But good. In skill and in heart and in faith. In maayanie hayeshua, the hospital of the ultra orthodox, there are, thank G-d, many pregnant women. But, it can be hard to see all those women, carrying life, when you are carrying death. I tried not to look at them. Not for my sake. But theirs. In Judaism, there is a concept of ayin hara, an evil eye. When you see something that you want, but isn’t yours, when you are jealous, you are sending that person’s file before the heavenly tribune. And that person is checked, to see if they deserve whatever it is they have that is being coveted by another. If they are found lacking in good deeds, or guilty of misdeeds, they may be judged immediately, and lose something precious.
I did not want to be responsible for making any of these holy mothers lose anything precious.
Dr. Carmel confirmed the miscarriage and told me I could have the D&C whenever I would like. The sooner the better, I thought. The sooner to move on. The sooner to begin grieving, to healing. The dialation is begun by placing small sticks made of seaweed into the cervix. No really. It isn’t painful, but certainly uncomfortable. Next, cytotec is given, two tablets dissolved under the tongue. Contractions begin, and waiting commences, until the operating room is available. All of this discomfort, to do something I didn’t want to do. I felt annoyed. What did I do wrong? I’d just wanted a baby. A larger family. Another person to love, to take care of. Another embodiment of love between my husband and I. Another person to raise in the path of Torah.
Instead, I had a womb full of lifeless material. And a medical obligation to surgically remove the lifeless matter. Go to the hospital, induce contractions, the kind you’re supposed to have before you’re greeted by a baby, not to mention hungry and dressed in a most precarious of ways (would it be so dangerous to have gowns that at least velcro down the back?), resume normal life all while desiring to lie in bed and mourn my loss.
I sat curled in a warm hospital blanket, waiting to be wheeled into the OR, waiting for the solace from these damned contractions, repeatedly confirming my name, identification number and allergies. In a day of uncertainty, a day of grieving, a day of suffering, Dr. Carmel looked at me and asked, “Did your children inherit your beautiful blue eyes?” My eyes are blue, but not the bright blue that grabs your attention as you glance at someone. They’re a kind of blue that you wouldn’t call blue unless you were really looking. She didn’t just ask, she waited to hear the answer. I think it is always refreshing to have one’s humanity recognized in a medical setting.
I knew it was a childish thought, but I thought it nonetheless. Why me? What about all the chiloni women? Or the women professing their faith in a false god, committing idolatry? What about the patient who’d walked out with her husband. With a belly, and chipper. With a short skirt and no hair covering in sight? Why did she get to have a healthy baby and not me? Where’s my compensation for my full hair covering, my loose fitting modestly colored clothes? I can’t answer these questions, and I think it’s wrong of me to ask. There’s so much information missing. I know nothing about her, her life, her experiences, her struggles. Who am I to judge her?
Am I more merciful than G-d? It just felt so hard to trust Him. How could He? How would I ever trust Him again? After He let me become pregnant with twins! Twin boys! And then take them away? So secretively! I wouldn’t have even known anything was wrong.
Gratefully Thriving 