Fighting for Our Lives

“Laura,” the doctor said as I laid there feeling yet another cramp, “we do not see a fetus on the ultrasound. We have to do a procedure to clean out your uterus, it's called a D&C, and will help end your agony.”

I shook my head, “You will not touch me!”

The doctor retreated a step or two from the side of my bed as my voice rose, “You're an ass! Get another doctor, I want another opinion. You tried to kill my first born, I'll have no one with the likes of you knocking me out and messing around in there.”

His eyes grew wide and I grabbed at my stomach as yet another cramp led through me.

My husband spoke up, “I'm sorry, doctor, but she is pretty emotional, her grandmother passed away today.”

The doctor's shoulders slumped, “Laura, I'm the only doctor on duty that takes your insurance.”

“Then I'll wait. Can we schedule the procedure for a day when a competent doctor that takes my insurance is available?”

Turning toward my husband the doctor requested that he step into the hall to speak “privately.”

I watched through the glass as Darrin, Sr and the doctor spoke; Darrin's shoulders seemed to slump, even with Darrin, Jr (just three months old) in his arms.

Returning to my bedside my husband was quiet. “What did he say?” I asked.

“He is sending in a nurse and another doctor to speak with us. He said that you should have some medication to calm you down … considering ...”

“Considering what?” I screamed, “Medication is not going to change the fact that he is incompetent and is the reason that our son had seizures at birth!”

Two females entered the room, “Hi, my name is Dr. DeJohn,” the taller of the two said, as the other one held out a small white cup with a pill in it.

“Hello,” I averted her gaze as best as I could, but she was persistent. “I'm not taking any medication, I'm pregnant and I don't want any thing affecting my child.”

The doctor's gaze faltered for a second, “Laura, you are not pregnant. When you gave birth to your son a part of the placenta must have torn off. It is coming loose now and if you don't have surgery to remove it you will hemorrhage and quite possibly die.”

“No, I took a home pregnancy test, it was positive, I am not having surgery to abort this child.”

“Laura, you have to, your son needs you, if you don't do this then there is a good chance that you won't survive. The test was positive because it measures the HCG levels in your blood, you still have some of the hormones from your first pregnancy.”

I looked at Darrin, Jr. He needs me, I can't believe this, but I have to. “I need time, and I don't want that other doctor to do the procedure! Can we please schedule this for another day?”

Shaking her head, Dr. DeJohn said, “Laura, if we don't do this soon you may not survive.”

I shook my head in return, “I need time, I need to think about this. Please, can we schedule it when there is someone that takes my insurance?”

“We should keep you here until that time, just in case the piece breaks loose.”

“NO! I want out of here, and I want out right now!”

Dr. DeJohn took out her prescription pad, “Okay, if you leave here today, you are leaving against my judgment. We can not be responsible if something should happen. We can schedule you to have a D&C on Monday, but that is two days that anything can happen. I want you to have this script filled, take it twice a day.”

As she handed me the small paper I saw in her tight scrawl that it said, “Ativan.”

“What's this?” I asked.

“It's just something to help calm you, it won't hurt you.”

“But, will it hurt my child?” I questioned, rubbing my stomach.

“Laura, there is not a fetus, the ultrasound showed us that.”

My face tightened and I opened my mouth as my husband put his hand on my shoulder, I heard him whisper, “Stay calm.” Instead of yelling at the doctor, I calmly said, “Okay.”

With disregard for the doctor's wishes I signed voluntary discharge papers, and as I did I took special pains to note the date, Saturday, April 16, 1993, the day I lost my grandmother and my second born. I wondered how God could be so cruel as reality set in.

#

“Laura,” my mom gently called as she woke me, “come on, it's time to get up so you can get to the hospital.”

My tear soaked pillow couldn't hold another drop, but I let them fall from my sleepy eyes anyway. “Okay, ugh, Mom, I don't want to do this.”

She sat on the edge of my bed, I know, but Darrin, Jr needs his mommy, you have to do this so that nothing happens to you.”

I rolled over and nudged my husband awake and prepared for this horrible trip. I knew, if I hadn't lost my baby on Saturday, I certainly would lose this child today. The only surety I had by waiting two days is that a competent doctor would be handling my procedure.

Mom dropped Darrin, Jr., Darrin, Sr., and I off at the hospital and returned home to wait for our phone call. The three of us sat in a waiting area with glass rooms all around a nurses station. Each room was another step in the procedure, another step closer to God's fate.

“Laura,” a receptionist called my name and I approached her. As she verified my basic information I repeatedly asked which doctor would be doing the D&C, but she said she wasn't sure and sent me on to have my vitals checked.

The nurse reported that my vitals were good and I was almost ready for the procedure, “Ma'am,” I asked, “who will be doing this surgery?”

“I'm not sure,” she said, leafing through the paperwork; and she sent me on to the next room.

At each stop I was told that no one knew who the attending doctor would be. Then we met with the anesthesiologist; again, I asked the question.

His answer was horrific, “No, not that doctor, any doctor but him!” I shouted. Forcing heads to turn my way.

“Ma'am,” I turned toward the voice, and there stood the doctor that had caused my first born child to have seizures at birth.

“Get away from me, you won't touch me ever again. Do you understand?”

As the doctor stepped away I asked for a phone and pulled my insurance card from my wallet. They helped me locate a doctor about 15 miles away that took my insurance. I immediately called and requested an emergency appointment.

“Let's go,” I yelled at Darrin, Sr., “there's no way I'm letting that jerk knock me out and take our child!”

I scurried to a payphone and we patiently waited from Mom to return to the hospital and take us to the next doctor.

At the next doctor's office the nurse asked me for my insurance card, she hesitated for a moment, “We no longer take this insurance.”

We returned to Mom's car, I was heart-broken that Darrin, Jr. may lose his mother, but elated that we wouldn't lose a child, not today anyway.

#

Returning home I scoured the insurance paperwork until I found a doctor that took my insurance and made an appointment at a women's clinic in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, about 20 miles away.

Reporting to the appointment they did bloodwork, “Ma'am, your HCG level seems to be falling, this implies that you had a spontaneous abortion.”

“Abortion?” my 19 year old mind was reeling from this information. “I assure you I did not have an abortion!”

The nurse was bewildered by my reaction, “No, that is the technical term for miscarriage, it appears you have already lost your child.”

“No, no,” again tears shed, “I couldn't have lost this baby, I just couldn't have!”

“We will send you across the street for an ultrasound to confirm it, but I'm sorry, the numbers are rarely wrong.”

The ultrasound was scheduled for Wednesday, so Mom, my husband, son, and I returned home with anticipation for real results tomorrow.

#

Returning to the Philadelphia hospital on Wednesday I waited with a full bladder for the word of truth of what was going on.

“I'm sorry, Laura,” the receptionist said, “I can't find you on the schedule.”

“I have to be, I watched you write my name in yesterday!” my voice was rising again.

Her supervisor checked as well, but my name wasn't there.

For the third time this week I returned home with no answers about what was going on with my body, or my baby; if there was one.

As we walked in the front door the phone rang, “Hello?” I questioned.

“Hello, may I please speak with Laura?”

“This is she,” I responded.

“Laura, this is the women's clinic, I'm calling to confirm your ultrasound appointment for tomorrow.”

I began to yell at her, “You people told me that was today, I just got home from there, and they couldn't find me on the schedule! I can't come tomorrow, I'm done, don't ever call me again!” I slammed the phone onto its cradle.

“I give up,” I told Mom and Darrin, Sr., “let God do as he wishes. Either I die, or I pass whatever is in there and I am okay, but I can't take this stress anymore.”

#

July 20, 1993 my cramps were unbearable and I was scared, my body had been reacting as if I were pregnant, but my oldest was only six months old, I knew it was too soon to be having a second child; chances were good that I would hemorrhage today. Holding my son close to me in a desperate bid for continued life with him I called out for my husband.

“Darrin, this is bad, get me to the hospital!”

We went to yet another hospital, in hopes that we could find a trusting, honest doctor. First, they wanted an emergency ultrasound.

“Ma'am, you have a healthy baby boy in your womb,” the radiologist announced.

For the first time in three months I shed happy tears as I reached for Darrin, Jr., “You're going to be a big brother, Bud!”

#

November 28, 1993, Darrin, Jr., was 10 months and 8 days old when his brother, Michael, joined our family, a full four weeks early. Although Michael and I had only one doctor's visit, this was a serious lack of prenatal care, he was 6 pounds 2 ounces and healthy in every way imaginable.

#

I never was one much for ignoring doctor's orders, but in this case, with God's help, I knew best!