So long Hope

It had been a beautiful six months, if you have been following my journal, I know too well that pregnancy is such a special time that deserves every good thing—including good news. So bear with me as I relay to you the contrary; because you deserve an explanation as to why my journal has to stop here.

I got contractions that came and went on Wednesday. They felt like menstruation cramps. I went to see my gynaecologist who told me Roshikwa’s (what we called her before) head was near the cervix, and that I should slow down a bit on my walking. Actually I was recommended for bed rest.

Still, the following morning found me at work but I did not do any strenuous duty. I actually sat while performing official tasks. Regardless. I felt sharp pains again on the right side of my abdomen accompanied by an unusual feeling of wetness. I rushed to the washroom and noted that it was not pee. Could it be breaking of the amniotic fluid? I thought of that but brushed the whole idea off. One of my colleagues noted that I was not alright but I toned down the devastated feeling in my heart. I told her I had noticed a queer discharge. She has never been pregnant, and it was my first time so none of us thought much about it. The day progressed and I still stayed at work. Not wanting to cause concern and panic amongst m y colleagues. I did not report to anyone else or take a sick leave.

In the evening, I felt massively hungry and as I was going home. I passed by a fast food restaurant and indulged in some fries and chicken. I was about to clear my meal when I got my common first trimester tummy heave. My late lunch was cut short as I rushed to empty what I had taken. The next place I knew I need to be was in the security of my home and partner. So. heavy with disturbance and the anxiety that was building with every strange pain that was not leaving my side. I shuffled home—still hopeful of being fine that I turned down my hubby’s offer for a cab.

Then things were fine—fine enough for me to make dinner. But just before I served the drama checked in. Painful contractions hit again—this time so hard that I hard to sit down. The intense contractions now accompanied by cramp-like pains became more regular.

I called out for my husband who dashed in and carried me to the sitting room where my body realigned itself. Declining any encouragement to eat, he assisted me to bed. He made another plea for me —this time him doing the feeding. I cooperated out of courtesy—but ‘heave-heave’ and it was all out. Later on in the night we tried water, drinking chocolate and a series of other snacks, but it was the same ‘heave story. At a loss on what to do, he called his mother who showed up in no time and made us aware that I was in labour. At six months! No. I wailed inwardly.

My hubby grabbed whatever necessity we would need. Off we were to the hospital. On arrival, the nurse took my details and did the pelvic examinations. She then rudely said. ‘There is no need to wait. If the labour has started this early, at six months, the baby is dead.’ This time my hubby and I lost it and broke down. Who were they to predict my baby’s death? Though my angel was coming early, I had the conviction that she was capable of fighting through. Special thoughts aside, I now needed a good doctor to help me deliver well. He showed up after my hubby’s frantic requests for him, which gave my hubby peace of mind to leave for home—now that the delivery had to take place the next day.

At the labour ward, women were the usual wailing apex and somehow I felt envious that they were battling for a worthy cause—alive and healthy babies. A nurse was to come check my foetal heartbeat, but she walked past me. I could see her mind—that my labour was a futile one.

As I was wallowing through my gloom, some pain shot through so hard making me feel deaf and dumb altogether. I managed a faint noise to call for attention, which was gratefully responded to by another nurse. She held my hand and guided me to the examination room where they checked my pelvis. She then directed me to the delivery room. This time I wanted to run knowing I was finally going to meet my Roshikwa. I remember seeing two other ladies writhing away. I interrupted the doctor’s attention demanding for a CS. The doctor could not help smiling. There was a little chuckle—I suppose to make me calm down—and in the process earned the nickname, code red. Some of the few warm moments.

Moments later, it was the big urge to visit the rest room. But the doctor motioned me to lie back saying it was the baby. You can bet that I gathered all my strength to push. In three counts, my baby girl was out. wailing! 6.45 am I remember. The cry was beautiful, to say the least and shocking at the same time—my baby was alive! The doctor told me she had to be in the incubator for a while as her lungs had not fully developed. I was elated that anyway, the baby girl was alive.

My hubby who had been all along mourning came back to the hospital at 10 am—to be met by different news. Immediately, our initially agreed name, Shanikwa, was done away with and he called her Hope—considering all of what we had gone through. He was shown to the nursery to see her and he came back awed, declaring that I had given him the most beautiful baby in this world. The wind soon caught up with our relatives and congratulatory messages and gestures were streaming in.

The next day, Friday, after watching her feed on my breast-milk through pipes— as she was too young to suckle, she slept,

I went back to the ward to catch up with my rest. After a while, there was this agitation that did propel me back to the nursery, where I found the doctor putting an oxygen mask over her. My hubby quickly responded to my paranoid call. The doctor, however, assured us that the baby needed aid once in a while. That calmed us. Saturday went by peacefully. Sunday morning was perfect. I was bubbly—even engaging in the motherly chit chat with the other two women in our ward. Over lunch hour my hubby brought in a trail of family members— my grandparents included. It was all bonding and blessing talk on Hope till evening.

After seeing everyone off. I went to my favourite part of the hospital—of course the nursery. To my surprise I saw something reddish on Hope’s nostrils. I wiped it off, only for more to ooze out. Blood. I tried and kept my calm as l called a nurse who came and removed her oxygen mask and cleaned her up. While she was doing that, I could see Hope going numb. I started praying, asking God to give me time with her—at least tell her how much I loved her. She opened her eyes and smiled at me. I kissed her forehead and whispered that I love her and would take good care of her. She became alright but then had irregular breathing from then on.

At around 7pm, when I went in with the nurse for the regular check up. she reported that the heartbeat was missing. She shook her head, looked at me and shook her head once again. I cannot express grief that enveloped me. I went to her incubator and picked her. I hugged her, kissed her so hard and said over and over that I loved her. It is when I left the nursery that I experienced the normal grief. Allowing my tears to flow in acceptance of the loss.

Just as I was leaving the nursery, the woman whose baby slept on Hope’s left came in to check on her baby. She had died too. Then I learnt that even the other lady whose baby was on Hope’s right had passed on as well. I called my family and my husband who shared in the mourning. Her body was laid to rest the following day. Monday.

Fare thee well, Hope.

END:PG27/10-11