I never thought I would see her again and didn’t
want to. I wanted to forget that awful night in the OR, but it seemed that I
wasn’t meant to forget. And I couldn’t seem to block the horrible memory’s that
came rushing back when I looked into her eyes. She lay on a mat underneath a
tree at the nutrition center. I could
hardly tell it was her, she was skin and bones with eyes so big they seemed to
jump out of her face. But in that those
eyes I saw the pain, the sadness and the hopelessness that I know she feels. I know how she feels because I was there two
months ago in the OR, and felt her pain.
When I first got here I worked nights in maternity
delivering babies. It was exciting and
scary experience. I don’t remember when she came in, but I remember it was soon
after I got to work around 2100. She
came in after laboring at home for a couple days and not delivering. We listened but couldn’t find a fetal heart
rate, so the physician was called. After
confirming the baby was indeed dead it was decided that we would use the
forceps to deliver the dead fetus. What
should have been a quick procedure turned into a couple of hours.
I can’t and
don’t really want to put to words what I saw.
It was a traumatic experience for everyone there. There were two
physicians, two nurses, and a dentist in the room. I was monitoring the IV and holding her left
leg up. The other nurse was holding her
other leg while the dentist was handing out supplies while the two physicians
tried to pull the dead fetus out. But
the fetus wouldn’t come. No matter how
much they pulled or tried to rotate the head the fetus would not move. The head was too big for the birth canal, so
it was decided that the fetus head would have to get smaller. The only way to do that was to make an
incision into the fetus head and drain out some of the fluid and brain tissue. There was so much blood. After the incision was made I watched as
white particles I can only guess that was brain matter start to mix with the
blood splattered on the cement floor.
Even after the fetus head was made smaller, it was difficult getting the
fetus out. It was a hot and sticky
night, but standing under the bright lights of the OR made us all sweat profusely. Soon we were all drenched in our own
sweat. I am not one to become squeamish
from the sight of blood, but I had never seen so much blood. It covered the cement floor at the end of the
operating table. Blood covered the physicians’
feet and was soon splattered on mine. I began to feel light headed and
nauseated. I was so hot and sweaty. Sweat was running down my face and neck. When
I couldn’t take the sight of all the blood, I would turn and look at her face
as she lay there on the table. I could
tell she was sad, exhausted and in pain, both physically and emotionally. With one had holding her leg up I reached up
and grabbed her hand. I wanted her to
know how sorry I was, and that she wasn’t alone. I tried to share that all by
holding her hand in mine.
Finally the dead fetus was delivered. It was a little baby boy. The father came in with a cardboard box and took
the baby away. The next hour was spent
trying to stop the bleeding. There was
so much blood on the ground that it began to make a stream and flow into a
drain in the cement floor. At one point
I had to step outside. I knew that if I stayed a moment longer I would either faint
or star crying. I was so light headed, and even blinking furiously didn’t clear
the moisture from my eyes. After five minutes I dried my eyes, splashed water
onto my face and neck and walked back in.
The physicians got the blood stopped and she was
moved to the maternity floor. I always
feel bad for the mothers who have lost their babies that are put on the open
maternity floor. There they lay in bed
surrounded by other moms with babies in their arms when they have none.
I left work that next morning in a haze. The scene in the OR running through my head,
over and over again. I couldn’t seem to
stop the images that appeared or the look in her eyes as she lay on the
operating table. When I got back to the
Roberts house everyone was eating breakfast.
I couldn’t eat, and instead went to take a shower and go to bed. I couldn’t stop the tears from coming, and
cried myself to sleep. I didn’t even
know her name, but I wanted to try and forget her.
But two months later here I was staring at the face
of the women on the operating table. As she looks at me I briefly wonder if she
recognizes me. If she does she does she
doesn’t show it. Her name is Merci,
which means “thank you” in French. I am
told that after her baby died, the horrible birth that I witnessed that she
went home and didn’t eat. No one knows
if she chooses to not eat or if for some reason her family wouldn’t feed
her. But she was brought to the
nutrition center to regain her weight.
She looks like a Holocaust victim, a skeleton brought to life. As I help hold her head up while I feed her,
I tell her in English how sorry I am and that I am praying for her. I know that
she can’t understand me, but I feel better saying the words out loud. I grab her hand and give it a squeeze, and
once again my mind wonders back to that horrible night in the OR. But this time I don’t block the memories, or
try and forget. And that’s when I realize I wasn’t meant to forget, but in some
small way contribute to helping her heal. I give her hand another squeeze wanting
her to know that she is not alone, as we continue to sit together on the grass
mat under the big tree enjoying the sun and the cool breeze.
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