Before We Go On

Two Hours, Another ER visit, and A Prayer

Before we go on,

a disclaimer on memory and story

There are parts of my story I remember vividly. I recall exactly how my body felt, the smells of the rooms I waited in, and what I ate on particular days.

There are other things—significant things—I don’t remember at all.

I don’t know how many times I went to the emergency room with the unidentified abdominal pain. I’m sure I could track down those medical records, but that’s missing the point.

I can’t recall where my son was or who he was with at every turn. For my story, it doesn’t matter that someone made child care arrangements, but that a community of people took care of my son when I couldn’t.

My husband doesn’t appear in all the memories either. I remember devastating loneliness, though I’m sure he was right beside me. He knew about the physical pain, pregnancies, and losses, and certainly experienced his own fear and grief, but he didn’t experience morning sickness or swollen breasts. He didn’t feel the contractions of miscarriage.

What I’m saying, reader, is please don’t mistake this story for a medical report or journalistic expose. I’m not setting any facts straight. If anything, I’m setting them crooked.

I’m attempting to make meaning of an experience and put a final period on this chapter of my story. Which is to say, I’m only giving you a slice of what happened, as I remember it, from where I was standing. My story is limited by perspective, warped by memory, and colored by grief.

I offer it to others here who might find hope or healing in the sharing.

My paid content is more access to my life than I’m willing to offer every human, troll, and busybody with the Internet. People don’t usually pay a fee to be mean. If you can show your appreciation for my work financially, I’m super grateful. If Substack subscriptions aren’t in your budget, send me a message, and I’ll get you on the list. Assuming you won’t be mean.

Two Hours

A few weeks after my visit to Dr. L, two of my university students came to Lubbock to help me conduct focus group interviews. I’d received a grant to study parent communication in schools with the help of undergraduate research assistants. The young women would arrive in time to share a meal and review our interview protocols before meeting the research participants.

As they headed west on highway 84, my pain returned. The same pain I’d felt on the floor of Julie’s office. Again, I hoped it was only menstrual cramps, but this time I knew better.

Over the next hour, the pain got worse. Knowing it wasn’t my appendix and having been told there was nothing worrisome about the uterine fibroid, I chose to power through. I called my students and told them to eat on their own and I’d meet them for the interviews. I took more ibuprofen and tried to rest.

When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I got dressed and drove to the interview site. By the time I arrived, I knew I wouldn’t be able to lead the interviews. I rested my head against my arms on the steering wheel and sorted through my options. Research with “human subjects” requires stating up front exactly what you’re going to do and then sticking to that plan, so my options were limited. The students could take the lead, but I had to be present. I thought of how we might shorten the interviews without qualitatively changing them.

I only needed two hours. Long enough to get a usable data set. I steeled myself and put on a welcoming face. I could do two hours.

I stepped out of the car and gasped as an invisible hand wrenched my core. I doubled over, then dropped to a squatting position, bracing myself with my hands on the ground. I felt immediate physical relief at the same time the hard truth hit me. I couldn’t make it through two hours. I couldn’t even drive myself home.

My students saw me. These remarkable young ladies came to my side, ready to assist with far more than research. Between the three of us, on the ground of that parking lot, we planned how to communicate the focus group cancelation, get my car back home, and get me to the emergency room.

Another ER Visit

I don’t remember the details, but I know my husband was with me at the ER this time. Another exam, another CT scan, more pain medication.

The doctor came in, grim-faced. He was a gray-haired man who led with his paunch. The leathered, rough texture of his skin made me think he’d lived in West Texas most of his life.

He spoke to my husband. “She needs a hysterectomy and sooner rather than later.”

Then he looked at me and said, “There’s so much going on in there, it’s just a mess.”

It sounded like an accusation. As though I’d let my uterus get untidy and hadn’t got around to cleaning it up.

He said other things, but I couldn’t hear him as devastation pulled me under.

I was leaving my full-time teaching job after the semester I could have applied for tenure and promotion. I was supposed to stay home with a baby.

Instead, I needed a hysterectomy. I would never be pregnant again.

I fell apart.

A Prayer

Not my husband. He doesn’t roll like that. He can be a scattered mess, but when it all hits the fan, he gets laser focused and makes things happen. Dr. L had given me his cell number. Had he believed I might really call? I probably wouldn’t have, not back then. But when my husband asked me for his number, I gave it to him.

He called from the emergency room on that Saturday night, and Dr. L answered. On a Saturday night.

He reported exactly what the ER doctor said, but I heard the misdirected accusation in his tone. She was just in your office and you didn’t notice she needs a hysterectomy? It’s your fault my wife is in so much pain.

Through the speakerphone, I could hear in Dr. L’s icy tone that he was furious. Not at my husband, but at the ER doc. “You tell him not to touch her. Call the office Monday morning, and I’ll see her next week.” Dr. L asked to speak to me and when my husband handed me the phone, his tone changed. He explained that ER doctors are generalists, not specialists, and assured me I did not need a hysterectomy now or anytime soon. Finally, he asked if he could say a prayer for us.

I started breathing again.