by Brock, V. L.
After sliding her into the passenger seat, I slam the door shut. I am overrun by terror and agitation. I’m expecting to wake up and in a cold sweat and screaming––I hope I wake up in a cold sweat and screaming. I jog around the front of the car, open my door and slide in.
Leaning over the console, Samantha writhes again as I buckle her seatbelt. I place my hand on her knee offering a reassuring squeeze. The muscle in her legs tensing as she’s inundated by the wave of pain.
Securing my own seatbelt, I press the ignition, along with my foot to the floor, and head south to San Francisco General.
Please, Rose, please be okay. God, if you are listening, please don’t do this, please…
It’s 1:58 a.m., and I am grateful for how desolate the streets of San Francisco are at this time. I run two red lights, but to be honest, I wouldn’t think twice about knocking down anyone who was in my way. Within eleven minutes, we pull up at the entrance of SFGH.
Slamming the door shut behind me, I dart around to Samantha’s side, scoop her into my arms and rush under the teal colored awning into reception.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist asks, fiddling with her glasses which hang from a chain around her neck.
“My fiancée, she’s seventeen weeks pregnant, and she’s bleeding…a lot.”
Sam’s grip around my neck tightens as does the remainder of her body as she begins to whimper and gasp.
“You need the birthing center, sixth floor; the elevators are just to the side,” she points around the corner and offers a hopeful grin.
“Thank you.” I make a beeline to the bank of elevators, hoping and praying that I can maintain the pretence of my composure, for Samantha’s sake.
Six floors higher, we approach another reception area, the nurses and midwives wear dark navy with white-trimmed coveralls.
“Please,” I gasp and two of the women turn in unison to face me, “my partner is seventeen weeks pregnant, and she’s started bleeding heavily, and she’s in a lot of pain,” my pretence slips, my voice breaks while my bottom lip trembles and tears sting my eyes.
“And the name, please,” the woman tucks something into her overall pocket.
“Samantha Kennedy.”
“Have she taken any pain relief?”
“No. She woke up in agony, and––”
“How much blood would you say she has lost?”
“A lot––please, you have to help her.”
She nods. “If you will follow me please, sir.” She escorts us to a private examination room down the narrow hallway.
The examination table is the first thing I see, as the door is opened at the foot of the bed. The room is basic, with white walls and a black tiled floor. A sonogram machine is to the left of it, and a washbasin and unit along the right wall.
“If you pop her onto the table,” she gestures to the frame and rolls the trackball on the machine. “Samantha, on a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you experiencing, lovely?” the woman’s voice is loud and clear, as if she is trying to gain any attention Samantha can muster over the pain.
“Twenty.”
“Okay. I will get you some pain relief, I need your top up and pants lowered, please.” She meanders around us to the unit along the right wall. She opens a cabinet in the corner, overhead the basin. Popping out a small, white pill, she places it in a tiny plastic cap, and fills a plastic cup with water.
Please, let them both be okay.
I roll up Sam’s camisole and draw the elastic waistline of her gray sweats down over her bump, to her pubic bone, while the woman hands Samantha the tablet. She knocks it back without a second thought.
“Hayden,” her voice is small and weighted with fear. She peeks up at me, holding my hand forcefully as her lip quivers. “I’m scared.”
Lowering myself, I kiss her hairline. “It’s okay. I’m right here. We will find out what’s happening, and if it is something, we’re in the right place. They will do everything they can to stop it,” I strive to uphold my positivity, and grant a small, tightlipped, concerned smile.
She jolts momentarily as the woman squeezes the gel onto her abdomen, followed by the probe. She rolls it back-and-forth along Samantha’s growing belly. We watch vigilantly as the image of Rose appears on the screen; her head, her belly. She moves the probe again and the image morphs and I discern the tiny collection of bones of her spine which looks like a string of pearls.
The middle-aged woman glances at us, briefly grins before inspecting the screen again. Samantha’s grip on my hand tightens when she peeks up at me. “It’s okay,” I mouth. And we both focus on the monitor again.
“Well? Is the baby okay?” I enquire, breaking the deafening silence while pleading for hopeful news.
She hangs her head ephemerally then returns our gaze with a contrite expression. “I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, “but there’s no heartbeat.”
I shake my head rapidly. “No, no you got to be wrong. Check it again.”
“I’m sorry––”
“Check it again!” I bark my demand.
Abounded with regret, the woman hangs her head.
I return my focus to Samantha, who’s distorted through my own accumulation tears. Her chest is heaving, her eyes swimming. “No, no, no, no. Not my baby, please. Not my baby.” She leans into me, and I enfold her in my arms, allowing her the freedom and support to wail uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry. I will give you a moment.” The bearer of bad news dismisses herself from the room in silence.
“This can’t be happening, Hayden. Everything has been going so well. Why did this happen?” She cries into my neck.
I brush my hand up and down the length of her spine. What do I say? I’m lost in an assemblage of confusion, anguish, helplessness. I pray with everything I am, that I will wake from this nightmare, yet, I still remain next to Samantha as she weeps in my arms in the austerity of the hospital room.
“What did I do wrong?” She squeaks through the lump in her throat. I stroke my fingers along her scalp, tip my head back and look up at the white tiled ceiling. Knowing she cannot see me, I allow the tears that have been constraining against my barrage, to fall unashamed down my face.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Sam,” I sniffle.
Constricting the grip of her embrace around me, she buries her face further into the crook of my neck. “I must have, otherwise we wouldn’t be here now.”
Our moment is cut short by a tiny tap on the room door. Before we can grant access, a different woman in her late-thirties strolls into the room. She draws a chair up in front of us and takes a seat.
“I am truly sorry for your loss,” she murmurs with palpable sympathy shrouding her words. “My name is Janna. I know you’re both still in shock, but we need to discuss your options.”
“Options?” I glower, pulling away from Samantha, but letting her head rest peacefully on my shoulder. I encircle my left arm around her. “What options?”
Janna licks her lips and radiates rueful intention. “We can fit Samantha with an osmotic dilator placement––”
I shake my head not understanding a word this woman is saying, I don’t even know what these options are she was mentioning. “A what?” I breathe.
“It is similar to a tampon; it will swell and help dila––”
“Let me stop you right there. It has barely been fifteen minutes since we were told that our baby doesn’t have a heartbeat. We haven’t even begun to process this yet, and you come in here, and instantly start talking about how you want to––”
“I know it seems inconsiderate and uncaring, I understand that fully, Mr. Wentworth. But it will eliminate any risk of infection, as well as helping to progress through the grieving period, if it’s done sooner.”
I fall silent for what seems like a lifetime. Samantha’s sobbing wans, until only the irregular sounds of her struggled breaths and bouncing of her shoulders vibrates against my immobilized form. I focus on the white strips betw
een each tile on the flooring.
“What are the options?”
Janna gives brief details about each of the routes that are applicable to us. “We will give a moderate sedation––”
“No, this procedure is not a conscious decision. Money is no object. If she is to have this procedure, it has to be under full sedation. She is already going through one harrowing experience; I am not having her experience that,” licking my lips, I taste the salt from my fallen tears.
Janna nods her head understandably.
I shift and Samantha lifts her head off my shoulder. Hastily brushing my tear-streaks from my cheeks, I rest my hands on her thighs and sink to the floor in front of her.
“Sam,” I whisper. She stares at me vacantly, her expression impassive. Her cheeks are tearstained, she looks emotionally numb. “Samantha, baby, are you there?” I ask softly, as though talking to a child.
Her lips begin to tremble, her eyes fill with a wall of water as her face blotches. I know she is with me. Reaching up with my right hand, I tuck an auburn tendril behind her ear. I feel my sinuses burn and eyes sting as more tears threaten. But I keep them at bay…I have to keep them at bay.
“I know this isn’t the right time, baby. But which choice would you want to do?”
When her eyes find me, they are wide with palpable alarm. She vaguely shakes her head. “I don’t…” she whispers, her head shaking more forcefully, more insistently with grave determination. “I don’t…” she snaps, grief-stricken, before pushing herself from the bed and scampering out of the room.
With my elbows on my knees, I hang my head and the weight of the universe is ousted from my lungs in one simple breath. I heave myself up from my squatted position beside the bed. As I scurry past the dark-haired woman, she grasps my forearm.
“I am sorry. But this is something that needs to be done sooner, not purely to eliminate risk of infection, but she will need to grieve.”
“It’s easier said than done. I am sure you can appreciate that. Now if you will excuse me, I have to find my distraught partner.” I jerk my arm free of her grasp and rush out of the room, allowing the door to rebound off the wall and slam shut behind me.
“Samantha!” I peruse the length of the corridor, but there is no sign of her. “Samantha!” I repeat, pacing up the left side of the hallway. I cautiously knock the door of the restroom. “Samantha, are you in there?” When I am answered by silence, I hesitantly push the door open. Nothing but a vacant room stares back at me.
Fisting my hands through my hair, I rush down to the opposite end of the hallway to reception. As I ask the staff on duty if they have seen her, an additional woman who exits the elevator rounds the desk and overhears my description.
“There is a woman matching your depiction downstairs at the entrance.” She gathers her hair and pulls it back into a ponytail.
The confirmation that she hasn’t gone up to the roof to do something spontaneous in her distressed state, floods my veins with a form of relief. I turn on my heel and head for the elevator, muttering, “Thank you,” behind me.
As I enter the car, I faintly overhear the woman call, “She was by the flowerbed.”
Stepping through the automatic doors, the cool breeze of the early morning San Francisco air hits me unexpectedly and covers my body in goose bumps. In the actions and haste of the emergency I overlooked retrieving a jacket or sweater for either of us. Although the cold has a physical effect on my body, emotionally, I’m can barely feel it.
The overhead white lights of the awning shine brightly through the darkest hours of the night. An ambulance parks into the bay, just in front of the teal awning that states Hospital Main Entrance in bold, white lettering.
“Samantha!”
Following the sound of sniffling, I notice a shadow cast along the floor along the side wall corner that harbors an array of brightly colored flowers.
I move closer.
“Samantha?”
She sits on the solid, cold floor, her knees pulled in close to her body, her back resting against the pebbledash surface of the wall. Sinking down beside her, I encircle my left hand around her shoulders, and pull her into my side.
“I didn’t know where you were. I thought…” I halt my words. The last thing I want to do is plant that seed in her head.
Her shoulders vibrate as she succumbs to her grief. With my right hand, I push through her tresses, before holding her head against my chest and kiss her hair.
“You know, when I found out that I may be pregnant, I wished so hard that I wasn’t.” I kiss her head again then rest my chin in its place. “I know I’m being punished.”
I roll my eyes and blink back my tears. I must stay strong. I must stay strong.
“You’re not being punished, beautiful. Why would you think that? Punished for what?” I murmur gently, my voice cracking and breaking under the strain of my suppressed emotion.
“For living the life I have lived. Hayden, I don’t deserve children. The things I have seen, the things that I have had laden on me, my approach…” she gasps and I hear the whistle as the air passes through her teeth and the mass in her throat. “Any life unfortunate enough to have me as a mother would surely end up fucked up.”
With my chin still resting atop of her head, I screw my eyes shut. “No, Samantha. You stop that right now,” I chide then hold my breath, endeavoring to stop my voice from wavering, and my lower lip from trembling.
“It’s my fault. And now she’s gone. Our, Rose is gone and we didn’t even get the chance to hold her, or say goodbye.”
Sharing my body heat as she shivers against me, I pull her closer and hold her tight. She howls into my chest. And for a moment, I allow myself to feel all the pain, all the anguish and loss, and consider the impossible opportunities that we anticipated, but will now never experience with our daughter, and my face is soon flooded with warm salted streaks.
We rest in silence, just holding each other. I don’t know how long for, but I know it is time which we need to savor the period that we have left with our baby, before having to go back inside and…
Samantha outstretches her legs, crossing them at the ankles.
I splay my right hand onto her bump.
We didn’t even get the chance to meet you. But for the short few weeks that we knew you existed––that you were in there––we loved you. We loved you with everything we had. You will always be with us, Rose, always in our hearts. I love you, my gorgeous girl.
I silently say goodbye, before I have to walk Samantha back into the hospital, to do the most harrowing thing any woman could possibly endure.
It’s 4:18 p.m. Samantha and I have been sat in the recovery area for nearly an hour and a half. She’s silent, I don’t expect anything less. Motionless, she rests in the blue padded seat, staring blankly at the flooring in the center of the room as the light streams through the blinds of the window, casting light and shadow streaks on the ground.
Red, swollen eyes are narrowed into slits that hold so much pain, distress…numbness. She’s ashen, static. Her lips are pale, dried and cracked, yet she remains still, not even moving to open her mouth to rid herself of the parched, shriveling flesh. I study her chest as it gradually raises then drops with each shallow, unseen breath.
“Sam?” I murmur. She doesn’t respond she doesn’t even blink in her catatonic state. I try again, but there’s no life left.
She is completely taken.
“Mr. Wentworth?” I direct my focus towards the doorway where Janna stands just on the threshold.
I peek back at an unresponsive Samantha, push myself from the blue padded seat, and stroll towards the woman.
“Here are some pamphlets on what to expect. The bleeding will be heavy for about ten days and she will continue to experience cramping for the next few days.”
I take her proffered leaflets and drop my arms to my side. With a creased brow, I inhale deeply and open my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. Finding my voice, I try ag
ain.
“What…” pushing back the bitter taste in my throat, I force my eyes closed. “What can I do to help her?” My voice breaks, and as I open my eyes, twin tears are freed.
Her eyes blaze with empathetic assertions while her mouth forms a sad firm line. She places a hand on my forearm. “Just be there for her.”
I nod my head deliberately. She turns and disappears down the hall.
I feel impotent as I lower myself back into my seat next to Samantha. If I could take away her pain then I would, if I could take away only half, then it would be better than what she has to bear right now.
“Do you want a drink, Sam?” I offer tenderly. “I can get a coffee, or water?” I discern a faint shake of her head, as she continues staring absentminded at the center of the flooring in recovery. “Sam, what can I do, honey?” I move to place my left hand on her knee.
“Don’t…” she escapes from her inert state, and now glares at me with wide, terrified eyes. She shakes her head insistently.
Moving very slowly and guarded, I pull my hand away from her and rest it on my own thigh.
“Please, don’t touch me…” her face flushes, her lips curl and tears cascade as she sucks in rapid, grueling breaths. “Please, just don’t touch me.”
I feel what was left of my heart shatter into pieces. But it’s not me that matters, it’s Samantha, and if she doesn’t want me to touch her…then I won’t. All I am left to do, is sit at her side, while she gazes at me in unmasked fear, and merely nod my acquiescence.
Sniffling, I push my tears back. “Okay.”
Swimming in the deepened sea of mixed, conflicting emotions, I steer Samantha into the apartment. As I follow behind her, I shut the door carefully behind me, wishing to all the stars in the sky that as soon as I lock that door, everything over the past seventeen hours will be locked out with it.
Emptying my pockets, my keys clatter loudly as I place everything on the table to the right side of the door. Regardless of the thunderous sound through the stillness of the apartment, Samantha remains unmoved, unresponsive as she stands just on the edge of the open-plan living area. With a steady hand hovering over her abdomen, she begins a subtle perusal of the room. I hear her sharp intake of air and her long, anguished sigh that follows, traveling on her outbreath.