I was the only one who felt uneasy.
Little things happened, but they were explainable. The excruciating headaches, for instance, that couldn’t be controlled with any kind of medication were a mystery. Still, we passed them off as migraines or allergic reactions to something. “Maybe I’m allergic to the paint or something,” I offered. I ended up taking a lot of naps.
My neurologist was perplexed. A new MRI didn’t show anything. “There could be mold in the house,” I suggested again. “That might do it.”
Sometimes, one of us would lay something down in a room upstairs, only to walk downstairs and find it there minutes later.
We chalked that up to forgetfulness.
We did seem to be experiencing a stream of bad luck, but didn’t everyone? For instance, our cat had a litter of kittens and one of them ended up with a warble, or a large worm, in its neck. Pete did his best to get it out and doctor it but it died in the middle of the night. He was distraught.
Lots of financial problems plagued us, problems we’d never had in the past. But those things happened to other people, too. We just decided to tighten our belts a little more. We told ourselves things would get better. We just needed to be more frugal.
And then, in November, we found out I was pregnant. It was a little bit of a shock. We laughed about the way we found out; even at the time it was funny. Pete and I were away for the weekend, celebrating our anniversary. We’d stopped at the Dollar General to pick up a few things for the cabin we were renting and, as a lark really, I bought a pregnancy test. Later, we went to a cheap country restaurant. I took the test in the bathroom. I came back to the table with my mouth wide open.
“I can’t believe I just took a Dollar Store pregnancy test in a restaurant bathroom,” I laughed. “And it’s positive. It’s like a redneck love song.”
It should have been a joyous, happy time. It wasn’t. The pregnancy was plagued with problems from the start.
I’d had a few issues with Sam’s pregnancy, but nothing serious: hyperemesis, some unexplained pain, and some vasovagal syncope.
With this pregnancy, however, I felt as though I might be fighting for my life.
By Christmas I had lost twenty-three pounds. Diagnosed with hyperemesis, I spent a great deal of the first two trimesters in the hospital. Even the IV meds couldn’t stop the vomiting. We stopped hearing from many of our social friends since we weren’t able to go out anymore. I was pale, thin, and sickly. My hair fell out, my skin turned yellow, I suffered from a deep depression, and I had all kinds of vitamin deficiencies because of the lack of nutrients. Over the course of the pregnancy I ended up having a subchorionic hematoma, placenta previa, sciatica, and preeclampsia.
When I wasn’t in bed, rolling around from a combination of pain and nausea, I was trying to work to raise money for our added expenses. The house became a virtual prison for me since leaving it became almost impossible. I couldn’t venture very far from a bathroom and standing for any period of time was impossible. My mom borrowed a wheelchair for me and that helped, but then sitting became an issue. I needed help brushing my hair, getting dressed, and doing even the simplest of things. I cried a lot.
And then, at thirty-six weeks, I had a complete placental abruption with a massive hemorrhage and little James (named after our friend) was born early.
A couple of blood transfusions later and I was feeling a little better. In fact, I couldn’t believe how much better some extra blood and not being pregnant anymore helped. Luckily, James seemed to be doing okay. We all thanked our lucky stars that I just happened to be out of town the day the abruption happened, and close to a hospital. Had I been at home, neither one of us would have made it. As it was, we were only a few blocks from the best hospital in the state.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I’d been sick throughout the entire pregnancy but on that weekend we’d chosen to get away. It was a holiday weekend and I felt guilty for not spending more time with Sam. We’d borrowed a wheelchair and had driven an hour away to watch a parade and eat at a restaurant. Had we not done that, had we been at the Maple House…
The first thing my mother said when she saw me in the delivery room was, “The blood!” It covered my legs and feet. They’d already cut my dress off of me and thrown it away.
James was early, but he was strong. He looked good. After such a long pregnancy, I was ready to get my life back. I felt like I’d been a terrible mother to Sam. For almost nine months I hadn’t been able to play with him, cook much, or do any of the things he liked to do. And at such a young age, three, he couldn’t even remember a time when I wasn’t “sick.”
We turned one of the bedrooms into James’ room, but we also put a cradle in our office so he could sleep in there while one of us was working. We wanted him close.
He was a sweet baby. He rarely fussed, even when he had a full diaper. Sam got used to him very quickly and brought him toys. He wanted to play with him right away and we had to explain to him that he was too little to play the way Sam wanted to.
Our friends hadn’t really started to come back around yet, but we were hopeful. I was hurt that so many had disappeared during my pregnancy but I figured maybe it was because they didn’t know what to say or do.
In the weeks following James’ birth we went on picnics in the backyard, went to the county fair, ate out at local restaurants, went for walks, and tried to start our new life as a larger family. We were finding our groove.
At night, I would sit up with James and work or we’d watch movies together in the family room upstairs. He was a good snuggle bunny and together we went through many new releases like “Brideshead Revisited” and “Valentine’s Day.”
And then, one early Saturday morning, I got up to go get him dressed, and found he had passed away in his sleep in our office in his cradle.
My baby died at seven weeks old. The cause of death was undetermined.
More Bad Luck
Just four days after burying my son, my father suffered the first of two heart attacks he’d have that fall.
A week after my father’s first heart attack, Mom had a stroke in her sleep. She lived, but went on to have several smaller ones that fall.
A week after Mom’s stroke, Pete’s mother died.
Followed shortly by his grandmother.
And not long after, his grandfather.
And then, one evening, we came home and found both of Sam’s beloved dogs, Yellow and Louie, dead. No apparent cause of death. They were inside.
In November, almost three months after losing James, we found out we were pregnant again. We were trying. Two days later, my husband lost his job.
Another Pregnancy
We thought James’ pregnancy was hard. It was almost nothing compared to this one. The doctor assured me that what had happened with James’ pregnancy was rare and would not likely be repeated. He was wrong. Well, I guess in a way he was right. Some of the things were new.
The list of complications was endless: hyperemesis, placenta previa, subchorionic hematoma, intrauterine growth restriction, partial placental abruption, sciatica, gestational diabetes, preeclampsia...
For almost nine months I floated through a sea of depression, grief, and sickness. I no longer felt in control of my thoughts or emotions. The things I’d done to prepare for my other pregnancies were almost impossible. I couldn’t go shopping because I couldn’t be away from the toilet for more than half an hour at a time. I was weak, unable to stand or sit for any length of time. I’d frequently lose consciousness while vomiting, awakening to find myself in a pool of sickness on the bathroom or bedroom floor. I considered abortion at one point. I considered suicide.
Luckily, I found a support group of other women who were going through something similar and found I wasn’t alone in these thoughts and that at least made me feel less crazy.
Our former friends never fully returned. We were alone most of the time, with nothing but our grief, loneliness, and each other to cling to. It wa
s a terrible time of isolation–a time of anger, despondency, and very little hope. We saved what goodness we had for Sam and tried to provide him with the best life we could.
Again, much of that pregnancy was spent in the hospital. At one point they were feeding me sixteen pills a day just to try and stop the vomiting. Potassium, magnesium, and other vitamins were being pumped into me at the same time by IV. The line would blow almost every day, thanks to the amount of medicine that was being shot through it, so my arms were black and blue. Nurses had to help me get to the bathroom, walk up and down the halls, and brush my hair.
When I’d have a moment of relief the head of Obstetrics would send down to the kitchen and get as much food into me as possible, no matter what it was. Once, it was a bunch of chocolate éclairs. That part wasn’t so bad.
My house became another prison. It was spacious and roomy and yet I felt closed in, only seeing the same walls every day. Nobody called or visited. Some afternoons I would lie on my bed and stare out the window at the mountains. There was a whole other world out there: I could see it, but I wasn’t a part of it. It was untouchable. I was a prisoner to my body and to the house that felt intent of holding me hostage within its walls.
I kept reminding myself that the pregnancy was temporary and soon I’d have a happy, bouncy baby. Yet I worried about what would happen when she arrived. Could I protect her? Would she die like our other son? I’d fight tooth and nail to protect either one of my babies but I felt so weak and drained all the time. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to battle if and when the time came.
At twenty-two weeks I had a partial abruption and the hospital told me there was a good chance my daughter would be born that night and that, if she was, she wouldn’t live. I spent the whole night trying to think of how I could make her time here meaningful, even if she only lived an hour. I made a list of the songs I could sing to her, the stories I could tell. A nurse brought me a blanket and told me I could bathe her and wrap her in it. “You never know,” she shrugged. “She might be a fighter.”
She held on.
Sam
So far, Sam had been exempt from most of the “bad things” that happened in the house.
Although Pete and I were depressed and never felt as though we were in top form, especially since James died, we tried not to let it show in front of Sam. When I felt up to it, we did as much with him as we could. When I didn’t feel up to it, Pete did it alone. Sam still attended friends’ birthday parties, had picnics, played with his trains, had a great birthday party (even though hardly anyone we invited showed up), and we went all out on the major holidays.
His life changed very little. We made sure of that.
Even when I was stuck in bed I would try to watch cartoons with him, color with him, and tell him stories.
I had failed to save James from his death– a death everyone swore wasn’t my fault. I never really assumed Sam was in any danger, however. At least not for awhile. We watched over him like a hawk. I didn’t even let him eat grapes or meat anymore for fear of him choking. There was no longer a fear of him darting out into the road but I constantly checked on him after he went to bed and I checked his car seat and seatbelt multiple times.
I was damned if I was going to lose another child.
If anything, losing James made me feel even closer to Sam. I clung to him at times, carried away by his sweetness and innocence. Sometimes, I’d sit on the back deck and watch him play with his little cars and I’d cry, thinking how sweet he was and how lucky I was to have him. He, my husband, and I grew stronger together. We were a unit and rarely without one another. We felt safer together. For months after James died I’d wake up in the middle of the night, Pete’s hand on my chest to make sure I was breathing. I’d do the same to Sam. It became habit.
But I couldn’t always watch him.
Back home from one of my hospital stays I was in bed one night with Pete when some noise only perceptible in sleep woke me up. It was the lightest of sounds, a mere rustling, but I was wide awake within seconds.
The night sky was cloudy so the room was dark. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. Still, there before me, a mysterious object hovered in the air. It appeared to be a small ball of light, bright and translucent.
It hovered mysteriously in the middle of the room, not on one of the walls like a reflection would be. I watched in sheer fascination, not understanding what I was seeing, as it darted away from me and bounced around the room like it was in a pin ball machine.
I wasn’t scared at first because the spectacle was just too fascinating. In the beginning, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around what I was watching. Indeed, it felt as though the vision before me was on a television screen, not truly real.
It was only after its movements continued on for several minutes that I became disturbed. We lived too high on a mountain to pick up any car lights and neither one of us wore anything shiny that would make that big of a light. As I watched the beam, it shuffled about the room, as if looking for something. For a second it would linger on an object, as though searchingly, and then quickly sprint to the next. Finally, it landed on our family portrait. In a slow, deliberate measure it circled the picture and then seemingly intentionally moved inwards and zeroed in on Sam’s face, illuminating his little sweet smile. It remained for several seconds then abruptly whizzed out of the room, flashed down the hall, and shot around the corner into Sam’s bedroom.
A cry filled the air, his tiny voice filled with terror.
Without having to think twice, I bounded out of bed and flew into Sam’s room, all but leaping through the doorway. I gasped when I got there, however, unable to believe what I was seeing.
Like a scene from a horror movie, what appeared to be a thin white mist covered his floor and was clawing its way up his bed towards him. The thick mist was cool and filmy and I felt dirty where it nipped me around the ankles. I slapped at it and my hand came back grimy and cold.
Sam was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. The light was gone.
“Mommy?” he asked. “I had a bad dream. What’s that?” He pointed to the ground.
“Someone must have left the window open. Come on,” I said, picking him up (what the doctor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either one of us) and leaving his room. I took him to our bed.
He fell right back asleep but I stayed awake the rest of the night. It was impossible to find any kind of peace after that. Every little movement made me jump and I laid on my back, facing the entire room, waiting for a sight of the light which I was certain would return. The rest of the night went by without incident, however.
The next day I did some research on the computer and tried to find an explanation for what I’d seen. Typing “a small ball of light” into Google didn’t yield many results. The best I could come up with was either an orb or a willow o’ the wisp. Neither one accurately described what I’d seen and the whole willow o’ the wisp thing felt too old world for me. I hadn’t felt like it wanted me to follow it, although I did get the sense that it knew I was there and was taunting me. The whole incident left me feeling extremely unnerved.
I tried polling some of my friends but soon found, in order to do that, I’d have to explain what happened and I was really tired of always feeling like I had some kind of drama to write or talk about. I didn’t want to be the “problem child” anymore. People were tired of hearing about my dead kid, my dead mother-in-law, my awful pregnancies, my dead dogs, my parents’ health, and my husband’s job loss. Hell, three people I thought I was close to had blocked me on Facebook. The last thing I needed to be talking about was my haunted house now. Instead, I deleted that post and shared a video of a dancing kitten.
A few nights later I turned over in the middle of the night and placed my hand on Sam’s chest. Both Pete and I had started doing this to one another, even in our sleep, to check and make sure everyone was still breathing. We were terrified of losing someone else. Nobody felt safe. Usually, we’d feel the stea
dy rise of breath, be satisfied, and drift back to sleep. This time, though, Sam’s chest wasn’t moving. I woke up with a start and felt his cheek. It was ice cold. “Sam!” I whispered. “Sam!”
My voice caused Pete to wake up and when he saw what I was doing he also placed his hand on Pete’s chest. “Sam!” he shouted. The look of panic on his face matched the feeling I had inside. In distress, I curled up in a ball on the edge of the bed and began whimpering.
When Sam didn’t answer, Pete lifted him up in the air in his arms and gently shook him. “Sam, wake up!” I could hear the terror in his voice as it cracked. “Sam!”
At last, Sam gasped for breath and started coughing. “Daddy?” he asked sweetly before resting his head on Pete’s shoulder and falling back asleep.
Neither I, nor Pete, could go back to sleep.
A week later, it happened again. This time Sam was sleeping with my mother and she was the one to call out to him in a panic, flip the bedroom light on, and try to rouse him. When she told us about it the next day, she did so in tears. “I didn’t think he was going to wake up,” she moaned. “He was so still and cold.”
An appointment to the ENT told us that Sam had developed obstructive sleep apnea and would more than likely need his tonsils removed and that he was, indeed, ceasing to breathe for moments of time in his sleep.
“It’s not really dangerous right now,” the doctor assured us, “but you’ll want to have it taken care of as soon as possible. He’s probably not sleeping well and that can make him tired during the day.”
When we left the office I turned to Pete. “I don’t know that I want to schedule the surgery,” I admitted.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Pete agreed.
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