"Has no one told you she's not breathing?" — "Hello", Evanescence (I just thought that this song and quote would be really appropriate for this chapter. :))
Never in my life would I have dreamt that I'd end up in this current situation.
This morning, I woke up in a hospital; in the U.W.I. Hospital. My entire body felt like shit, and to my horror, I had a catheter, so I had no control over my piss; it was just running out.
I felt myself under the sheet, and realised that I had some kind of padding over my left, lower body, and it would hurt when I touch it. I started to get worried, but that issue was quickly forgotten when I touched a tube, which I realised was running into my urethra. Naturally, I just started acting like a complete butu.*
"NURSE! GET DIS BOMBOCLAAT TUBE OUT A MI—"
A middle aged nurse rushed into the room. She had big eyes, dark-skin, natural hair, and a serious scowl on her face.
"You cannot be acting like a that on the ward, miss," she hisses at me.
"Get this fucking thing out of me; I don't want to be pissing into a bag." I said to her as calmly as I possibly could; it probably wasn't her fault.
Her look changes from one of disdain to one of pity.
"I can't."
She can't? She can't?
"Why? Get it—"
"Miss, you recently had surgery, and cannot get up to use a bathroom; you need a catheter."
Surgery? For what? Side pain is hardly a reason for surgery.
"Surgery? For what?"
She looked very uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if she had said too much.
"Tell me what's going on," I demanded.
"I should call your doc—"
"No. Tell. Me. What. The fuck. Happened. To me. I'm not waiting half an hour for the doctor to come."
She gulped.
"It won't take—"
"Tell me!" I demand.
"Your tube ruptured," she said, softly, as if she didn't want me to hear it.
What?
Then, I remember the padding under the sheet. But, how?
"How the fuck did my tube rupture?"
She looked like she was about to say some dumb shit again, like "I should get your doctor", but she looked into my eyes and thought better of it.
"You, had an ectopic pregnancy."
Ectopic pregnancy.
Ectopic pregnancy.
How fuckíng ironic.
That conversation was five hours ago, but I can still hear it in my head as if it's happening right now.
Briefly, I recall Dr. Hamilton telling me months ago that one of the possible side effects of Mirena is an ectopic pregnancy.
He'd listed the side effects:
Ovarian cysts.
Acne.
Nausea.
Weight gain.
Abnormal bleeding patterns.
Infertility.
Ectopic pregnancy.
Ectopic pregnancy.
Ectopic. Fuckíng. Pregnancy.
Fùck.
And what was my reaction?
To not worry about it, and write it the fùck off.
I blamed the fact that my period hadn't come on "abnormal bleeding patterns", and was too stupid to add two and two when my pelvis started to hurt.
I grind my teeth hard on the minty chewing gum in my mouth.
I can't believe that I involuntarily ended up in the same situation as Amy; the only difference is that at four feet, nine and three quarter inches (she always insisted on calling it ten), and a very skinny body, (she weighed about ninety pounds), her blood count was so low, that she had a much lower than normal chance of surviving a ruptured Fallopian tube, and she knew that. I'm five foot four, and weigh one hundred and twenty three pounds. I have a normal blood count; much higher than Amy's, anyway.
Considering her size, it's surprising that my tube ruptured before hers. I lasted about ten weeks. She lasted twelve.
But that's beside the point.
This... foetus has been growing inside of me, hurting me, torturing me for weeks; it could have killed me. It's not even a proper human yet, not even a baby that was capable of kicking from inside of my belly or hearing my voice. It's about the size of my thumb... but it could have killed me. Emotionally, it is killing me, and I despise it even more for that.
Don't think about it.
The doctor told me that it was a girl, but I don't give a fück — or at least, I don't want to. This is bringing up more shit than I'd like to think about right now.
Don't think about it.
As for David? He's begging for my forgiveness, because apparently, he should have been by my side when I woke up instead of downstairs, in his car, eating breakfast.
He's asking me for something that I can't give him, because I was never angry with him in the first place.
"I don't understand why it's such a big deal," I mutter, then spit out the gum and roll it in a napkin, placing it on the bedside table. "You have to feed yourself; you just had shítty timing."
He lets out a loud sigh.
"I'm sorry, Leah, for everything that you're going through. If there's anything that I can do to help—"
"—Just... be here. Stay with me. Listen to me."
Don't think about it.
I can't not think about it anymore.
We're silent for a while, before I finally speak; I can't hold it in anymore.
"He was murdered," I whisper, tears escaping. "He owed some people some money, and when he couldn't afford to pay them back..." I stop, a sob escaping, then start again. "When he couldn't afford to pay them back, one of them took a truck, and ran it into his motorcycle, killing him; they made it look like a motor vehicle accident, but it wasn't. It was murder."
I start bawling, just like I did the other night.
"Oh, Leah—"
"I w-was p-pregnant. I n-never got to t-tell him. I was p-pregnant... with our ch-child. A little g-girl. I n-named her Hope, Bec-cause she w-washope. She w-was all I h-had left of him. But w-when she was born... l-I s-s-saw the l-look on th-th-the doctor's face, and I kn-knew that she was d-dead."
I have no idea whether or not he could hear that through the sobbing and stuttering, but saying it out loud to someone else feels so good; it makes me feel less alone.
That's it. All the people that I've lost. That Hope was the last straw, the one that broke me for good. That child is the one person that I NEVER think about; it's my most absolute rule in terms of preserving my sanity. Even when I torture myself with thoughts of Andrew, I don't allow myself to think about ourchild.
I almost broke that rule about two months ago, the morning that David was telling me about his sister; I had the thought:
It isn't the same, though. Too many people who I've loved dearly have died. My mother, Amy, and other shít that I just don't even want to think about right now.
That "other shit" that I was referring to was Andrew, and my daughter, Hope. I shut that train of thought down.
The same thing happened a month ago at Poetic Justice, when I told David that I wanted to be the mother of Andrew's children, and my thoughts started to go down that road. I started hyperventilating, but again, I quickly shut that train of thought down.
But now? Now, I can't not think about her; Hope is plaguing my thoughts, along with Andrew and Amy. They're all I can think about right now; they're bundled up into a big ball of pain, slamming into me over and over again.
I can't breathe; I'm sobbing so hard, I can't get a good breath in, and even when I do suck in a shallow breath, it feels as if there's no oxygen in the air.
I swear I'm feeling her kicking from inside of me again.
But of course, when I put my hand to my belly, it's flat. Nothing is there.
This only has me sobbing harder; I never knew that that was possible.
"Leah, breathe, baby," David says from beside me, reminding me that he's still there. It calms me down; it reminds me that right here, right now, I'm not alone. It reminds me that he's lost someone he cares about, too.
Right now, thinking about her is unavoidable, and that's painful, but sharing it is better than keeping the thoughts jumping around inside of my head.
David comes forward, and gives me a hug; not too tight, but a firm hug, letting me know that he's there for me.
Soon my sobs turn into sniffles and hitches in my breathing, which are growing less and less frequent by the minute.
"Tell me what I can do to make this better."
My answer surprises us both.
"Kiss me, David."
He pulls back, and looks at me, making sure that this is definitely what I want; then slowly, he places lips gently to mine, giving me the sweetest, most passionate kiss that I have ever felt from him.
In that moment, he reminds me yet again that he's too good for me, and he reminds me of why I can't let him go.
*Butu — someone with little or no manners or social graces. It has nothing to do with which social class you're from. Professor Rex Nettleford correctly said, "A butu in a Benz is still a butu."
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