Part II: An(ti)nunciation

Mary got an angel and "do not be afraid," and I'm pretty sure that, a short time after, her cousin sang her a pretty song and other fetuses jumped up and down with joy.  "Hooray!  You're going to have a baby!"  Like that.

About one month pregnant with the future
Anarchist.  Don't I look young and innocent?
Also, I miss that headband.  I had entirely
forgotten about that headband.  I wonder
what happened to it.

I got (5 months into a normal pregnancy) obstetricians, ultrasounds, and the news that I should drive immediately to the hospital so that I could deliver a baby with absolutely no chance of survival.  "I'm afraid it's so early, there's nothing we can do," the compassionate doctor announced through tears.  "You're not going to have a baby."  Let it be done to me according to your will.  An anti miracle.

Of course, Mary probably didn't fall down a flight of stairs 15 weeks into pregnancy, so maybe I should stop drawing parallels (also, I'm not a blessed virgin, further problematizing the comparison).  I had caught myself by grasping the railing and sliding down (what I had thought was) gracefully most of the way.  I hadn't thought anything of it at the time.  Even at the big five month ultrasound, when the technician searched forever, went away, came back, went away again, and vaguely said something about "not enough fluid to image the fetus," it never occurred to me that anything was amiss (except that maybe the baby was a hermaphrodite and the technician didn't have the balls--pun intended--to tell me to my face).  At the follow-up appointment at my OB's office, however, the doctor found absolutely no fluid surrounding the soon-to-be-Anarchist at all.  Maybe the fall was responsible for the rupture.  I don't know.  All I know was that my mother drove me to the hospital where I staggered, shivering, into a hospital gown and hospital bed, and waited, trembling, for the doctor to come in and "discuss my options."  

The first doctor--the one at the office--I have since dubbed the Crying Doctor.  Her empathy continued throughout my stay at the hospital and always reassured me that the people entrusted with my health/safety truly did care.  She did, however, have a propensity to make me cry.  Not as cool.  Her polar opposite, whom we will call "Calm Doctor," was the one who "discussed my options" with me.  Thank goodness.  I was distraught enough as it was, and his cool, gentle, detached manner helped me to emotionally stabilize enough to think.   

Our happy little pre-Anarchist family.

As it turned out, the word "options" was a bit of a misnomer.  I couldn't actually abort the baby (which I wouldn't have done anyway), as it was Catholic hospital.  I could either try to reinject fluid back into the uterus, in hopes that it would repair itself (a long shot), or I could...actually, I'm not even remembering what the other option was...something to do with assisted miscarriage.  Anyway, it didn't feel like options, and I remember a lengthy, probably delirious discussion of the difference between ethics and morality while trying to explain my non-decision to Calm Doctor.  I'm sure he came away from the whole experience feeling terribly enlightened.

Forever after (until the Anarchist was actually born), I was plagued with the idea that I might have made the wrong "decision" in my moment of delirium.  What if the baby was born, but suffered so much brain/lung/organ damage (or lack of development) that s/he led a short, painful, vegetative existence in the hospital before we were forced to pull the plug?  What if the Dictator was forced to be separated from me for such a long time that she acted out of the psychic trauma for the rest of her life, potentially becoming a serial killer, or worse, a corporate middle manager?  What if everyone laughed at the way I looked in my hospital gown?  What if I was forcing something that was never meant to be?  What if I was not equipped to be an adequate mother to someone who would--no doubt--have brain damage?  And on and on.

The Dictator shortly before all this crazy business went down.
She had no idea what was about to hit her.  Or maybe she did.
That would explain the face.

Long story short(ish) for now:  The fluid came back; the rupture repaired itself for about a day; I got violently ill and vomited on my nurse and the Bureaucrat; I was sent home.  The fluid didn't hold and I had to be readmitted about six hours after returning home (talk about childhood trauma for the Dictator!). I spent two more weeks in the hospital, was discharged for two more weeks on bed-rest until I reached viability. I returned to the hospital at 23 weeks gestation and remained there in hopes that the Anarchist would eventually be born with semi-working lungs.

The memories are most vivid surrounding the time I found out that I would not have a baby.  Indelibly etched in my mind are the sounds of the Calm Doctor's voice, the look on Crying Doctor's face, the feel of the nice lady in the waiting room trying to comfort me as I almost fainted, every bump on the road on the way to the hospital, the multiple needle jabs as the poor nurses attempted to put in my IV, the horrid taste of anti-nausea medicine, and the look on the Dictator's face as I left almost as soon as I had returned. A "do not be afraid" might have been nice right about then.  But you know what?  It wouldn't have been terribly sensitive or realistic.  Also, I think they reserve Gabriel for blessed virgins and the like.

Don't worry, the story gets better...funny even.  Because I did have the baby, and it turns out that she's hilarious.  Also, between the an(ti)nunciation and her birth, I developed a well-honed sense of humor as a coping mechanism.  I bet the Virgin Mary never got to do that.