“I know it’s not easy to hear, but in just six months, after allowing your body time to heal, you can try again.”
Try again? He says that as though he were telling me to dust off my knees and get back on the bike. I can feel her moving inside me. This is the child I want to have. Part of me is in her and she is in me. How can I possibly accept what they have told me? I place my hand on my stomach and, as if on cue, I feel the life inside me. “We will give you some time to adjust to all that we have just said.”

I am lying on the stretcher in the back of the ambulance I had insisted I didn’t need. The air is thick with the pungent aroma of gasoline and my nostrils are offended by the potency. I lay my arm across my face to stifle the scent and am pleased to discover that it also blocks the view. There’s a female paramedic riding with me, but she insists that the gray haired man lifting the sheet that lay over me is more qualified to deal with these types of situations. Among the three of them sent out on this run, he is the only one who has delivered a baby.
A baby, just one baby? I think that hardly qualifies as experience. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be having a baby. I have Christmas gifts to wrap and peanut butter blossoms, Russian teacakes and spritz cookies to bake. The laundry is not finished, I need to go to the grocery store, who’s going to cook dinner? My baby is due in April.
“OK, Jessica, I’m going to need to take a look and see what’s going on. Just relax and let your knees fall to the sides.”
I turn away and cover my eyes. I wince as he has to use the palms of his hands to coax down knees that won’t cooperate.
“I can’t see anything, Jessica, and I’m not going to poke around and risk making anything worse.” Not bothering to respond, I snap my knees together and release the breath I didn’t know I was holding in.
“Hell, Jimmy! What’d you do, bathe in the damn stuff?”
A chuckle comes from somewhere above my head. I can hear the driver apologizing as he explains that he had just returned from cleaning a gas spill when he was called out on this run. “I was on my way to shower when this call came in,” he replies. The chilled December air rushes in as he cracks his window, but it does little to mask the odor.

Flat on my back, still strapped to the stretcher, my pants and underwear somewhere around my ankles, I watch the ceiling tiles as we move through the hallways of Mercy Hospital. Jaysen had arrived by my side as I clung to the mattress and was jostled from the back of the ambulance. His thick, strong hand feels warm as it lies cradled in mine. I know he is looking at me, trying to navigate the maze of my thoughts. I keep focused on the irregular pattern on the once white ceiling tiles. I rub my thumb over the dry, calloused skin of his index finger and he tightens his grip. Two turns and an elevator ride bring us to the third floor. I continue to concentrate on the ceiling tiles, afraid of where my mind will go if I don’t.
Dr. Rojas was waiting in the room when we arrived. He is already masked and began putting on his gloves as the paramedics transfer me to the hospital bed. Needing just a minute, he replaces the sheet and removes his gloves.
“You are dilated to four and eighty percent effaced.”
As the words reach my ears, I turn to Jaysen. His hair is tussled from where he held his head in his hands.
“There is nothing we can do to undo what has already been done,” Dr. Rojas goes on.
I pull my hand from Jaysen’s and bury my face in my arm. This isn’t happening. This isn’t supposed to happen like this. I did everything I was supposed to. I don’t smoke, I haven’t taken a drink and I don’t do drugs, not even over-the-counter ones. I stopped drinking any caffeine and I even took those hard to swallow, nasty tasting, “horse pills” everyday. This isn’t supposed to happen. If God is listening, I need Him to hear me. Please, don’t let my baby die.
“Our NICU here is not qualified to care for such a premature baby. If she delivers here, there will be nothing we can do for the baby. I am requesting an ambulance to transfer her down to University Hospital. Your baby will have the best chance of survival down there,” explains Dr. Rojas. “I am really sorry Mr. and Mrs. Bell.”
Jaysen thanks Dr. Rojas, and, though I don’t look to see, I am sure they are shaking hands. I can hear the door close and I wipe my eyes dry. I allow Jaysen to once again grasp my hand and I fix my eyes on the steady pulse of the second hand on the clock. He had said chance of survival. My baby has a chance.
It is hospital policy to send a nurse from the maternity ward when they are transporting a patient in labor. She reaches out and clasps my hand between hers. Her eyes, heavy with compassion, gaze straight into mine as she informs me, “If you deliver on the way to the hospital, there is nothing that I can do to help your baby survive. At only 22 weeks, your baby will be unable to breathe on her own and I can’t intubate an airway that small.” I close my eyes and nod. I understand what she doesn’t openly say. For the next twenty minutes I was the only one who could save my baby. If I can’t keep my body from rejecting her, she will die.
My legs tighten together with each bump we encounter as if the clenching of my thighs could prevent my baby from falling out. Each deliberate breath is inhaled and exhaled with precision. Though the nurse tries to make small-talk, I refrain from talking and try to keep as still as possible. I must remain focused, willing my body to keep this baby in until we could get to that chance of survival that Dr. Rojas had spoken of.
Doctors at University confirm what Dr. Rojas had told us. Jaysen is standing on my left squeezing my hand probably a little harder than he realizes. I look up and our eyes meet. He manages to turn up the corners of his mouth in an attempt at a smile and leans over to kiss my forehead. I close my eyes and remember our dreams of parenthood. Dreams of late night feedings, wobbly first steps and family vacations to the beach. Of birthday candles, giggles and Eskimo kisses. My thoughts are interrupted by the doctors who have reentered the room. “Jessica, we have been discussing your case and we feel that the best option in your situation is to abort the fetus.” A squeeze of my left hand lets me know that the shock of what was just said wasn’t just felt by me. “Your cervix is too far effaced for us to offer any type of surgery to prevent delivery. Trying to do it would most likely prove ineffective and would damage your cervix possibly harming your ability to have children in the future.” What happened to that better chance of survival that Dr. Rojas had mentioned? “You have what is called an incompetent cervix. The increasing weight of the fetus forces the cervix to open pre-term resulting in a miscarriage.”
Incompetent cervix? The words themselves hurt me. My body is defective and there’s no denying it; this is my fault.
“Now that we know this, the next time you get pregnant, your doctor can perform a simple procedure to stitch the cervix closed and prevent early delivery.”
It is my fault.

After the doctors step out, a nurse, who I hadn’t noticed in the room before, leaned over, and in a voice just above a whisper, said, “If you tell them to do everything they can to save your baby, they have to do it. You didn’t hear it from me.”
Jaysen and I find ourselves alone in the closet sized, sterile room with nothing but the hum of the IV pump and the weight of a life in our hands. Three options, but no real choice. We can abort as the doctors had recommended. We can do the surgery which the doctors said wouldn’t work and could prevent pregnancy in the future. Or, we can wait, hoping to hold on long enough to strengthen her and give her a fighting chance. My decision is easy. Abortion isn’t an option. Our daughter deserves a chance and I am going to be sure that she gets it. Jaysen’s choice is complicated by his love for me and it isn’t until concerns of infection due to the prolonged dilation of the cervix are addressed that he can fully support me in my decision.
“We will not be aborting our child,” I announce upon the arrival of the doctor. The doctor, as if doubting my ability to understand, looks past me and speaks to Jaysen. “You do understand that the ability of that fetus to survive would require a miracle, don’t you?”
Without hesitation Jaysen replies, “That’s what we’re expecting.” I squeeze his hand knowing he really believes it.

“Jessica, we can’t hold off any longer. Your baby is in distress and her heart rate is dropping with each contraction. We must deliver. She will now have a better chance of survival out here than she will if she stays in there.” She presses the call button and announces that I will need to be moved to a delivery room immediately.
Things are getting busy in my room. They had started a Pitocin drip through my IV in hopes of strengthening the contractions to aid in delivery. Because the health of my baby was already compromised, any type of pain medication was out of the question. I wasn’t set on having a natural delivery, but that is what I am going to have.
As the moments pass, the intensity of chaos is heightened. The scurrying staff hustles to make preparations for delivery. Nurses remove the bottom half of the bed and place my feet in stirrups, while the fellow watches the attending doctor standing to my left with her arms folded across her chest, waiting for the go-ahead to begin. Beyond my feet, in an alcove off the room, is a whole team of NICU staff waiting to welcome my little one into the world. The door to my room refused to stay closed, allowing passersby the opportunity to witness the organized chaos. I know that it’s a learning hospital, but I am caught off guard when hospital staff enter and ask if they can watch. Sensing that I don’t really have any say in the matter, I answer “sure.” I feel like the opening act of the day’s entertainment. In a moment of comic relief, or perhaps insanity, I think “I should be selling tickets.”
Jaysen had left for the night. Things had been stable for days and he deserved a “real” bed, but he was now unable to be reached by phone. I let the phone ring until I reach the voicemail and hang-up for the fifth time. Telling me something I already know, the doctor says, “Jessica, we really can’t wait much longer.” I had been eyeing the monitor, and I too saw the fetal heart rate drop that last time to 56. Frantically not wanting to face this without him, I ask to try once more. Again, no luck. I blink away the imminent tears as I realize I am in this alone.
My grandma, who had been able to stay with me at the hospital, starts rubbing my arm, “It’s going to be ok, Jessica. Your grandfather didn’t make it to all my deliveries and everything worked out just fine.” I love my grandma tremendously but I don’t want to hear about how her perfectly normal deliveries turned out just fine and I certainly don’t want to be touched when I am trying to manage emotions that would just get in the way. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad she is here, but it’s just not the same. She doesn’t have the same thing to lose.
She wets the rag and returns it to my forehead providing momentary relief from sweats and hot flashes that I had been suffering ever since they had started me on that Magnesium Sulfate ten days ago to stop the contractions they were now trying to intensify.
The fellow standing at the foot of the bed taking her cue from the attending, announces that it is time. “Your baby is turned the wrong way and is going to be delivered feet first. Your water has not broken and we are going to try and deliver her without breaking it. That will help her to not get her head stuck as she is delivered.” How the hell am I supposed to do that? I have watched those childbirth shows. I have seen the effort that is put into each push. “We’ll start pushing with the next contraction,” she says. Five minutes pass with no contraction. The Pitocin they had given to induce labor had stopped it completely. My damn body can’t do anything right. Incompetent is right. Tried and tested medical advances were no match for the stubbornness of my body. The attending, unfolding her arms for the first time, looks at me and asks, “What happened to the contractions?” I hope she doesn’t expect an answer. In my current state I don’t think I can manage a socially acceptable response. A decision is made to proceed without the assistance of contractions. I was now going to force my body to do what it was unwilling to do.
My grandma makes one last ditch effort to reach Jaysen before returning to the gentle caressing of my arm that was, to me, like nails on a chalkboard. In an equally spaced rhythm determined by the fellow I push when ordered, carefully attempting to push hard enough to deliver, but not too hard as to break my water.
At 10:48am, Kaylee makes her dramatic entrance into the world. I hear no crying nor do I get to catch even a glimpse of her. The instant she is delivered, she is taken away from me wrapped in a plastic bag. Unable to bear the thought of her being alone, I send my grandma to be with her.
At 10:55am, Jaysen makes his arrival. With the festivities over, the room is quiet. Only the delivering fellow and a nurse remain. He comes to my side and takes my hand in his. He says nothing, but I know what he is thinking. “They took her. They told me that she was alive, but they took her. Go. Go, please, be with our baby.” He squeezed my hand and leaned over to kiss me. Tears from his eyes mingled with my own pools of tears as he lingered. After checking with the doctor, confirming that I was going to be ok, he went to find where they had taken our baby.

It was my first time out of bed in more than ten days. Having just delivered my baby, with questions of her survival taking over my mind, they felt it was a good idea to try to use the restroom. My body disagreed. Luckily for me, or perhaps the nurses who would’ve had to help me up, I made it to the toilet before the fog of incoherence took over.
My eyes startle open as the aroma of the smelling salts fills my nostrils. The shocking cold of the toilet tank makes me painfully aware that my hand, which had been keeping closed the gown which closes in the back, had released its grip. Too lazy to mess with attempts to tie behind my back, I had just grabbed hold of the fabric to minimize the inevitable chill. I open my eyes to see that the privacy of my bathroom has been invaded by three nurses, none of which seem too concerned over what just happened.
I spend the day buried in sleep, finally freed from the fear that my every move was risking the life of my baby. Pockets of alertness are filled with doctors bringing me updates. Morphine, given to me after delivery, clouds my understanding and I feel as if I’ve been left with alphabet soup as a diagnosis. PDA, TPN, ROP, RSV, the letters kept going on and on. Alive. That is the only word I need to cling to.
When the Morphine had finally worn off, and I could get to the shower without fainting, I got the chance to take the walk to meet my little girl. Jaysen and I scrub from the elbows down with a harsh antibacterial soap, paying special attention to under our nails as directed by the poster on the wall. We are fitted with fresh gowns and cover our mouths with masks. I allow Jaysen to lead me to where our daughter is. Pod A, last bed on the left. I reach my hands into the plastic womb of the heated isolette which was to take over where my body had failed me. Kaylee’s one pound ten ounce body is nearly consumed by my hands as I try to find skin between tubes and wires and beneath leads and tape. I find the sole of one foot and the palm of her hand and introduce myself to my miracle. Kaylee’s foot presses against my thumb and she grasps what she can of Jaysen’s finger, Jaysen and I lock eyes, and I realize we’re a family.

​​​

​East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​


You Didn't Hear It From Me
By: Jessica Bell