A tale of two tragedies

It was my second pregnancy.  My obstetrician confirmed that my baby was healthy and was expected to be bigger and heavier than my firstborn.  I thought so, too.

After lunch, I felt a stabbing pain in my belly that pushed down to my bladder. “It must have been the calamansi juice,” I thought.  The pain grew so intense, like sharp muscle spasms that spread to my back and down to my legs.  I held on to my stomach, afraid that the weight was making me double over in pain. My hands turned clammy and I broke into a cold sweat. Something was terribly wrong. 

My yaya sounded the alarm, “Believe me, Letty, you have all the signs of a woman who’s in labor. We must get you to the hospital.”

      

In the emergency room, the resident took my pulse and his face turned white. He summoned the nurse for a device to monitor the heartbeat of the fetus.  There was none.  I held my breath and suggested, “Put the device at the base of my tummy. My baby is probably moving around that area.”  Soon, my doctor arrived and after examining me, she clasped my hand and said, “Letty, I will perform a Caesarean and get your baby out, okay? Your husband has agreed to the procedure and he is waiting outside the operating theater.”

      

My baby had not reached his full term yet.

When I regained consciousness, I saw several faces, wearing surgical masks, looking fixedly down at me.

 â€œYou are one lucky woman,” exclaimed the anesthesiologist.

“You were hemorrhaging and we nearly lost you, but you are safe now,” assured my doctor. 

Groggy from the anesthesia, I struggled to find my voice. “Is my baby a boy or a girl?”

I heard a faint reply, “A boy.”

“That’s nice,” I said and drifted back to sleep.

      

The following morning, I was surprised to see a nurse dozing off at the foot of my bed.   She woke with a start.

“Where’s my baby?” I asked.

 The nurse hesitated, “Maybe we should wait for your doctor.”

I gripped my chest and asked again, “Why?  I want my baby, is there something wrong?”

I saw the pain in her eyes, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lopez, your baby was stillborn.”

      

Was this a bad dream? I remember resting my head on the pillow. Wearily, I said, “Perhaps, my baby was not meant to be; I will have another one.”

The nurse shook her head, “I am truly sorry, Mrs. Lopez. You cannot have any more babies.  They removed your uterus.”

* * *

Nonette, my sister-in-law, was busy sewing new curtains for the house.  That Saturday, her baby, three-month-old Martha Louise, will be baptized.

Nonette never grew tired of telling us the story of how, after giving birth to Martha, St. Martha came to her in a dream.  She whispered to Nonette, “Please name your baby after me.”  

      

Friday came and the whole house looked so festive with nursery decorations, flowers, and balloons ready for the big day. 

Nonette checked on little Martha who played in her crib after her last feeding.  She checked the nightlight and reminded her yaya to ensure that Martha’s diapers stay fresh and dry through the night.

      

At three o’clock in the morning, Nonette checked on Martha.  She was wide-awake.  “This little girl can sense her feeding time,” chuckled Nonette.  Martha was in a jolly, playful mood.  Nonette stayed until Martha finished her formula, had a fresh change of diaper, and burped loudly to clear her chest.  She also gave the crib mobile a good wind so that the nursery tunes would lull little Martha back to sleep.  Looking at her darling baby, Nonette whispered, “Good night, my sweet angel.”

Martha smiled back before she closed her eyes.

At six o’clock, Nonette automatically stood up. Still groping for her slippers, she half dreamily went straight to the nursery. “Where’s Martha’s yaya?” When she checked the crib, she saw four black ants crawling at the edge of the mattress.  Nonette brushed them off and was visibly annoyed. “I must stress to yaya that the crib MUST always be impeccably clean.”

When she picked up Martha, something within her set off alarm bells.  Martha was very heavy. She was also cold, very, very cold.

“My God! Martha is not breathing!  She’s not breathing, she’s not breathing!”  Nonette’s heart thumped so fast that it was ready to burst out of her chest.  Her knees turned to jelly and her stomach churned.  She was being drowned by her own screaming frenzy yet she felt she was not screaming loud enough.  Nonette was on the verge of collapsing. All she could mumble was “Mama, Mama, Martha is not breathing.”

My mother pulled Martha from Nonette’s clutches, rushed her to the altar, poured holy water on her head, and prayed, “I baptize you in the name of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

      

The world of Nonette caved in that day. Martha was a victim of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome).

“It was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,” wrote Charles Dickens.  It was a period of immense pain as we struggled to see our way through the tears.  But sharing the sorrow brought comfort and, in time, healing and renewed hope.

There were two new angels brought up to heaven.