Appointment Report

Today at my doctor’s appointment, I walked into a typically quiet office atypically full of memorial flowers for Dr. Douthit. I took a deep breath and sat as far from the flowers as I could. The sight of them was somehow painful, and even across the waiting room, I couldn’t ignore the sweet smelling lilies. I bit my lip. I took deep breaths. I tried to act like a normal human being. No one else in the office was a blubbering idiot. My struggle to keep my emotions in check, I think, was only made worse by the fact that I wanted to openly sob, but I didn’t (and still don’t) really feel entitled to grieve so deeply—especially not in public, let alone at the doctor’s office. I am one of a hundred or more patients. I’m not family. I’m not a coworker. I’m not a friend.

Our wait time was over an hour, and by the time I went back to see Dr. Feuille who is, at least for the moment, taking over my care, I wasn’t nearly as calm and collected as I hoped I’d be. As if my shaky voice weren’t enough to give me away, my blood pressure totally blew my cover. It was 140/80—a far cry from the 100/60 I usually run at appointments. The new nurse looked at me with gentleness and pity in her eyes. “I understand; you’ve had a lot of stress.” Her kindness didn’t make me feel any less ridiculous. Everyone else seemed to have their crap together. I played with my fingernails and frantically looked for distractions.

Then, with a knock on the door, in came two of Dr. Douthit’s nurses who have become near and dear to me—especially over this past six weeks of bed rest. They hunted me down at the other end of the office just to check on me, to hug me, to see how baby was doing and how I was holding up. I lost it. They stayed for several minutes. I apologized to them for my emotionality; they seemed to welcome it. They voiced my unspoken sentiments that an OB is more than just a doctor; he plays an instrumental role in growing families, in putting time in to building relationships. And Dr. Douthit was an exceptional OB. They made me realize Dr. Douthit’s corner of that office was much more than exam tables and stirrups. They expressed their own heartache over this loss and their desire to see me through the rest of my journey with this pregnancy. They were candid, kind. And I needed it more than I wanted to admit.

By the time I met Dr. Feuille, I could feel the stiffness in my face and had given up on putting my best face forward. With still-teary eyes, I told Dr. Feuille I thought I’d be okay today, and he kindly said, “Why? None of us are. I cried all weekend.” He proceeded to go over my history, listen to little squirt’s heartbeat, and answer all of my questions as if I had always been his patient.  He had me schedule a sonogram for the day after Christmas and is ducking back to the office between surgeries that day to meet with me again.

His knowledge put my mind at ease. His compassion put my spirit at ease. 

Now, at 10:00 at night, tears have found me again after a dear friend from work shared a meal and a link to Hillsong United’s “Oceans.” My feet certainly seem to be failing lately, so the song was a tender reminder that “where feet may fail and fear surrounds me, [God] has never failed and [he] won’t start now.” Again, it was something much needed even though I keep thinking I’m ready to dry my tears, move past grief, and start remembering a faint echo of this ache as opposed to experiencing the real hurt in real time. I feel raw, exhausted, and—as I once wrote in a poem in college—a certain sense of “hand-wringing know-nothingness.”

Too often, people write about grieving and loss in over-poetic ways. I can be guilty of this, too, I suppose. In reality, mourning bites. I understand that it can be healthy. Whatever. It’s haunting and painful and inconvenient. The poetry comes—if it can even be called poetry—when that nagging ache and inconvenience lead you to fall flat before Jesus. This is where “hand-wringing know-nothingness” meets “blessed assurance.” Though the hurt doesn’t end—Jesus isn’t as simple as “The Great Anesthesiologist”—there’s a bittersweet peace that at least offers hope that the crying will stop, the rawness will heal, and Heaven is waiting. And Jesus wraps us up and sees every tear in the meantime.

The intensity of today is catching up with me, and I feel sleep creeping closer. Good night for now.