Her name was Miriam Louise.

I am still recovering but have come a long way from nearly one week ago today.  On Sunday, February 5th I awoke at 2 or 3 a.m. to go to the bathroom two times in close succession.  I eventually drifted back off to sleep despite further grumblings in my belly. 
You see, on Monday, January 30th I had taken a home pregnancy test after multiple "hot mama" basal body temperature readings that are part of the Natural Family Planning routine.  I served up the pee stick wrapped in a towel next to Pete's second dose of steaming morning coffee- a usual treat enjoyed with a little more peace after returning from delivering the big boys to school and mustering the courage to face the commute to Youngstown and another traditional, but not, work week ahead.

"It's very early on so we should continue to pray and monitor the situation." I said as Pete unwrapped the gift, the wave of confusion blossomed into sheepish joy as he double checked the results.

  "Two lines. That means we're pregnant. We'll continue to monitor the situation?"

"Yes.  It's very early on." I repeated as he pulled me in for a hug and the emotions washed over us both.  The joy.  The hope.  The love.  The fear.  The awe and responsibility attached to sharing in God's marvelous creation.  The intimate secret of life where two become one.  A One. An Only. A unique, unrepeatable, precious child.  Alternating currents of worry and wonder hidden amidst the glow of the knowing and the unknown.

Feelings much preferred to the agony of Sunday.

I stayed in bed not unlike other Sundays taking advantage of my husband's inability to sleep in.  Giving the boys the opportunity for some "guy" time and mommy the opportunity of some alone time was only minutely speckled with guilt having survived Pete's added full Saturday work day from dawn til' dusk the day before.  The alone time drifted into laziness which transformed into, "UH.  I need to lay back down" after experiencing some lightheadedness on a bathroom run.  The pillow won out over breakfast and sleep won out over shower.  Sleep bought me some time, or stole it, as I have minimal recollection of time as the day passed on.

 Pete shepherded the children, tackling the dreaded task of getting them dressed.  Even knowing how much he despised the chore I could not gather the strength to get out of bed.  A dull ache settled in my clavicles and the discomfort of staying in one position too long coaxed me to shift to my opposite side. Doing so, however, brought on intense shudders of pain as my breath was stolen away and my intercostals contracted sharply producing moans, whimpers, and gasping, inaudible prayers.

Pete checked on me periodically.  I'm not sure how much of my condition he saw, heard, or chose to acknowledge. I can't even remember how many of the "episodes" I had myself.  He focused primarily on the boys, took them to Bible School and Mass on his own, fed them lunch, settled some in for naps, brought me a banana and kiwi at some point and lay Peter by my side to nurse in between episodes.  He sent my mom messages of me not feeling well amidst her inquiries of plans for the ensuing Super Bowl gathering.  At ten minutes to three I surrendered hope of the hurt miraculously disappearing and put the problem into someone else's hands as I texted Pete. "Hospital".

He called his mom over to take care of the boys and I dreaded the thought of moving my body out of bed, let alone into the car fearful of another "attack".  I told Pete I was afraid.  I leaned on him to stand up and was enveloped by a warm black haze as I drifted to the floor near our bedroom doorway and listened in darkness as Pete called the paramedic.

Benson helped usher me down the stairs and onto the gurney that waited at our front door.  The Lord was merciful in transport despite the uneven brick roads.  I faced the interrogation of multiple strangers.  They learned about our baby.  Our special blessing that even those closest to us were yet to know.  I wished they would stop talking about the baby...  Held on to the possibility of appendicitis... Prayed that I could be the subject of their giggles as they administered the chalky dose of strong antacids and said, "silly lady, it's just a case of bad gas."

Mike at the ER talked us through some of the possibilities as he inserted the IV, gave me some morphine, and took my blood pressure and samples to assess.  I waited patiently to be seen by the doctor and relaxed as the pain stayed away. Figures. I get to the hospital and the pain goes away.  We'll have to pay a ridiculous amount for the emergency transport. I'll look like a stupid, weak woman that will have to sit here for another three hours to hear from the doctor that it is, in fact, gas.  BUT, the baby will be okay. 

Grrrrrrr....AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe! 

Moisture welled in the corner of my eyes, my body so wrenched by pain it couldn't even muster the strength to produce a tear heavy enough to fall.

Mike returned promptly and calmly as well as a following of women. One with the weighted blanket and x-ray machine pointed at my chest another with the ultrasound apparatus, screen turned from my sight.  I looked up to catch an angle.  I couldn't see anyway.  I didn't want to see. Another woman joined the first ultrasound tech, repositioned the screen to hide the evidence from us completely and mumbled incomplete sentences to the first.  They asked me to lift my right arm. I did, inhaled shallowly through clenched teeth, and moaned. Doctor coming soon. Surgery.  Life-threatening. Rupture. Remove. 1-2% of pregnancies. Do you plan to have any more children?

I was wheeled to another area. Met more strangers. Answered their questions.  Some were tougher than others.  I told them, "just cut it" as they met the barrier of my tank top- the last flimsy, yet insurmountable impediment to surgery which would have otherwise required moving my arms.

The sisters believe...
The doctor will need to know...
Whatever you want...
I have to ask...
A memorial...
I know it's tough...
I have to ask...
What to do with the baby?

My body seized, my being screamed as they moved me across rollers to the operating table.  I coughed through layers of thick mucus  in my chest that grew heavier by the second.  I was escorted by the ringing in my ears, that the anesthesiologist assured me was natural, from one world of pain into the next.

I awoke in another area accompanied by Pete.  They had needed to make a second incision and remove two liters of blood.  I still have both of my ovaries but they removed the baby, about the size of a poppy seed, as well as the fallopian tube on my right side. I hurt.  I missed my babies. I wasn't sure if, or how, I would handle "takin' it easy" as I returned home.  I met more strangers, some more likeable than others, and answered more of their questions.  I accepted pain meds knowing full well there was a layer of pain they wouldn't make go away.

I am healing.  There are scars- some more visible than others.  We are so very, very blessed by our family that helped care for our precious little people as we recouped our strength. We were graced by the Cheshire grin and skeezit hair of Clement Zechariah through the window as we returned home and the nervous laughter of Peter Vincent as the real-deal milk makin' mama met his gaze.  Pete was mom, dad, bus driver, husband, cook, wash-maid, Mr. Fixit, nurse, and more. The Maione's were welcome company that partied with me, Clement, Peter and my in-laws providing a formidable feast and much needed conversation acknowledging the baby. I laughed a little about the bottle of wine still unopened in the refrigerator that I had bought the night before taking the pregnancy test, of course.  I didn't mind answering the questions spoken and unspoken, sharing the story with NON-strangers. I thanked God for His presence in our midst and a love that is sustaining and forgiving.

A package arrived from Philadelphians steeped with warmth and timeliness. I received the message of a sister-in-law who mentioned the baby and offered her prayers and was genuinely present to talk amidst the craziness that is life. The check-up from my oldest, favoritest brother that provided a deer roast, cooked before Tuesday, and possibly, just maybe a bucket of Red Vines added a nice touch.  On Friday, we got a surprise visit from my not-so baby brother Andrew bearing gourmet leftovers including homemade, stuffed-crust pizza, cheesecake with strawberry topping, chili and more. 

As a medical student with a surgery of his own in the recent weeks, Uncle Andy and I talked science, and society, and dollars and sense, and nonsense, and humanity. He helped clean up the wallpaper I tore from the walls. Mom and dad stopped by to offer kisses and hugs with softest cheeks ever, cutting the chill of the night with high heels and Valentines. 

Andy stayed a little longer and embraced me with another real hug where I was finally ready to offer words that only Pete and I had shared to that point, "Say a prayer for Miriam Louise. Her name was Miriam Louise"

Yes, Andy, it's biblical. Translated as "star of the sea" or "sea of bitterness" or maybe even "wished-for child".

Eternal Rest, grant unto Miriam, Oh Lord.
And may perpetual light shine upon her.