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At this point, they tried to admit me to psych ward. I guess they
thought I was crazy for closing my eyes and lying on the bed completely still. They just wanted me to have someone to talk
to, or so they said, but I was distrustful of anything they said to me. I remember thinking, How dare you people who don’t
even know me try to label me a psychopath just because I won’t share my feeling after just losing my baby! I ended up
threatening them with legal action in order to be released. I was torn from the inside out. I had to morn the death of my
son alone, because very few people even knew I was pregnant. During the time I was in recovery the baby’s father never
called. He didn’t even try to find out how I was after he talked to me during my fourth month. After a week or so I
finally spoke to my baby’s father. I told him I’d lost the baby and he simply admitted to me that he was glad
the child died. This way he wouldn’t have to pay child support. I remember hanging up on him, consumed with hate that
he would have so little compassion for me after I lost my very first child. My son was dead, and since I had to have the abortion
(the doctor told me I had started to miscarry) I didn’t have the closure of a funeral. I didn’t get to hold my
baby. I never even saw his face. I only had a memory of him kicking inside of me in the early part my fifth month of pregnancy.
I truly felt I was the most useless woman on the planet. The one thing I should
have been able to do blindfolded was have a healthy baby, and I failed at that.
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This was the only time in my life I was ever pregnant, and I wanted that child to live. Due to other
extreme medical issues that arose later in my life, I had to undergo a partial hysterectomy. Marcus would be the only child
I would ever have or ever be close to having. Those who knew tried to console me by saying I could adopt, but the feeling
of loss was unbearable. There were no words anyone could utter that could comfort me. All I could feel was extreme devastation.
One day I was happy, pregnant, and full of hope for the future with my child. I was basking in his kicking and enjoying the
life that was growing within me. At the end of the following day, I was grieving the loss of my son, my Marcus. I felt like
I couldn’t go on with life. I became consumed with guilt, thinking that maybe I could have done something else to save
him. I kept thinking I could have eaten healthier meals or reduced stress earlier or sought medical attention sooner. I wanted
to have a concrete reason why this happened and pressed the doctor for a reason, but there wasn’t one. I was bitter
at God for a long time. It seemed like each time I tried to focus on finding a glimmer of happiness in my life it was suddenly
taken away. I didn’t eat much, talk much, or even pray much. I just wallowed in the depression that seemed to consume
me. My question now was, Where was God when I was laying on that table losing my son? I asked God why didn’t he allow
me die?
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