Spring Cleaning in Harmattan Season (2)

The pain that shot through my abdomen and radiated to my back, that evening, was so sharp that I doubled over. It was impossible to stand up straight. Dear God! I was alone in our bedroom and I couldn't even catch my breath long enough to shout for my hubby. I clutched my belly and curled up on the floor in a foetal position, gritting my teeth and and wincing, unable to focus on anything else but the pain. (You can catch up on Part 1 of this story, here.)

I tried to scan through my day and the day before, checking to see what I had eaten or the various activities I had engaged in, that might be responsible for the pain. We had been really careful since our Big Fat Positive (BFP). I did not exert myself at all and the lockdown made it easy, since we didn't need to go out much. We often took evening strolls as a form of gentle exercise and a good way to get some fresh air after being cooped up indoors all day. My mental scan did not throw up any red flags. My day and the day before had been just as any other day, nothing out of the ordinary.

As I lay there, praying under my breath, I felt some fluid trickle down from between my legs. I knew it was blood. I panicked. The baby! I pulled myself up to my knees and crawled to the bathroom. My stomach growled and I felt this urgent sensation of an impending bowel movement, but nothing came out, except for this small clump of blood clot sitting at the bottom of the toilet bowl. I stared at it for the longest time, too numb to react, but fighting the panic that clawed at my throat and made my ears ring. I had heard that some women bled in their first trimester without harming the baby or threatening the pregnancy. It was time to message my nurse and call Dr. B. They both offered some comfort, but the bleeding, with that much pain, was never a good sign, they said. I was to watch the bleeding and report if it appeared to get worse. I was also instructed to stay in bed and keep my feet elevated as much as possible. It was a Saturday and my 5-week scan had since been scheduled for the following Monday. Monday couldn't come fast enough. 

Perhaps it was the phone call that offered little comfort, or the thought that the blood clot in the toilet was possibly my baby, or the feeling that I had lost something so precious ever before it even had time form. I was only just finally allowing myself to 'feel' pregnant  even when there were no symptoms, as yet. Whatever it was, it opened up the flood gate of tears. Hubby had held me earlier, as I explained to him that I was bleeding. My face had been expressionless. I refused to feel anything, and I simply shared the information with him, as one would share news of a weather forecast. He searched my face as he tried to read my emotions. I wasn't showing any. I pulled myself away and told him I just wanted to sleep. He watched me burrow under the covers and stood for a while before turning to leave the room. 

The tears trickled down my face. Silent tears at first. I did not make a sound. I thought of God, my Father and this scripture came to me -  "He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him also freely give us all things?"- Romans 8:32. These words rose from my heart and wrapped themselves around me in a warm embrace. They had offered such comfort in the years that I had meditated on them. They helped me cement my faith in God's word, assured me that nothing was too 'big' for me to have or accomplish. Nothing too hard that it was not surpassed by God's love for me, demonstrated by the death of his son on the cross that brought me salvation. But I did not want to be comforted. 

There was a heaviness in my chest that I desperately needed relief for, so I threw off the covers and rushed to the bathroom again, gingerly letting myself slide down to the floor, my back against the bath tub. My abdomen still throbbed, but the pain in my heart hurt way more. I pushed the door closed with my foot, and pulled towards me, the towel that hung from the rack at my side. I wanted to scream, really loud, but I also didn't want anyone running in to 'rescue' me. Crumpling a handful of the thick towel in my hands, I buried my face in it and I bawled. Loud sounds from deep inside my belly, muffled by the towel, but strong enough to hurt my throat. I cried for the years we had spent in waiting. Years that would not slow down for us to catch up. I cried for a hope deferred, yet again. I cried for our loss of what was not yet formed but which held the promise of our dreams fulfilled. I cried because I was tired. I was weary and the weariness seemed to seep into my bones. I felt drained. I was oblivious of time as I quieted down and merely sobbed. My temples throbbed with a headache and I could feel that my eyes and lips were swollen.

My mind strayed to Romans 8:32 again. And I became aware once more of the warmth that wrapped itself around me. When I thought about it later, I realized that that warmth of comfort had not left me even as I cried. I leaned into the warmth, more from exhaustion than anything else. And I slid down further until I was lying down. "He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for you, Enkay, how shall he not with him also freely give you all things?". I mulled over those personalised words in my heart, demanding an answer that I could relate with, in the face of this loss.

I must have dozed off, because I opened my eyes with a start. There was no disorientation. I knew where I was and what I had been doing. The pain in my chest was no longer there. The headache had dulled a bit and to my utter surprise, I felt, for want of a more appropriate word, comforted. I mean, I still felt incredibly sad but just not as sad as I had been when I had come into the bathroom to cry. 

I picked myself up, went back into bed and slept. I spent the whole of the next day in bed as well. It was a Sunday but I didn't bother to log in for the online church service. Hubby checked in on me over and over again. I assured him I was fine. We had each staked our grieving spots, I guess. He spent most of the day downstairs and I was upstairs with the covers pulled all the way up to my neck. The day dragged and I dreaded tomorrow, when the clinic would either dispel our fear or confirm our loss. 

The next day, we drove to the clinic in silence. I closed my eyes as Dr. B searched and searched the monitor of the ultrasound machine for any sign that could give us hope. She called Dr. J into the room and both of them discussed the screen in hushed tones. Hubby was perched on a chair by my side. Neither of us could see the screen. "We are so sorry". Dr. B said, finally, as she turned the screen towards us. "We can see a sac", she made a circular motion with her fingers on the screen, "but there is no fetal pole inside it". Well, no surprise there ma'am! I thought to myself. But she wasn't done yet. "It appears a large fibroid is growing outside your uterus. We didn't see it there before on all the other scans, that was why I needed Dr. J to come take a second look. Just to rule out fluids or any other issues."

My uterus was no stranger to fibroids and I had had a myomectomy 4 years prior. But if this one was growing outside the uterus, surely it could not be responsible for pregnancy loss? My question was directed at Dr. B. "We really don't know what could have happened. But sometimes, if a foetus is not viable, nature has a way of expelling it early". 

We spent the next few hours getting counselling, getting my blood tested for my hCG numbers, and being booked for follow-up tests at another laboratory. As we sat at the reception, waiting for test results, these words came to me, "Cast not away your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward". I knew a good portion of the scripture, but I struggled to remember the context. I simply held on to the scripture, resting in the knowledge that my heavenly Father's got me.

And so it was, when we returned home from the laboratory on the 3rd day of hCG tracking tests, and a score of 238mlU/ml, all the way down from 1,822mlU/ml, that I set about packing up my 'trusty' box of medicine and appurtenances. It was a confirmed pregnancy loss and an ectopic pregnancy ruled out. There was no point to the drugs anymore. I think a particularly painful part of the box was the fact that we had just paid for and taken delivery of 8 weeks' supply of various expensive medicines and injections to support the luteal phase of early pregnancy. I had decided that I was done. I knew in my heart that I would be a mother, I just was no longer sure that I would have the privilege of conceiving and carrying a pregnancy. Closing that box and throwing it into the closet that day was me closing that chapter, for good. So I thought.

This dry harmattan morning, 2 years after, my 'spring cleaning' turned into a session of praise.  I had spread the contents of the box on the floor, arranging them in a circle. 

  

We had indeed come full circle. Our path on this 15-year journey was not an easy one. Yet, through it all, we were held by His everlasting arms. For years, we sowed our seeds of faith. And just when we thought it was time to close the chapter, our seed germinated. Mark 4:28: "For the earth bringeth forth fruit of herself; first the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear".  

We would like to share our story with you. Please join us in the next few posts. We'll tell you about our "Corn's Blade".

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Spring Cleaning in Harmattan Season

I know, spring and harmattan have nothing in common and should hardly ever be spoken in the same sentence, but please indulge me a little.

I was reminiscing the other day about how the dusty dry winds of the harmattan season usually ushered in the Christmas festivities. The sweaters and socks were dug out from the back of the closet and somehow, there was always the smell of something frying, - chin chin, chicken, or fish, wafting through the house. Something was always cooking when the harmattan season rolled by, it would seem. The excitement was often so palpable. Now that I look back, it wasn't as though there was ever any big event planned, but the anticipation, the general happy mood of everyone in the house, made it all the more sweet.

But, harmattan in Lagos just isn't the same as it used to be those days. Or did I simply grow up to find that what I thought of the Christmas weather was all in my head? There are no more chilly winds, even though the dust has remained a constant. The most one would feel now, is a few days of lower temperatures just around Christmas day and it was all gone by boxing day. Maybe it's all in my head?

This past year however, Christmas felt a bit like the old days, with just the right temperature, humidity and pleasant smells. It was the perfect excuse for the sweaters and socks, but with the added, irritation of having to wipe the dust off surfaces more often than I would have preferred. The irritation comes from me not trusting myself to simply dust surfaces and leave it at that. Before you knew it, I would be turning over cushions, pulling down books from the shelves or rearranging an entire closet! Well, that's what happened on this day, where this tale of mine, is set. 

The yellow room, so named for all the sunshine that it receives, as well as its yellow painted walls, is where I often stored items of clothing or shoes that I wanted to give away. Because the room was not always occupied, the dust tended to pile on, rather quickly. Earlier that morning, I had gone in there to check for some fabric I wanted to give my tailor so she could have them with her when she started 'work' for the new year. I opened the closet, hoping to quickly locate the fabric, but a medium sized carboard box at the bottom caught my eye. It already had a layer of dust on it, enough to distract me. "Just a quick wipe", I thought to myself, as I dashed out to grab a piece of rag. Lifting the box, I was momentarily surprised at how light it was. Surprised, because, the memories evoked by that box were definitely heavier than I cared to remember. More than 2 years prior, the year of the corona virus and the notorious lockdowns, I had tossed that box in there, out of sight. It contained hard evidence of how my body had seemingly failed me. 

I sat on the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me and I drew the box close, dusting the top flaps with absent-minded motions, all the while fighting to keep the tears that welled up in my eyes from brimming over. These tears were of the mixed-emotion type. The ones you shed when you are both happy and sad at the same time. Just like one would look at a prominent scar on a visible part of their body, and be sad that they went through the trauma, but also glad that they survived. You get?

Finally, composing my self enough to forge ahead, I opened the box and saw everything stacked neatly like they had been, when I had arranged them long ago. Every vial, every cotton swab, every syringe, every needle, every tube, every blister pack of medicine. Everything. Still there, like they were from another time. But it had only been two long years. Please forgive my concept of time because those years appeared to stretch into a decade at least, for all that happened. 

Most of the drugs had expired. I noted the dates as I reached into the box to take the drugs and vials out, one by one. I paused long enough to recall what each drug was supposed to help my body accomplish. Sigh. On the day that I packed up everything, hubby and I had just returned from the laboratory where I had gone for a third blood test, in as many days. Up until then, I had no idea that people needed to test for the progressive failure of a pregnancy. Dr. B. had said it was important to test the hCG levels in my blood, over a considerable period of time, to ensure that the numbers were actually dropping. This was to rule out an ectopic pregnancy.

A mere 3 weeks before that, I had been beside myself with joy at a positive pregnancy test result for the first time in 13 years! It had been my 4th IVF cycle and by far the most rigorous. That box of drugs was my faithful companion for months and weeks on end. Everyday, there was something in there to help prepare my body for the all important work of conceiving and carrying new life. I had charts that I carefully studied, to know what injections were to be self-administered, what combinations of drugs were critical at certain points during the cycle. There were strict doses and strict timelines. Numerous visits to the clinic with the attendant prods and pokes. These amazing team of doctors, nurses, embryologists and pharmacists were working with me, encouraging me all the way. I was doing so well, too! For the first time, my uterine lining did look like it was preparing to receive new life. I had been told over and over again, how thin my uterine lining was. My body's response to the IVF drugs were always so abysmal but we always trudged on, keeping hope alive. That same hope brought me back the 4th time and this time, things were really looking up.

The lockdowns seemed like a haze to me. Who cared about the corona virus and the epidemic? I was on my way to conquer infertility! 2 days before I was scheduled for a blood pregnancy test at the clinic, after the mandatory 2-week wait (TWW), I had secretly bought a test kit which I used at 2:30am in the morning, when I was sure the whole house would be asleep. I wanted the privacy to grieve in silence if the abdominal pains and twitches I had been feeling turned out to be wrong indications of pregnancy. They weren't! They weren't! The lines on that test kit were as bold as they could ever be. I was astounded. Wait, wait. Is this test kit lying? I packed everything up and went back to bed.  But I couldn't sleep. What if? What if it's true? Dear Father!

I never said a word to hubby or anyone else for that matter. I tucked that secret away in my heart, hardly able to sit still as I waited to hear the doctor's verdict after the blood test. She was beaming as she announced, "Congratulations Mrs. Pedro, it is positive!". I didn't realize that the clinic staff were listening in on our conversation until the whole place erupted in shouts of "Praise the Lord!". As it was customary with the clinic, every positive pregnancy test was followed by a few minutes of praise and thanksgiving. As they sang and prayed, I remember thinking that I wasn't 'displaying' my joy convincingly enough. You know, after all these years of waiting, somewhere in my subconscious, I often imagined myself leaping up with jumps of joy, followed by a dramatic rolling on the floor, all the while screaming at the top of my lungs "Thank You Jesus! Thank you Jesus!". Instead, there I was on the chair, smiling and quietly saying under my breath "Thank You Jesus". I think I was just in awe.

In the 3 weeks that followed, support from my box of medicine grew even more intense. I had moved from self administration of the injections on my thigh and abdomen, to needing someone to inject me on my bottom. We were in the middle of a pandemic, where were we going to find a clinic that was willing to offer this little service. Mr. Hubby stepped up to the plate and became my home doctor of sorts. It was really brave of him considering how horrified he often was, watching me inject myself every single day for weeks on end. Everything was going so well, until it wasn't.

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Seven Years and Counting!

Here's  a picture of the first day we met. I'm looking at it and laughing at how 'scrawny' you looked then. And yeah, I was still my good old elegant self, thank you very much!
That was 11 years ago.

The first day we met!

The last time I did a post on our anniversary, we'd only been married 2 years. Back then we were still basking in the freshness of our union. We still had sparkles in our eyes, blissfully oblivious of the steep curves that lay ahead of us.

So young and in love!

In this second picture, you had recently proposed to me and anyone who saw us could immediately tell we were in love. See how our eyes shone. We were so happy, so hopeful for a beautiful future together.

The day we made our vows...

Then came the day of the 'Big Leap'. 1st December, 2007.
I have our wedding song on repeat in my head even as I write this now - Luther Vandross' "Here and Now". Lovely song.
We made promises to each other on that day and God has helped us keep them so far.
The laughter on my face that day has not left my face, it has instead slipped into my heart and remained there ever since.