Blessings In the Chaos

Chapter 1

 Without My Permission: Letting Go Before You’re Ready to Release

The day I found out I was pregnant, I was devastated. I remember thinking, I can’t even clean my room correctly. How am I going to take care of a baby? My next thought was even more daunting—I’d have to call my ex. We hadn’t spoken since our breakup. With shaking hands, I dialed his number.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I’m pregnant.”

“Okay, congratulations. But why are you telling me?” he said, sounding confused.

My best friend, Modesty, yanked the phone out of my hands and exclaimed:

“You know, good and well, she’s not like that! And it’s yours! You need to get over here now!”

“Give me a minute to process this. I’ll head over as soon as I can,” he said as he exhaled.

I let out the breath I had been holding. This wouldn’t be easy, but I’d figure it out. I knew that I had to be pretty far along because my ex was the last person I had fornicated with. I’m just being honest y’all.

The next day, I went to the pregnancy resource center near work for an ultrasound. The nurse told me I was 4 1/2 months pregnant! I was shocked and mortified, and my only thought was that my grandma was going to kill me. Now, you’re probably thinking: How did she not know she was pregnant?! Well, because I was on birth control, which clearly failed, and it made my periods irregular. The crazy part is, one week after finding out that I was pregnant, I also learned that I was having a boy. That completely changed the game for me. Not only was I going to be someone’s mother, but I was going to be raising someone’s future husband. That carried real weight with me. Sure, I’d be proud if my son grew up to be president. But more than that, I hoped his wife would tell me he turned out to be a good man and a loving partner. With so many lost men out there, I was determined not to contribute to that. This child deserved more.

The night before I went into labor, I stayed at my mom’s house because I couldn’t find parking where I lived and didn’t feel like walking from Egypt to my apartment. Okay, obviously, I’m exaggerating, but that’s how it felt at eight months pregnant. Zaire was active that night—moving so much it felt like backflips. I even had my mom feel my stomach, but of course, he stopped moving when she touched it.

“This boy’s going to be just like you—doesn’t like anyone touching him!” she joked.

The next day, I followed my routine, preparing for work as usual. However, I suddenly felt dizzy and weak upon arriving at the salon. I immediately tried to contact my doctor; she was unavailable so I had to leave a voicemail. Throughout the day, I began experiencing pain  in my lower back. Assuming these were Braxton Hick’s contractions, I decided to cancel my final appointment and return home to rest.

At home, I laid down with a heating pad for comfort. Unexpectedly, I felt a strong urge (attributed to Holy Spirit) to get up and use the bathroom. It was then that I discovered I was bleeding.

I immediately called my mom, who said to get to the ER—she thought I was in preterm labor. I told my ex, and he said he’d meet me at the hospital. When I arrived at the hospital, they rushed me up to labor and delivery, where I almost passed out. The contractions were so intense I was begging for relief. A nurse wheeled me in for an ultrasound, but they couldn’t find my son’s heartbeat.

“You’re a little fluffy,” the nurse said politely, “so we’ll get a bigger machine.”

The doctor tried again, then uttered the words that would haunt me forever: “Here is where the heartbeat should be. There is no heartbeat. He is dead.”

Her tone was as dry as the Sahara Desert, and her eyes were cold as ice. Chhhhiiillllleee, if I could have gotten up off that table, rage and agony would have consumed me, and she would have caught these hands (I wasn’t all the way saved then). At that moment, my world collapsed. I felt like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest with their bare hands. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I felt so helpless. My pregnancy had been smooth until now. This sudden tragedy was incomprehensible. I had never known death this intimately before, let alone the loss of my child.

Following Dr. Romero’s devastating news that my son had passed away, I inquired about the possibility of a C-section. However, she advised that a vaginal delivery was the safest option for my health. Despite being on Pitocin for 12 hours, my labor failed to progress  significantly, with only 1 cm of dilation. The prolonged retention of my deceased son in my womb led to complications. I developed an infection and began hemorrhaging. Due to these serious medical issues, the medical team had to monitor my condition closely, taking blood samples every hour.

The last blood draw indicated that my platelet count had dropped. The medical team warned that if this trend continued, I would need to be airlifted to a hospital in San Diego, as the current facility lacked the resources to manage such a critical situation.

Fearing for my life, I was convinced that being transferred via helicopter would be fatal. I urgently asked my friends and family to pray for an increase in my platelet count. Their prayers worked—my next blood test showed improved platelet levels. With this positive change in my condition, the medical team quickly prepared me for an emergency C-section.

As I was taken to the operating room, anxiety overwhelmed me, especially since hospital policy prevented any family members from accompanying me. Thank God, one of the nurses on duty that night was my best friend’s cousin, providing a comforting presence. Adding to this unexpected comfort was the presence of Dr. Trujillo, the obstetrician I had initially hoped would deliver my son. Earlier in my pregnancy, she explained that she couldn’t guarantee she’d be on call when I went into labor due to her practice’s rotation system. These familiar faces offered some reassurance during this frightening and emotional time.

Before beginning the procedure, Dr. Trujillo informed me that I might feel some pressure but assured me I shouldn’t experience any pain. When they asked about my comfort level, I deliberately reported feeling pain. My intention was to be put under general anesthesia, as I knew I couldn’t bear the silence that would follow my son’s delivery. The absence of his first cry was a reality I wasn’t prepared to face.