Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [88]
Somehow, it seemed, we’d survived the first year without our mother.
Later that autumn, Cathy and I learned that she was pregnant, and like all anxious parents-to-be, we began making preparations for the baby while we awaited the moment we could first see our baby on the ultrasound.
Cathy threw herself into the pregnancy. She watched everything she ate, exercised, and learned to live with morning sickness before she went to work. Her skin began to take on the flushed glow of an expectant mother. We called our friends and family; everyone, including my dad, was thrilled with the news. In fact, dad was happier than we’d seen him in a long, long time.
When Cat was twelve weeks along, we visited the medical clinic for the ultrasound. In the room, I held Cat’s hand as the technician applied the gel and ran the scope over my wife’s belly.
“There it is,” the technician said quickly, and both Cathy and I stared at the screen in wonder.
The image was tiny, of course, and looked nothing like a baby. A peanut, maybe, but not a baby. Still, it was our first glance, and Cathy squeezed my hand and smiled.
The nurse continued to move the scope, trying to get a better picture; within a few moments, both Cathy and I saw the technician frown.
“What is it?” Cathy asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” the technician answered. She forced a smile. “Could you excuse me for a moment?” The technician got up and left the room.
We didn’t know what to make of it; we had no idea whether this was normal or unexpected. A couple of minutes later, the doctor came in.
“Is anything wrong?” Cathy asked.
“Let me take a look,” the doctor said. For a moment, as the technician began working the scope, we watched them both staring at the screen. The technician pointed and whispered something to the doctor. He whispered something back. Neither would answer our questions; in time, the technician rose and left the room. The doctor looked serious.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Cathy asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But we can’t find a heartbeat.”
Cat burst into tears; eventually, I led her from the office. Our baby had died, just as my mother had, for no apparent reason at all. A few days later, Cat had a D&C. In the wheelchair after the procedure, all she could do was wipe her tears; there was nothing I could say to ease her pain.
Later, in Micah’s arms, I cried as well.
Cat and I spent the next few months worrying about the possibility of becoming parents. We didn’t know how long it would take for her to get pregnant again, nor did we know whether she could carry a baby to term. We’d been told that miscarriages were common; everyone seemed to know someone who’d had one and tried to console us with the thought that everything would be fine in the long run. We knew they meant well, we knew what they were saying was true. But we also were well acquainted with the other kind of story, the kind where things didn’t work out, and to Cat, the thought of never becoming a mother was unbearable. Another hard Christmas came and went, and on my birthday, when I turned twenty-five, my sister called to sing me “Happy Birthday.” When she asked me what I wanted, I could think of only one thing to say.
Our prayers were answered again in late January 1991, but we kept the news to ourselves this time. We didn’t want a repeat of what had happened before, but in April we learned the baby was developing normally and finally shared the good news. Cathy’s belly grew over the summer, and she spent hours looking through baby-name books and reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
Yet the stresses of life seemed to keep coming, one after the other, without relief. Despite working two jobs—three if you count Cat’s job—we were still struggling financially, unable to get ahead. Cat had health insurance through her employer, one that covered maternity, but in early summer, while she was five months along, she was laid off. When our cocker spaniel puppy reached twenty pounds, we were evicted from our apartment and