Amputation

The D & C is one of the most emotionally barbaric of all medical procedures. Just as the amputation of an arm takes with it all of the intricate life pursuits which require the dexterity of two hands, in the same way that the amputation of a leg is less the removal of a limb and more the removal of rich life experiences such as running, swimming, kicking and dancing in a normal rhythym, so too the D & C procedure represents the amputation of something precious. The permanent (on this side of Heaven) cessation of hope for one particular new life. I wasn't losing my arms, but I was losing the ability to use those arms to cradle the new life I had so desperately hoped for. In a sense, I felt I was going into the hospital to have everything that had breathed new life into my lonely, battered heart sucked out in one fell swoop. I registered on the first floor of the hospital. My mom, who I was so grateful to have with me, and my husband were there with me. We three have been bonded in joy and were now being soldered together in sadness, too. I was called for escort to the floor where the surgery would take place. The male hospital staffer punched the elevator button and away we went. There was another woman in the elevator with me, standing silently with her husband. As the doors opened onto the maternity ward, we stood aside for a couple of nurses to pass pulling babies in their little hospital cradles. One baby had jet black hair. This one caught my attention because, before the ravages of life gripped my husband's head, he did, too. One of the sweetest things about having a child with someone you love is mixing your genetics with theirs. My heart spilled out onto the cold tile floor of that hallway and I felt as if our little procession was just walking right over the brittle shards as we made our way toward the surgery waiting area.