The Decision
Tarice L. S. Gray
When I told my husband, Rodney, a baby was on its way, his reaction, like mine, could only be measured by the brevity of joy. We were concerned about tomorrow. One yesterday in our recent past, we were held at gunpoint by the LAPD. Rodney, a man who’d never earned a speeding ticket, was driving while black. For that we were terrorized, traumatized, and stunned by the reality of what could, did, happen to us. But our cloud of concern covered the nation. America was existing on the brink of the Great Recession and my career had been cutback by my former employer a few months before. Uncertainty lived in the house we'd just purchased and there wasn't much room for anything else. How would we then make room for a child? The concerns made it clear—this journey would need a plan. One that would allow for us to extend at least the invitation of joy. Love wasn't enough.
My pregnancy, her birth, and our in-between was as unconventional as our circumstance. The doctor had determined my pregnancy was high risk. I had a tumor that, although benign, would be well nurtured in my womb. It was an inconvenient truth, but the baby my mother had nicknamed Missy was thriving. So I endured the lectures from my gynecologist about the tumor, and the complications it could cause. Death. Certainly a complication.
“You'll bleed out on the table.” She warned me. “Just because it’s benign doesn’t mean it can’t kill you.” Every appointment was terrifying. Every scenario was conveyed as worst case. This is my way forward. It was an exhausting journey.
There was no comfort. I found no peace. I kept my comments to myself and battled against an instinct that would have me marching out of her door. From advice to explanation my doctor’s words tortured me.
My husband and I tried to distract ourselves from the steady stream of doctor visits, hospital stays, and tears that came with the unknown. We focused on her pending arrival painting her room canary yellow. Cheerful, energetic, lively. Just as my Missy, would come to be.
The vibe before she came was much more indigo. Eleven different doctors, concerning me. One of them was a high-risk pregnancy specialist. The final meeting with him was defining. When we walked into his office I couldn't tell if the frigidness in the room was from the overzealous air conditioner in the corner or his seeming disinterest in my humanity. I stroked the goose bumps on my arm and became fascinated by how the raised skin forced the hair upright. Rigid. Frigid. The doctor shook Rodney's hand and began to explain “the plan” as we looked at Missy on the monitor. She had settled just below the large tumor which, at just under 30 weeks, was about equal to her in size.
“This largest tumor is benign but growing with the baby, so we want to induce you, and take her out early.” The high risk expert had never been anything but formal in the appointments leading up to our last. But the information that was coming out of his mouth needed a cushion. He presented an “it’s her or you” scenario as our only option. Her health was to be sacrificed to preserve mine. They presumed to make my decision for me. I distracted myself focusing on the photo of his children, peach colored cheeks, chestnut hair, smiling, on the table next to that machine they used to view my brown baby. He was a father.
His words journeyed into my ears and then dissolved in that space. It was over. My concern. The cloud that had overshadowed my joy for pending motherhood had drifted. Crying from the threat of losing her, the sinister reminder that my tumors could erupt. Panic. I’d had two attacks. The rush in my chest, the jabbing in my belly. I'd become a regular at Burbank hospital’s emergency room. But now all of it was settled. In that moment I decided to make a change.
He finished detailing his plan. The steroid program would start immediately. I'd been instructed to ingest the steroids to expedite the growth of her developing lungs. He wrote out a prescription and continued to talk as Rodney listened. I recognized insanity. Delivering my otherwise healthy baby early, purposefully interrupting her development. It would be a disservice to her to take away the time she needed to prepare for this life. I knew that. So I left. My mind did anyway. My eyes wandered back to the photo of the doctor's children with the peach-colored cheeks and chestnut hair.
He stopped talking as I made my peace. As Rodney and I left I informed my husband of my decision.
“I found someone.” I started immediately detailing “my plan” for Missy’s delivery. For weeks I had consoled myself on the internet researching alternatives to this high-risk team
“What for?” He asked.
“To deliver the baby. A specialist in my condition, very respected, renowned.” I tried to sell it. I was just about ten weeks from my due date and prepared to switch doctors. Rodney thought he was recognizing insanity.
“The doctor already said he would induce you so it won't be a problem.”
“The doctor said he was going to put your baby on steroids, STEROIDS, to develop her lungs. And she'll live in a box in the NICU for a few months. That's okay with you?”
Rodney was sick of me. I knew it. I’d been hyper-pregnant for the past two months and out of work. All my time was spent preparing for the baby. I was consumed with getting this right.
“I just thought the doctor knew what he was talking about.” He sighed, scratching the afro he'd been growing since I'd discovered we were pregnant—as tribute to his first born. It was annoying. Not the scratching, that seventies tribute 'fro. I held firm to my decision not for a moment considering his inclusion in it, only the outcome for our baby girl.
“I think we need to meet with this doctor, get a second opinion, to find out if she can be a full term baby,” I argued. “I think she deserves to be a full term baby, and if you don't, then...”
“No, no don't do that. I'm not a doctor, and neither are you. So if the doctor says he has a plan, why can't we trust him?”
“Rodney, I'm not ingesting any steroids, and I'm not showing up to be induced next week. That's it!”
I threatened him with tears and he relented. We meet with my new doctor and made the switch despite Rodney's apprehension to pay out-of-pocket as the sear-sucker suit wearing specialist did not take insurance. My former ob-gyn was absolutely insulted. The news came not from me, but from the medical assistant calling to get my records for my new doctor’s sole purpose. I didn’t consider courtesy when I made the decision to switch. She called requiring an explanation for my perceived incompetence–switching physicians heading into my final trimester. I didn't offer her much of one. My daughter was what mattered, neither her pride, nor our lack of income could outweigh that.
My rushed relationship with the good doctor was eased somewhat by his self-assured demeanor and the caché he held at the top hospitals in Los Angeles. We settled on the highly regarded Cedars Sinai Medical Center.
Missy was born two months later via cesarean section.
The day after her birth, I had fully emerged from my cloud of medication and was able to absorb her beauty. Everyone was in love.
I inhaled the fragrance of new life. The sweetness of its innocence. I wanted more for her and became guardian over her joy. It was heaven's gift. And, I had decided so was she.
###
Tarice L.S. Gray‘s essays have been published in the 2017 edition of Morning with Jesus and also in the literary magazine BlazeVOX as well as Huffington Post. She earned an MFA in Creative Nonfiction writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University. But she’s also known for other writing genres. A former NPR journalist, Tarice was a producer and writer for two national talk shows based in Los Angeles. And her book Word Harvest is archived in the Poets House in New York City. A married mother of one daughter, Tarice is a member of the Nonfiction writers’ caucus with the Writers' Guild of America, West in Hollywood.
When I told my husband, Rodney, a baby was on its way, his reaction, like mine, could only be measured by the brevity of joy. We were concerned about tomorrow. One yesterday in our recent past, we were held at gunpoint by the LAPD. Rodney, a man who’d never earned a speeding ticket, was driving while black. For that we were terrorized, traumatized, and stunned by the reality of what could, did, happen to us. But our cloud of concern covered the nation. America was existing on the brink of the Great Recession and my career had been cutback by my former employer a few months before. Uncertainty lived in the house we'd just purchased and there wasn't much room for anything else. How would we then make room for a child? The concerns made it clear—this journey would need a plan. One that would allow for us to extend at least the invitation of joy. Love wasn't enough.
My pregnancy, her birth, and our in-between was as unconventional as our circumstance. The doctor had determined my pregnancy was high risk. I had a tumor that, although benign, would be well nurtured in my womb. It was an inconvenient truth, but the baby my mother had nicknamed Missy was thriving. So I endured the lectures from my gynecologist about the tumor, and the complications it could cause. Death. Certainly a complication.
“You'll bleed out on the table.” She warned me. “Just because it’s benign doesn’t mean it can’t kill you.” Every appointment was terrifying. Every scenario was conveyed as worst case. This is my way forward. It was an exhausting journey.
There was no comfort. I found no peace. I kept my comments to myself and battled against an instinct that would have me marching out of her door. From advice to explanation my doctor’s words tortured me.
My husband and I tried to distract ourselves from the steady stream of doctor visits, hospital stays, and tears that came with the unknown. We focused on her pending arrival painting her room canary yellow. Cheerful, energetic, lively. Just as my Missy, would come to be.
The vibe before she came was much more indigo. Eleven different doctors, concerning me. One of them was a high-risk pregnancy specialist. The final meeting with him was defining. When we walked into his office I couldn't tell if the frigidness in the room was from the overzealous air conditioner in the corner or his seeming disinterest in my humanity. I stroked the goose bumps on my arm and became fascinated by how the raised skin forced the hair upright. Rigid. Frigid. The doctor shook Rodney's hand and began to explain “the plan” as we looked at Missy on the monitor. She had settled just below the large tumor which, at just under 30 weeks, was about equal to her in size.
“This largest tumor is benign but growing with the baby, so we want to induce you, and take her out early.” The high risk expert had never been anything but formal in the appointments leading up to our last. But the information that was coming out of his mouth needed a cushion. He presented an “it’s her or you” scenario as our only option. Her health was to be sacrificed to preserve mine. They presumed to make my decision for me. I distracted myself focusing on the photo of his children, peach colored cheeks, chestnut hair, smiling, on the table next to that machine they used to view my brown baby. He was a father.
His words journeyed into my ears and then dissolved in that space. It was over. My concern. The cloud that had overshadowed my joy for pending motherhood had drifted. Crying from the threat of losing her, the sinister reminder that my tumors could erupt. Panic. I’d had two attacks. The rush in my chest, the jabbing in my belly. I'd become a regular at Burbank hospital’s emergency room. But now all of it was settled. In that moment I decided to make a change.
He finished detailing his plan. The steroid program would start immediately. I'd been instructed to ingest the steroids to expedite the growth of her developing lungs. He wrote out a prescription and continued to talk as Rodney listened. I recognized insanity. Delivering my otherwise healthy baby early, purposefully interrupting her development. It would be a disservice to her to take away the time she needed to prepare for this life. I knew that. So I left. My mind did anyway. My eyes wandered back to the photo of the doctor's children with the peach-colored cheeks and chestnut hair.
He stopped talking as I made my peace. As Rodney and I left I informed my husband of my decision.
“I found someone.” I started immediately detailing “my plan” for Missy’s delivery. For weeks I had consoled myself on the internet researching alternatives to this high-risk team
“What for?” He asked.
“To deliver the baby. A specialist in my condition, very respected, renowned.” I tried to sell it. I was just about ten weeks from my due date and prepared to switch doctors. Rodney thought he was recognizing insanity.
“The doctor already said he would induce you so it won't be a problem.”
“The doctor said he was going to put your baby on steroids, STEROIDS, to develop her lungs. And she'll live in a box in the NICU for a few months. That's okay with you?”
Rodney was sick of me. I knew it. I’d been hyper-pregnant for the past two months and out of work. All my time was spent preparing for the baby. I was consumed with getting this right.
“I just thought the doctor knew what he was talking about.” He sighed, scratching the afro he'd been growing since I'd discovered we were pregnant—as tribute to his first born. It was annoying. Not the scratching, that seventies tribute 'fro. I held firm to my decision not for a moment considering his inclusion in it, only the outcome for our baby girl.
“I think we need to meet with this doctor, get a second opinion, to find out if she can be a full term baby,” I argued. “I think she deserves to be a full term baby, and if you don't, then...”
“No, no don't do that. I'm not a doctor, and neither are you. So if the doctor says he has a plan, why can't we trust him?”
“Rodney, I'm not ingesting any steroids, and I'm not showing up to be induced next week. That's it!”
I threatened him with tears and he relented. We meet with my new doctor and made the switch despite Rodney's apprehension to pay out-of-pocket as the sear-sucker suit wearing specialist did not take insurance. My former ob-gyn was absolutely insulted. The news came not from me, but from the medical assistant calling to get my records for my new doctor’s sole purpose. I didn’t consider courtesy when I made the decision to switch. She called requiring an explanation for my perceived incompetence–switching physicians heading into my final trimester. I didn't offer her much of one. My daughter was what mattered, neither her pride, nor our lack of income could outweigh that.
My rushed relationship with the good doctor was eased somewhat by his self-assured demeanor and the caché he held at the top hospitals in Los Angeles. We settled on the highly regarded Cedars Sinai Medical Center.
Missy was born two months later via cesarean section.
The day after her birth, I had fully emerged from my cloud of medication and was able to absorb her beauty. Everyone was in love.
I inhaled the fragrance of new life. The sweetness of its innocence. I wanted more for her and became guardian over her joy. It was heaven's gift. And, I had decided so was she.
###
Tarice L.S. Gray‘s essays have been published in the 2017 edition of Morning with Jesus and also in the literary magazine BlazeVOX as well as Huffington Post. She earned an MFA in Creative Nonfiction writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University. But she’s also known for other writing genres. A former NPR journalist, Tarice was a producer and writer for two national talk shows based in Los Angeles. And her book Word Harvest is archived in the Poets House in New York City. A married mother of one daughter, Tarice is a member of the Nonfiction writers’ caucus with the Writers' Guild of America, West in Hollywood.