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Bolder and Braver - My Undercover Life
Julia Torres
Verlag Full Court Press, 2021
ISBN 9781946989956 , 307 Seiten
Format ePUB
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2
Returning to Me
One hot July morning ten weeks into my pregnancy, I was listening to supplemental instruction on nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare with my peers during A.T. Every word the sergeant spoke began to fade until it became unintelligible.
Staff Sergeant Penney, who was standing to my left, looked at me. “Torres, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I replied meekly.
“You sure? Your color doesn’t look right.”
“Yes, I…I just need to sit down.” My eyes fluttered, and, feeling woozy, I grabbed the chain link fence beside me.
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” he said to the instructor. “Call an ambulance. Sergeant Torres is about to pass out.”
Class stopped. Within minutes, screaming sirens arrived, and I was whisked to the base hospital. From there, snippets of scenes flashed before me—a slight prick in the forearm, body shivering, medical staff remarks—until I was out.
A few hours later, I awoke tired but clear-headed in a private hospital room, sun shining through the window.
Immediately I placed my hand on my queasy tummy. Something was different.
On the wooden nightstand to my right, a note read Julia, I came to see you, but you were asleep. I’ll call you later. Your pager’s in the drawer. It was ringing. I turned it off so it wouldn’t wake you. Hope you feel better—Kathy.
Kathy Coury-Maixner, an officer and a friend, belonged to another platoon in the same company as I did. During the Gulf, she had sent me encouraging letters and assisted Mom with my sexual harassment complaints.
I checked my pager—Rick’s number was followed by Mom’s. Although I’d told him about my pregnancy, she had learned of it in a comical way. Wondering why I hadn’t been feeling well, she had accompanied me to the pharmacy. The Cuban pharmacist had placed a pill container of Materna in a small bag.
“What’s that prescription for?” asked Mom.
Uh, oh. I had raised my eyebrows and widened my eyes at him, hoping he’d glance my way.
He’d stapled the paper bag, answering without looking up, “It’s a vitamin for pregnant women.”
There was a pause.
When he handed me the prescription, he saw my facial expression and realized he had spilled the beans. “Oh, but it’s not just for that. I take them, too,” he’d blurted.
I had almost laughed at his absurd cover-up attempt.
Afterward, I had shared the news with Mom, who had not been upset, figuring I was a grown woman living alone and accustomed to making my own decisions. It had been a pleasant surprise when she suggested that I work nights while she worked days in order to care for the baby ourselves.
As I chuckled out loud at the thought of a man taking pregnancy vitamins, a doctor and nurse entered my room.
“Miss Torres?”
“Yes, Doctor?”
Stethoscope around his neck, small rectangular wire-rimmed glasses over expressionless eyes, he asked, “How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“No.”
“You’re going through the beginning phase of a miscarriage.”
I gasped, covered my mouth, and closed my eyes.
“It’ll be all right,” said the nurse, who’d been silent.
I brought my head down, my shoulders slumped, and I took a slow deep breath.
“Your body will expel the fetus when it’s ready.”
I looked up. “…Expel?”
“When there’s a defective fetus in the womb, the body will automatically reject it. Do you understand?”
“Yes…I’m going to lose my baby,” I said, the rise and fall of my voice a whisper.
“I’m sorry, Miss Torres. You’ll be under observation. Irene will be your nurse. If you need anything, pull the cord behind you. She will tend to you until the end of her shift. Another nurse will take over from there,” he advised, and left.
Irene approached my bed, drawing the crisp white sheets over me. “Miss Torres, you’re not alone. Approximately twenty-five percent of pregnancies become miscarriages in the first trimester. Most of which are male fetuses.”
“I understand, but it doesn’t make it easier,” I said.
Her big brown eyes softened. “No, it doesn’t, sweetie. I had a miscarriage once, too. I know how you’re feeling.”
“Thank you.”
“Please let me know if you need anything.”
Once the door closed, I turned on my side and cried.
My baby…my son. I touched my stomach again. Why is this happening? Was it the Gulf?
Needing a friend, I returned Rick’s page. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Where are you, J.?”
“At the hospital in Fort Dix.”
“I knew something was up when you didn’t return my call. What happened?”
“I’m being observed. I’ll be having a miscarriage soon.”
“…I’m sorry. How do you feel?”
“Not good,” I said, looking around the room.
“You need anything?”
“No.”
“I’ll head that way after work.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to. Your mom know?”
“No, I called you first.”
“Okay. I’ll bring her with me and tell her on the way.”
When they arrived, Mom, having had her own miscarriage before my sister’s birth, was empathetic and did most of the talking. They left around eight o’clock, but two hours after their departure, I began having excruciating abdominal pain.
Rising from the bed with the urge to urinate, I wheeled the shepherd-hook IV to the bathroom. As I opened the stall door, the torturous pangs increased.
I bit my lip, held my scream. Dizziness took over. Sweat dripped down my forehead. I sat on the toilet and looked down; the water had turned a bright crimson. Globs of red and pink spewed from inside me.
The reality was worse than the pain. Feeling faint, I slowly moved my hand to pull the emergency cord on the wall. It was hard to grasp, until at last the light string made contact with my skin.
A nurse pushed open the stall door. “Miss Torres?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Medic, stat!” she shouted.
Medical personnel ran in, strapping me on a gurney. I felt as light as a feather.
The sirens of an ambulance wailed; I was in it, falling in and out of consciousness.
When I opened my eyes, a man in green scrubs was standing over me. In that cold operating room, he mumbled about anesthesia. Moments later, I was out again.
In what I assumed was the early afternoon of the next day, I awoke in a well-lit, open room surrounded by unknown voices, light music, and rubber soles moving to and fro. Several blankets were draped over me.
A nurse pulled a curtain wide open. “Miss Torres?”
“Yes?” My mouth was dry.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired and thirsty. What happened?”
“The doctor will be in shortly.”
Within five minutes, a thin doctor entered, fixing his tie. “Miss Torres, you’re out of recovery. That’s good. You began hemorrhaging heavily late last night. Fort Dix was not equipped to handle it, so you were rushed here. We had to perform an emergency D&C.”
“Where am I?”
“Rancocas Hospital in Willingboro. You arrived at eleven p.m. An ambulance will take you back to the Fort Dix hospital once you’re cleared.”
“Will it be today?”
“Yes. A nurse will bring you discharge papers.”
I felt alone, empty; the sadness hurt.
But God gave me a reprieve. When I reached Fort Dix, I was able to spend time with Rick. He had walked into my room for...
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