Novel Journey Critiques ~ Week 6

Read what our suggestions are, see if you agree or disagree. If we're off, leave a comment letting us know. Our suggestions are just that SUGGESTIONS. The author will be wise to use discernment and pick up what works for him/her and ignore what doesn't. We're not above learning. We sometimes don't agree with one another's critiques of our work. Sometimes we debate, but ninety-five percent of the time or better, we have learned to trust each other.

We've each been edited/critiqued by professional editors, best-selling authors, etc. and no one has been tougher on us than us. Our hope is that not only this author who bravely subbed his/her work will benefit, but that some folks reading the critique will be able to apply our suggestions to their own work.

Our critique code is as follows:
( ) = suggest deleting
[ ] = sugges adding
** = comments
gws=goes without saying
rue=resist the urge to explain
im= internal monologue

Original Chapter

I woke up at six in the morning with that familiar cramping in my belly. I curled up into a ball, pressed a pillow against my stomach and scooted my back up against my husband. The cramps got stronger and stronger and I knew there was no chance of me going back to sleep.

Not again, Lord. I can’t live through this again.

I didn’t want to wake my husband, Nathan. He had an early board meeting that was too important to miss. He’d find out soon enough anyway.

I made myself breathe through the cramps so I wouldn’t awaken him. About an hour later, he quietly got up and got dressed. I loved the way he tipped around the room and closed the bathroom door ever so carefully so he wouldn’t wake me up.

When he was dressed, he came over and nuzzled against my cheek. His lips brushed against my nose and lips. He whispered, “Love you, Imani” and left.

Not a moment too soon.

As soon as I heard him close the garage door and start his car, I rushed into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. I got there just in time for one huge cramp, then a rush of blood into the toilet. I sat and waited. I was familiar enough with the process to know what to expect. A side-splitting cramp nearly tore me in half. I whimpered and brushed the sweat off my forehead.

Then I felt it slither out of me. The large, clotted mass of tissue that would have been my firstborn child. Would have been my firstborn, but was now my third dead.

The cramps subsided. My bleeding eased to a slow trickle, then a slow drip. I sat there. Afraid to move in case the cramping started again. Afraid to think or feel because I might have to face what had just happened.

Again.

I willed my brain to go numb. Then my heart. After I sat on the cold, hard porcelain toilet seat another ten minutes, my legs went numb too. I made myself get up, dreading the pins and needles that would shoot down through my feet. I turned on the shower and waited for it to get as hot as I could stand it.

I peeled back the shower curtain and stood under the shower head letting the hot sheets of water course down my body. The heat helped take the edge off the cramps. I looked up at the ceiling.

God? I…

What could I say to Him? More importantly, what could He possibly have to say to me? I couldn’t begin to conceive what explanation He could give me. I guess He felt He didn’t owe me one. He was God after all. Could do whatever He wanted, whenever He wanted. Could allow whatever He wanted and call it testing me. Preparing me. Maybe even chastening me. Although I couldn’t think of what I had done that was bad enough to deserve this.

When the water falling at my feet ran clear, I stepped out of the shower, dried off and wrapped my large terry cloth robe around me. I pulled on some underwear and a maxi pad and lay down on the bed, seeking comfort in the softness of my sateen sheets.

I gritted my teeth to choke down the sobs wanting to escape from the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t allow myself to be overcome by that pain again. I had to deal differently this time.

Sleep would have been sweet, but I couldn’t get my mind to shut down. Plus, I was afraid of having bad dreams like before. I settled on staring out the window at the large oak tree. Every few minutes, a bird would land on a healthy branch and sing for while, then fly away.

After an hour of bird watching, I picked up the phone to call Nate. I needed to hear his deep voice, full of love for me, assuring me that no matter what, he loved me and everything would be all right. I hung up before I finished dialing. I knew his phone would be off because of the meeting. I didn’t want to leave a distressed message that would get him all upset.

He would kill me later for not calling him. For not telling him before he left really. But this meeting was too important.

And this was just another miscarriage.

I put the phone back in its cradle and rolled back over, sinking into my thick pillow top mattress.

God? I…

Everything in me wanted to talk to Him, but I was afraid of saying the wrong thing. Everything in my good Christian upbringing said never to question God for the bad things that happened in life. Just accept them as His will and trust that He knows what He’s doing. I had done that for every tragedy. When I lost my parents and sister. When I suffered abuse in foster home after foster home. With each of the miscarriages. I had quietly accepted “God’s will” and didn’t question His judgement in things He had allowed to happen in my life.

Could I do that this time?

A huge cramp felt like a giant hand squeezing the life out of my lower belly. I took a deep breath and panted through it. My years as a birthing coach left me with great training in dealing with labor pains. Ironic that I never got to use them for myself.

I thought about the last miscarriage almost a year ago. Nate held me in the bed for hours as I slept and cried. I had a similar cramp and started hemorrhaging. Bled so much I had to get two units of blood. I hated the thought of getting another transfusion. I knew they checked the blood for diseases but who knew what new diseases were in it that had yet to be discovered.
I reached for the phone and dialed my OB doctor’s private office line.