That Awful Year

It was one year ago on January 6th that I had that first awful appointment with the OB/GYN. I wrote the following, mainly about the first miscarriage, around last October, after the third:

It’s so much. It’s so much. You go to the office. You’re nervous. You talk about prenatal vitamins. You talk about skiing and horseback riding--two things you are no longer allowed to do. You talk about flaxseed. And you are in a hospital gown. And you feel small. You feel warm. Your husband is with you. You have done the dating thing, you’ve done the living together thing, you’ve gotten married. At your wedding, you think about having kids with this man. You think about looking down at a little person’s face and seeing his. His dimples. His dark hair. His big brat eyes. You think about his super test taking skills and how he likes to break into comedy routines in the grocery store line. You think about how as a kid he used to stay inside for hours reading comics. Or rowing a boat around his grandparent’s campground. And you think, you think maybe this little one will be like him. You hope so. You hope he’ll be good at jeopardy like his father. You hope he has his sweetness. You hope he has his weird hyena laugh, which you used to hate, but, but now, now you don’t. And you get onto the table. And the pretty doctor who you have a hard time understanding slides the wand in and begins searching around the monitor. She’s moving it around and around. And the screen is fuzzy. It looks like an old TV screen. And you remember the old TV case your parents had. With the knobs. You used to play in it. The TV glass was gone. You and your friends would put on shows through it--as though you were on TV. And you think about your parents. And you think. And she asks you to go use the restroom. And you come back. And she does it again. And then she goes and gets a better machine. And then she tells you that it seems small. And then. And then the nurse comes in and sticks you for blood. You have to have your hormone levels checked. And the nurse has dyed black hair. And it is graying. And she is wearing heavy black liquid eyeliner. And she has fat hands. And you are told. You think you may have been told that there is no heartbeat. And that it is small. But you can’t be sure. Maybe that’s not what she said. She’s checking your blood. Go to a place in Chinatown on Sunday. Check the blood again. You do. You have it drawn on Sunday. In Chinatown. And the place is crammed with people. And the day is warm. Sunny. It is January. In New York. And you wait. And you wait. The light is blinding. It is pouring through the window. It faces the street. The man sticks you. He tells you that his wife is also pregnant. You think he tells you it’s their fourth. But you can’t be sure. You are having a hard time hearing anyone. Perhaps you have lost your hearing. You can’t remember hearing anything out on the street. Just people. Moving. Moving past you. There is a pastry shop. And carts on the sidewalk. Full of odd fruits. And you walk back to the subway. And you call on Tuesday. You call to find out. You are in the stairway at work. You are trying to avoid having anyone hear you. And the nurse tells you everything is fine. And you double over and let out a sob. A wail. And it echoes in the stairway, a stairway painted a shiny grey. But part of you is confused. A part of you were preparing for the worst. Part of you doesn’t believe it. Part of your body must know. Part of you knows. And you are right. The doctor calls another day. And says she is sorry. It is not viable. And you think that she probably has a list in front of her of patients to call. Charts piled up next to her. Viable. Not viable. Tick, tick. Check, check. And you refuse to have the procedure. Part of you doesn’t believe it is happening. Part of you feels like it’s the last thing you can do for this baby. For this unrealized baby. For your baby. For your little, sweet, baby with your husband’s eyes. And your fat cheeks. You should go through this with this baby. Even though he is dead. You can’t imagine having someone go in and rip him, it, baby, embryo, out. And you try to continue with your life. But you can’t. You start imagining jumping in front of an oncoming train. If you could just jump. In front of. A train. This could be over. This. This black. But you don’t. And so you don’t. And things get lighter. Your hearing returns. And you try again. But, wash, rinse, repeat. And now when you look at pictures of her, this little girl, yourself, before all this, you think about how this will happen to her later and you feel sad for that girl, this Romana Quimby aged nine girl. This girl wearing turquoise striped shirts. This girl stringing up sheets in the backyard between fruit trees to put on plays. This girl who likes to draw tall slim ladies with wings and princess crowns because that’s what her sister did. This girl. This girl who is proud of her humming and whistling skills. This girl who thinks it would be fun to be a secretary someday because she likes the sound of long nails clicking on typewriters. This girl who doesn’t know that she will lose three pregnancies in one year. And that that will be her life. This girl. Me.