This blog is welcome to anyone and everyone, regardless of race, class, gender, sexual orientation, or political affiliation. Unless you don't like writing short stories or smelling bear. Or if you voted for the other guy. Also, I don't really like it when you leave up the toilet seat, so could you stop doing that? Muchas, muchas gracias.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

What to Expect

The real miscarriage is what the books don’t tell you. And you won’t hear it when you’re on a table staring at your ultrasound, no modesty regarding what-all’s hanging out the front of your paper shirt, which you're wearing backwards anyway.

But then again, maybe it will be different for you. Maybe it’s different for each woman.

What could happen is, your doctor will frown and explain what’s not there. She’ll describe how disappointed you must feel, which you are. She’ll tell you it wasn’t your fault, then she’ll go on to describe things you are not feeling at all. She’ll say, expect cramping and a “big bleed." She’ll know this great social worker & she’ll write down a phone number. She’ll see that you’re taking antidepressants and wonder if you’ve thought about hurting yourself.

Which you wouldn’t. God, no. You’re just sad in your own way. Like anyone with a heart would be sad.

Here’s what to expect: Imagine your uterus squashed like a Hyundai in a trash compactor. You'll realize you’re rocking with pain, you’re panting as though you’re giving birth. You are now being tortured for what they pinned on Eve. Well, fasten your seatbelt, because it's possible that when the pain subsides and you've had some sleep, the compactor will start up again. You'll contort yourself into all kinds of shapes, trying to find a place where you can stay as brave as you know you are. When it hurts this much, why in the hell would you want to hurt yourself?

Here’s my advice, when it starts: take a few days off. Wear dark-colored sweatpants and long shirts. Stock up on maxi pads the size of bricks. Be nice to yourself. Stay inside. Don’t be afraid. This is finite. I promise, this will be over, eventually, though maybe not soon enough.

Do call a friend. Because maybe she’s been through it. One in five of us have. Three in four if you’re older than 40 (or so says my doctor). The world will understand, so don't be ashamed to say it. Be as private as you need to be. If someone offers you pot, it's okay to accept it.

Remember that this child is still your child, and it always will be. Love wakened in you, and now you are blessed.

When it’s over, plant a tree.

Labels: , , , ,


Blogger ginab said...

I am sorry that they make you wait for the inevitable here and they do for the same reasons they won't touch popping a cyst: all bits and pieces could be heavenly beings.

Mine went fast (I was 28) but your experience, what you need to have on hand (truly) and the tree you must plant are embraced.

3:29 PM

Blogger ing said...

I understand there's lots of variation to this, and also a ton of silence.

7:09 PM

Blogger ginab said...

I know no one says much about what these are like. They rather happen in a word and in third person.

7:32 PM

Blogger josh williams said...

Ouch! I send my best. Josh

7:17 PM

Anonymous Anonymous said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

10:13 PM

Blogger Brian Whitney said...

That post was a wild ride.

12:15 PM

Blogger ing said...


1:57 PM


Post a Comment

<< Home