Photo from the mosaic benches surrounding General Grant’s Memorial, NYC
It’s been five weeks and one day since my D&C. Yes, I am counting. No, I really don’t want to. I wake up every fucking morning and it is the first thing that comes to mind – five weeks, one day. No longer pregnant. Staring down the possibility of actively trying to conceive. Slinking away from the possibility of more loss.
I mentioned before that I had my D&C performed at a Manhattan abortion clinic because in a city of 8 million it takes a week or more for your OB’s clinic, or his OB buddies, to get you on the D&C schedule. Some might be able to live for a week with a dead baby inside of them. I cannot. So I opted for the abortion clinic.
I did not cry the morning of the procedure. I did not cry in the cab. I did not cry in the waiting room. I did not cry as I sat, naked and draped in a gown in the “holding area,” absorbent square of paper under my butt. I did not cry when they called me back to use the restroom.
I did cry when they walked me through the doors into a sterile, brightly lit room. I cried big hot tears when I saw that all to familiar table and stirrups. I cried when I saw all the white coats, all the machines, the suction device. I could not catch my breath as they laid me back and put the IV in. I desperately needed to speak but I couldn’t find my voice between the sobs.
All I wanted was to tell these women my story. I needed 60 seconds to say that this baby was WANTED and if they saw a heartbeat to leave it. But I couldn’t. I could not get the words out and rather than give me a moment to collect myself the anesthesiologist said, “You are going to feel sleepy.”
And then I was gone.
I just wanted to tell my story. I wanted them to know this was not an abortion. I’m sure they knew from my paperwork but I still needed to say it. I needed them to know that this was my miracle that they were about to suck from my womb. I needed to share my pain for just a moment. I needed closure.
But there was no moment.
For the last 36 mornings I have woken up wondering if my baby might have been alive. Even though I know it wasn’t. Heartbeats don’t come and go. But the ache is still there.
