What's Your Line?

This is a series of 4 vignettes, My Hand, It was Fast, Her Name and The Air that make up a short story
inspired by the Star Wars quote, “We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life.”

My hand
subconsciously rests on my bloated belly, comforting the ghost of the baby that used to reside within.
“Relax Julie” my mother whispers as she watches me out of the corner of her eyes, perched elegantly on the waiting room couch.
If losing this baby wasn’t enough, my mother’s constant presence ever since has surely taken its toll on my sanity.
“I know” I reply weakly and let my head slump back on the hard backed chair, relishing in the soft thud my skull makes and the dull pain that follows.
Tears fill the corners of my eyes,
they’ve been there for weeks now.
“Julie Abraham” the nurse calls my name sweetly with a hint of pity in her voice.
I sigh as i hoist my oversized body out of the chair
She smiles kindly at me as my mother and I approach the door before turning around, to lead us back.

“How are you feeling sweetheart?” she coos as she shuts the door to the examination room. Her words drip with false sincerity
“fine” I lie but notice the nurse’s eyes dart quickly to meet my mother’s
who i can only assume is shaking her head.
“I mean it’s rough, obviously but I’m taking it one day at a time”
“of course, that’s all you can do”
An awkward silence fills the air
although it probably isn’t awkward for the nurse
she probably deals with mothers of dead babies all the time.

Her stethescope is cold on my bare skin
my chest is sore from sobbing
I wince at the slight pain and she frowns apologetically as she rolls her instrument back up and places it in her coat pocket.
“Have you seen anyone yet sweetie? You really should be getting some professional help with this”.
I lower my eyes and shake my head, embarrassed. I can feel the tears coming and i quickly engross myself in a loose cuticle as my mother and the nurse engage in a silent conversation.
“Dr. Larther will be right in” she concedes and slips quietly out the door.



It was fast
But my god that didn’t diminish the pain. There was so much blood. I thought surely that can’t all be from the baby. I must be dying.
The doctors told me technically I didn’t miscarry, i had a stilll-birth
Anything after 20 weeks is considered a still-birth. I was 22. More than halfway there.
I didn’t “birth” her though. There was no pushing, no release of pressure. She fell out of me with a messy ripping sound and a blood curdling scream as I writhed on my bathroom floor at 2 am.
There is no way to describe this kind of simultaneous emotional and physical suffering
it breaks you.
In ways you didn’t think you could break
The life that leaves your body takes you with it.

I held her in my hands.
The exact size of the squash I examined at the farmer’s market earlier that day.
Her skin was red, splotchy, with purple crescent moons resting perfectly underneath her closed eyes
her eyelids, thin as paper, revealed every tiny vein underneath.
her limbs, the same width and length of my index finger were curled around her mid-section
as if trying to brace herself for the shock
of entering the world so violently.
I omitted a sound I didn’t think was humanly possible
a wail, a moan, a guttural cry that originated from my belly
and echoed off the bathroom tiles.
The contractions were still coming, racking my body
but I held her gently against my chest
Feeling the heat slip from her body.
Feeling the soul slip from my own.



Her name
is Annabelle. He picked it out.
After his best friend’s labrador growing up.
In Hindsight, I should have been concerned he wanted to name our daughter after a dog, but I loved the name. The way it sings when it rolls off your tongue.
A classic.
I could imagine an old black and white picture, worn at the edges, a perfect baby in a white dress perched to appear standing.
“Annabelle 1901”, written in beautiful script along the back.
It was timeless.
I imaged dressing her in girly onesies and headbands
frilly, pink, perfect.
He said “Let’s not impose gender roles on her”
but I couldn’t help it.
I couldn’t stop imagining this beautiful baby girl, lying peacefully in her crib. Softly cooing, her arms frantically waving, begging to be picked up.
He left on a Monday evening.
I was working late, tired and mentally preparing myself for a long, grinding week.
“Julie, I’m sorry. I’m not ready. I’m not going to be a good father and our daughter is better off without me. Please understand”
A note.
How cliche.
Cowards always seem to say that “she’ll be better off without me”
as a way to slither out of having any responsibility over this life you helped create.
I’d already created our Annabelle in my mind.
There was no going back.


The air
is thick and hard to breath
I shift my wait to discreetly unstick my thighs from the metal folding chair.
and focus my attention back to my phone and my Facebook timeline,
anything to avoid making small talk with the rest of the people in the room.
I’ve finally caved and gone to a grief support group
If anything, to appease my mother and convince her she can
go back home.
Around 25 chairs are set up in a circle
and they are every bit as uncomfortable as they look
more so because of the stifling heat in this church basement.
The circle titters with voices as people continue to filter in.
Why did I get here so early?
I’m about to get up and go to the bathroom, if only for something to do
when a large black woman stands from her chair and the room falls silent.
“welcome back everyone. For newcomers here, my name is Patricia and I’ll be leading today’s group...I wanted to start out with a quote,
‘We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life.’
C3PO said this in Star Wars Episode IV
It’s rather silly, since C3PO is a robot and arguably can’t suffer
it’s supposed to be a joke….
However, when i first heard this line, I couldn’t laugh.
It just seemed like such a bleak statement for a little girl who hadn’t experienced much suffering yet, and I, of course was too young to understand the irony.
Then I lost my son
and this line rang so true.
It’s still true. We are made to suffer.
We are programmed to love, have compassion, empathy
we aren’t robots.
We are vulnerable
and that vulnerability makes us an easy target for pain.
Whether we suffer or not is not up for debate
Everyone in this room knows that it is all of our lots in life to suffer.
It’s how we suffer
how we let it or don’t let it define us
And how we cope.
Do we let it strengthen us? Build resilience and understanding
or do we let it cripple us?
Take our voice, our passion, our light?
That is our choice, your choice, no one else’s and how you take this lot in life
what you do with it
that defines you.”
She sits back down, to murmurs of agreement and a few claps from others in the circle, the metal making a screeching sound as it bears her weight.
She wipes a tear from the corner of her eyes and then suddenly meets my gaze
I quickly look away, but when I look back, she is smiling at me.


Patricia blocks my quick escape from the room at the end of the session with an extended hand
“what’s your name sugar?”
I take it and am surprised by the roughness
“Julie” I reply quietly
“Julie” she says, putting emphasis on the Ju
I’ve always loved how someone can make your name sound so different
as if you’ve been saying it wrong your entire life.
“This is your first time” she states the fact rather than asks the question.
and I hesitantly nod, scared I’ve done something wrong, is there protocol for grieving?
is there a special protocol for people who hurt so bad
they can’t even feel pain anymore...
who can’t connect to another human being anymore?
“I hope to see you back next week. It’s a process Julie. No one can do it on their own….I hope you’ll share with me or with the group, when you’re ready….we’re glad you’re here”
My eyes start to sting and I blink back tears
“Cry, baby. it’s good for you”
She turns away, to let me have my privacy
as if she can tell that is what I need.
I nod even though she is not looking and
The tears run, thick and hot























"star people are rare"

-Jerry Spinelli