by Asha Loon
Using imagery to explain my miscarriage of 2005.
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I remembered, as I was dreaming, an intense pain shot through my lower regions. Usually, I had always been able to feel pain, pleasure and sadness within my mental escapades, but nothing compared to that.
I opened my eyes and let the doctor’s warnings play in my mind.
“The miscarriage is going to hurt while it passes. You should pass the fetus in a couple days Be sure to take the medication.”
The thought of a dead being dwelling inside of me was frightening. The doc had told me that my baby had died two weeks prior to the signs of miscarriage. So that meant I had been falling in love with a corpse, attempting to nurture and nourish a corpse, talking to a corpse. I tried ignoring my morbid thoughts, letting my eyelids close, wanting to escape back into slumber land, but the contractions continued.
I ran into the bathroom, determined to erase my new anguish with painkillers. I was leery to take the Vicodin, as result of the previous day’s comedown period, and instead popped a few Ibuprofens.
My zombie baby’s father was up by then, sitting on the floor playing various videogames, showing no signs of concern for my being. I remained on the air mattress, fighting the strong desire to scream at him, to yank out his long blonde hair; I hated him for his lack of sympathy for our baby and myself. I curled up into a ball, counting the seconds until the new series of contractions began, wishing the drugs would kick it.
Brent, without even making eye contact with me, finally asked, “Is there anything I can do?”
I knew secretly that he did not want me to answer that question. He really did not give a damn about what was going on that morning. He was too concerned with his videogames, attempting to achieve his serotonin high as most people with ADD do. Instead of biting his head off, I gave a gruff, “No” and returned to concentrate on sleeping.
Hours had passed, and once I woke up, completely numbed, I was not surprised to see Brent still playing the same game.
A tingling sensation ran up and down my body, so I went to restroom, hoping it was the end. A sickening gush was followed by a quick PLOP into the toilet water. I remembered just staring ahead, adrenaline and dread battling over my emotions as I exclaimed the journey was over.
I soon gathered the motivation to get up and see what had made it’s way out of my body. There was blood, and lots of it. Blood so dark I could not see the fetus at all, but the desire to see my baby was strong and I had to satiate that hunger.
I retrieved a wooden spoon and gently lifted my child from the bloody waters as Brent came in soon after. I gained satisfaction as I showed him the small pink mass that did not resemble a child at all, watching his eyes water and his urge to vomit rise. I could not help but laugh at him. I did not care if it disgusted him; that was my child and I had loved it regardless of how it appeared, more so than he ever would. He turned tail and returned to his videogame.
As I analyzed my creation, I remembered that the doctor had told me of two options once the baby had passed: 1) Dispose of it myself. Or 2) Put it in a baggie and bring it to the clinic for disposal. If I took it to the doctor’s office, would they simply throw it in the trash, causing me to waste gas and drive 10 miles to and from home? I did not find it necessary. I was strong, or so I thought, I could get rid of it myself, right?
I pushed down on the handle and watched everything go down the drain, leaving the vessel vacant. I sat upon the sink for a while, starting to rethink what I had just done, pondering where my child was going. I was sickened with my actions. I had just disposed of “Bean” like a piece of waste, like it was nothing, and it was too late to do it over. I wished that I had agreed to go under the knife to have the D&C procedure; maybe then the image of my baby would not haunt my thoughts…
I felt depression consume me; I was completely empty. I had flushed all my love and emotions down the toilet.