I can still feel the paper under my legs and hear the sound of my heartbeat and the doctor’s voice when she said to me, “It looks like you were on an antidepressant prior to becoming pregnant. Is that correct?”
I told her yes.
“Go ahead and get back on that medication,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”
You’re going to need it. What she didn’t say—but what she absolutely meant—was, “You are about to walk through the world’s worst kind of living hell.”
I closed my eyes against the tears and nodded. “How soon should I start on it again?” I could feel my husband’s terrified eyes looking over at me.
“Today,” she said.
My junior year of college, I became completely infatuated with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s and Ernest Hemingway’s writing. I love that Fitzgerald’s writing flows like water and captures every detail, and Hemingway’s reads like a telegraph—no excess included. I always wanted to situate myself somewhere between those two writing styles.
At some point, I bought a poster with a Hemingway quote that reads, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
I’ve always loved that. For me, that’s exactly what writing feels like. I’ve always written nonfiction because writing about my life and my experiences helps me to say the things I can never articulate out loud. I see the world the way I write it down: in long, drawn-out sentences that change speed to match timing, in details that are seared into memory, and in feelings so vivid they are almost tangible. That’s exactly why I ended up here, telling the story of my daughter. In order to fully explain how much I love that child—enough to move mountains—and how absolutely excruciating it is to have lost her, I have to write it down. I have to sit down at my typewriter (computer) and let the words come out like blood from an open wound. Because that’s exactly what they are. I have to tell you all that I remember.
Tonight, the blood is thick because I remember the sweat on my palms.
I remember there was a poster of Humpty Dumpty on the wall. Some kind of warning for pregnant women who present a fall risk.
I remember the doctor fumbling to get the ultrasound machine machine and, all the while, my heart racing. I remember wanting him to hurry up, but also wanting the machine to just be broken.
I remember nurses walking past our room in triage, whispering. They knew something was horribly, horribly wrong.
I remember the sound of the hospital bed paper crinkling under my $1 Old Navy flip flops.
I remember my mask filling up with tears.
I remember the feeling of the calluses on the doctor’s hand as he held mine. I remember him using the phrase “fetal demise” and wanting to punch him. I remember wanting to hug him.
I remember the look on my husband’s face as his entire world came crashing down. I remember feeling like it was my fault.
I remember that my first words were, “But so many people spent so much money on us,” and then wondering why in God’s name I had said that. “You’re in shock,” they said.
I remember walking back to the car and calling my mom. I remember choking out the words, “She’s gone. We’ve lost the baby.” I remember that she screamed. I remember feeling like I was about to destroy our entire family’s happiness.
I remember getting into the car and letting out a cry so guttural, so inhuman, I was surprised it was coming out of my own body.
On top of it all, I remember being immediately worried that I would never again feel pure, unfiltered, untainted happiness. I remember feeling like someone had taken a shovel, carved out my entire insides, thrown them on the ground, and said, “There. Now piece yourself back together.” Like Humpty Dumpty.
I still feel that way. I’m still scared of this earth-shattering sadness I feel. I’m still scared that the unfiltered, untainted happiness I felt while pregnant with my daughter will never return. I’m scared that these flashbacks will always be there to haunt me.
But I’m trying. I’m trying to flush all of that out and make room for happiness again. That’s why I’m sitting here, telling all of this to you. Because I have to.
I know it’s a hard story to read. It’s a hard story to live. That’s why I’m sitting here bleeding.
