Since I received the bloodwork results, each day is a torturous exercise of waiting for my body to finish the job. After 12 months of trying, we finally had a second conception, only to be met by the same stigmatizing stamp – unviable. My hCG levels are rising, but at an abnormally slow rate. The doctor says another miscarriage is likely.
Keeping the news of this pregnancy within my immediate family circle has proved both a blessing and a curse. While I will not have to endure the endless retelling of another failure or dodge the pitiful glances, holding this close to the vest makes my loss feel insignificant and stifles bereavement. It’s as if I am grieving alone.
The annual 4th of July cookout offers the temptation of distraction. And I naively decide to attend. We turn onto my Aunt’s block to find cars lining both sides of her otherwise quiet neighborhood street, forcing us to park only halfway up the hill. My husband engages the emergency brake, removes the key from the engine, and turns his gaze to meet mine, sunglasses shielding his reticent concern. For a moment, we remain in the air-conditioned solace of the car, silently considering the same why. He respects my choice and follows my lead.
The car door opens to a rush of mugginess and a moment of reprieve, a drop of dopamine triggered by memories of many family BBQs in this space. Sizzles, splashes, and voices sharpen as we approach the house. I push the wooden gate, and its squeaky torque opens to reveal a setting as familiar as the back of my hand.
An inground pool surrounded by rough cement tile covers the majority of the yard. Any grassy or shady real estate fills in with beach towels and mismatched folding chairs placed by visiting uncles, aunts, and cousins. I see my parents and rush to set our chairs nearby. While my extended family is unaware that I am pregnant, I feel awkward and anxious, thereby adopting my parents as a security blanket for today’s social interactions.
Changes begin within an hour of our arrival. I am fatigued. The summer air is thick with humidity. My body feels exceedingly heavy. This visit has proved more taxing than I had hoped, and the chore of conversation begins to grate on my nerves. Could this be regret? Is it the heat? In search of an empty chair, I sense a mild cramping and an intense rush of dread. With tunnel vision, I move to the bathroom.
A smell of grilled meat and chlorine wafts through the open window as I sit on the toilet, understanding the inevitable result of these cramps. Tears slip through my thighs and disappear on the ceramic tiles below, echoing my wish to vanish. Still, there is no escape from the familiar and unwelcome wrenching of my defective reproductive organs.
Each pinch escalates in crescendo with the conversation and laughter coming from the yard, a carefree soundtrack at odds with my reality. My world is coming to an end, trapped in this 8X8 foot prison. Less than a foot of sheetrock and shingles separates my raw ugliness from the family festivities. The mental anguish radiating from within me seems powerful enough to penetrate walls and suck all available oxygen from the air, yet someone just cannonballed into the pool. Anchored to the toilet seat, I lean my upper body to the side and sandwich head to forearm on the vanity’s Formica countertop. My eyes trace the filmy patterns and frosted glass textures on the shower doors. I am miscarrying, and there is nothing I can do to change the setting.
Why did I come here today? I feel my gut twist with anger, thinking, how could I be so shortsighted? I knew that this could happen at any time in the coming days. The rush of resentment is so intense that I bite my cheek to prevent myself from screaming.
Contractions continue, and my head spins with the impossible task of reconciling the present with the unknown. What if this miscarriage is different from the last? Will the pain be worse? Could I pass out? How long until this is over? While I know the heartbeat has ceased, I bargain with my body, clench my Kegels, and will my cervix closed to contain the remains until I am home. These efforts in vain, my awareness moves to the slippery release from my vaginal opening, a tiny sack that looks like a large, opaque clot.
And just like that, I am no longer carrying my child.
Instead, I am thrust further into a black hole where opposite forces compete to tear me apart. Assaults of intimacy and exposure, love and loathing, pain and numbness overwhelm my nervous system. While the physical pressure relents, emotional pain continues to crush me. Dead inside, my heart goes on beating. It could stop right now; I am not afraid to die. Either there is a Heaven where my angels wait, or there is nothing, and I will not know the difference. Undoubtedly, Hell is here and now, on Earth, and I want out.
Upon standing, there is a surge of panic that comes with realizing that my baby is in the toilet. Privacy buffered my first miscarriage. I stayed in bed until the cramps insisted I move to the bathroom, where I hovered over my toilet, and the embryo fell into my hands.
I missed the catch this time. I can’t flush!
Having lost all track of time, I am not sure how long I have been in here. There are only two bathrooms. Surely, there’s a line of people just outside the door. Still, I refuse to consider flushing my baby like a dead goldfish. Peering out the window, I search the yard for a lifeline. My mom is sitting within earshot. I call to her, mustering composure and courage while convincing myself that for all anyone knows, I need a tampon.
She arrives with a knock, and I open the door just enough to allow her to slide sideways into my Hell. With the door closed, she surveys the scene. There is a potent mix of urgency and fear behind her eyes. “I just lost the baby!” I sob. Eager to stop my ache and in search of a salve, she asks, “What can I do?” I explain that I did not catch it this time; the embryo is in the toilet.
Without hesitation, my mom plunges her bare hand into the toilet. She is in rescue mode. She scoops out the sac and cradles it in her hand. “Is this it?” she asks with innocent desperation. She doesn’t know what to expect, having never miscarried. Still, I can’t help but worry if she is thinking, “This is it.” – a slight twist on the words with an unsettling consequence born in my paranoid fear that she is judging me for being attached to a glob. “Yes,” I quiver and lean on the sink, identifying the amorphous mass as my unborn child. I feel weak and useless as she wraps what should have been my baby in a cotton quilt of toilet paper.
My mother sees my exposure and blankets me with fierce protection. She receives my vulnerability with unconditional love and preserves my dignity. Her clarity affords a continuance, the chance of goodbye away from here, in a safer space. All I want is to fold into my mother like the embryo folded in the tissue she holds in her hands.
We spend the next minutes making a plan for how I will transition back to the outside world. I imagine scenarios over platters of burgers and macaroni salad. “Hey, Dawn. It’s so good to see you. What’s new?” I reply, “All is well, besides the fact that I had a miscarriage about five minutes ago in Auntie Linda’s bathroom. Would you please pass the mustard?”
Inner tantrums continue to erupt, and I force them into hiding, like an inhumane game of whack-a-mole. Despite my burning wish to be invisible, the mirror tells me otherwise. I splash cold water on my blotchy, swollen face to regain composure. Eventually, my longing to make an inconspicuous exit wins out over my tantrums, and I wonder, how has this bathroom gone from prison to sanctuary?
My mom leaves first and takes the toilet paper cradle with her when she goes. Shutting the door, I push the lock button and realize that I will fall apart again if I linger too long. I blow my nose, stuff some tissues into my pocket, and take one last look in the mirror, whispering to myself, “It is what it is now. You are as composed as you are going to get.” After a few deep breaths, I reach for the worn brass knob, and the lock disengages with a jarring pop, as loud as a starting gun, that signals my exit. I cross the threshold to the hallway with a nod to the tectonic shift that has occurred within me: physical, mental, and emotional terrains reshaped.
The creak of the screen door seems louder now, heralding my reentry to the yard. Scanning for my husband, I try to look confident despite a weighted cloak of shame. I approach with one last hard swallow and prepare my brief. “It just happened,” I tell him. No other words are needed. No other words are possible. Mentally and physically posturing for control over the threatening quivers, I assert, “Let me be for a while.”
As we prepare to leave, my mom signals to her purse in reply to the question behind my eyes. My heart, torn from my body, now rests in the faux leather bag sitting on her lap. The juxtaposition of that toilet paper cradle set atop her make-up and wallet seems ludicrous yet somehow comforting. Steadfast in her role as my shield, she will bring the remains home. Together, we will bury my second baby with the first.
Any other day a goodbye would be just that, punctuation at the end of a visit with a hug and some pleasant talk of next time. Today, the process of leaving muddles with the recognition that this place will never be the same for me. The reel of fond childhood memories flickers in my head while I gather my belongings: a red split level home, the musty smell of the wood-paneled basement, countless sleepovers, my cousins’ staple diet of cheese and mustard sandwiches, festive family get-togethers where all that mattered in the world was endless play and popsicles. It was here that I found my courage to swim in the deep end and jump from a diving board for the first time.
These memories slip between my hands with the latch on the gate as I exit the yard, estranged by trauma.
Trapped in an Air Pocket 