On Miscarriage, Motherhood, and Wanting to Control What You Cannot See
On the day when two pink lines stared up at me, I wondered which set of events I had set in motion. A baby? Or not a baby?
I was so overwhelmed with the responsibility I uttered nonsense. I willed tears to come so I wouldn’t be found out as a fraud.
And they did, once she wormed her way onto my breast, where she stayed for the next two hours. She was mine, and I was hers.
Pregnancy is so powerful. A fallible body is attempting to bring forth something new. Its power is largely unseen, and therefore hard to understand—much to the chagrin of expectant mothers like me.
I get to be okay,
Before, I knew nothing. I could not have conceived of what it means to hold a child in your body, then in your arms.
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More in this series
I am at the nether reaches of my fertility, curious as to what I can still grow. This remains a shock.
It felt as though I had been evicted from my own body, and it had been trashed in my absence. My resentment was as precise as any recipe.