oh my goodness, you still look pregnant!” my mother said as she looked me up and down. “My miscarriage was two days ago, mom. What do you expect?” I instantly regretted letting her visit while the trauma was still palpable.
This wasn’t the first time I had been besieged by one of my mother’s off-handed comments. This interaction, however, marked a turning point. For years, I made excuses for these kinds of exchanges. I tried to protect myself from admitting that my mother was not able to mother me in the way I needed. But this time, I expected – I needed – more.
I was 16 weeks along with my second child when I began to bleed. Though everything seemed healthy throughout my pregnancy, a daughter I will never know emerged while I was home alone. I called the doctor in a panic from my bathroom floor and she guided me through how to cut the umbilical cord. She told me to wrap the baby up and instructed me to get to her office immediately. While hemorrhaging, I underwent an unmedicated dilation and curettage – physical pain that rivaled the emotional pain pulsating through my body.