The second time I miscarried it primarily pissed me off:
Two in a row? Are you fucking kidding me? No way. No. Way. This isn’t happening. Seriously! Again?
I suppose, since I’d been through it once before, I figured I was officially immune:
Yup. That’s right, Universe. Lesson learned. No need for a repeat performance here. Find someone else to educate.
I’ve been meaning to write about my second and third miscarriages for a very long time. (If you’d care to read about the first, you can do so here.) I start… and then stop… and then I start and stop some more. The problem seems to be with finishing; primarily that it never happens.
So, in a bid to practice what I preach – “Done is better than perfect!” – I am going to finally accomplish what I have set out to do.
We were at the cabin, sitting at the table, either chatting or playing a game, when someone noticed them: the bugs.
They were grappling for position, clinging to one another in streams. Piles of them – a writhing, humming mass of silverescent motivation. All of them desperate to make their way through glass or screen; those sight penetrable barriers inexplicably holding them back, preventing them from fully reaching the light.
When I eventually came to learn that I lost my unborn baby, it surprised me how terrible I felt. Because it was my second pregnancy, rather innocently, I presumed the threat of miscarriage was over. After all, I’d already proven that I could carry a healthy, ten-pound baby well past his due date.
I started another blog. It was called ‘Misconceptions’. It consisted of one post, posted on May 31, 2010:
Mother Fucker. Only a masochist has a miscarriage on Mother’s Day.
That’s right, folks. I wrote the world’s shortest blog. And, yes, that masochist was me. I had a miscarriage on Mother’s day. And a few others before that, but who’s counting?
Not me.