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The M Word
Let’s talk about it.
Better yet, let’s not.
Miscarriage is a silent grenade –
blowing a conversation to bits
before anyone sees it coming.
Ricocheting in the silence –
leaving us stunned and horrified in its wake.
I used to avoid this weapon of mass destruction –
not wanting to wound others
when I am already bleeding myself.
But you asked
and asked,
and asked.
And I am tired of the non-answers,
the cheery deflections,
the tactful diversions.
So, I will pull the pin out.
I will drop the bomb,
watch the destruction unfold,
feel the air grow heavy with discomfort.
But as my detonation reaches its conclusion
and you stand in shell-shocked silence,
I feel a sudden wave of guilt.
Because now we are both in pain,
the shrapnel of my honesty
piercing our social norms.
But to be fair -
You felt comfortable asking why I’m not drinking,
if we’re “trying,”
if I have “something” to tell you,
if “number two” is coming soon.
A barrage of questions invading
my deepest fear and grief.
And I’m confused –
because suddenly you cannot meet my eyes.
Suddenly you’re not comfortable hearing
that “number two” has already come and gone –
and while we’re at it, so has number three.
So as the dust of our ruined conversation settles –
let disaster relief efforts commence.
“Luckily it was early.”
Yes, lucky indeed – I say
as I hold the pieces of my heart in my hands.
“It will happen.”
Yes, but this also happened –
and it’s still happening every time I close my eyes.
“Time heals all.”
Does it now?
Tell that to any woman who’s lived it.
Watch her eyes as she is transported back to that moment –
to that first stab of pain in her belly,
to that first splash of red blood in her underwear,
to that first sickening punch to the gut as she realizes
what is happening to her, to them –
maybe for the first time,
or maybe again.
You wanted to know how I am -
so I am telling you.
I am healing.
I am strong.
But look at me.
No, I said look at me -
I am grieving.
I am grieving.
I am grieving.
And I am not alone.
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