I didn’t want her when I conceived her.
She was an inconvenience when those two lines appeared.
How could this be happening? Now?
Why couldn’t she have come just months before?
Before my entire path in life was falling into place?
Before my dreams had finally come true?
I was being childish.
I was being selfish.
It wasn’t about me anymore, it had to be about her.
I reluctantly began thinking about what my new life would be like with her in it.
And then it happened. The blood.
The blood on the tissue started out so light, barely noticeable.
As soon as I would breathe a sigh of relief, it would return with blood more fierce than the wipe before.
I couldn’t stop it.
I willed it to stop.
It came.
I begged doctors to help.
What’s wrong? There must be something wrong?
Help me fix this!
“No,” they said. What you are asking doesn’t have the research to back it up.
I searched for someone else.
Help me fix this!
“No,” they said. It’s not scientifically based.
I searched again.
“Fine,” they said. But know it may not help.
I can breathe again.
The blood subsides.
Moments pass but I feel desperate.
The desperation consumes me.
I know she will leave. I know it!
Someone listen! Someone tell me it’s going to happen!
Someone tell me I will survive this!
But there was silence.
More moments pass.
The blood returns.
It’s darker now.
Desperation is still with me.
I begin to sink into the darkness.
Just go already! I yell at her. Just go! If you aren’t going to stay with me, I need to you leave now!
But she didn’t listen. She grew.
Ultrasounds revealed her beating heart.
The struggle between wanting her with all my heart and grieving her death began.
My mind couldn’t process this weird place I was in.
How could I want something so badly that I knew was going to leave me?
My heart hurt.
The pain was so intense I couldn’t think of anything else.
Just stop already! Stop the bleeding! I yelled to the Heavens.
If she is going to grow, why put me through all this?
More blood.
Desperation led me to bargaining.
I prayed.
My family prayed.
I begged the Mother Mary to spare my daughter every time I prayed the Rosary.
SHE will save my daughter! I know she will. She will intercede and our prayers will be answered.
I promise to never ask for anything else, just let me keep her!
The blood subsides.
I breathe again.
We name her.
She is real.
She is living.
We will bring her home.
I gasp.
I bring my hands to my belly and begin to scream inside.
Why? Why did you just leave?
Don’t leave me here without you. Take me with you!
There is no blood.
My mind tells me that she is still here but my heart knows.
A mother knows.
No blood.
I can’t breathe until I know for sure.
It hurts every time I try to inhale.
“There is no heartbeat,” she says.
I knew it.
I will need to be pried from this room.
I feel so heavy.
My body melts into the cold, metal table below me.
Why eight weeks of this?
I did everything I could to save her.
But she died.
She left me anyway.
Does she even care about me?
It’s over.
She is finally gone.
I can move on!
I stop breathing.
I realize she is still within me. Her body.
I panic.
Get her out!
I claw at my stomach.
I can’t have this dead body inside me.
Someone get her out!
“No,” they said. You must wait.
Help me sleep! Help me!
“No,” they said. You are overreacting.
I sob.
I reach to those who will listen.
I am held.
The tears won’t stop flowing.
They have to stop sometime.
Why aren’t they stopping?
I survive the night.
I try again.
Get her out of me! Just take her!
“No,” they said.
PLEASE take her! I can’t handle this anymore.
I will literally burst if you don’t.
“Okay,” they said. But tomorrow.
What if she comes before then?
“It” won’t. They said.
I think she will.
“It” won’t, but here is a container to catch “it.”
I pray.
I pray that I can catch her.
I want to see her but I am scared.
What will she look like?
Lord, please take this pain away! PLEASE!
I beg…and beg…and beg.
Make it stop!
My bed becomes my refuge.
I am still.
If I move, she will come.
I know it.
My body hurts from lying so still.
I have to get up.
Black blood.
It pours from my femininity.
What is this?
It’s thick.
It’s not blood.
It’s death.
Blood means life.
This is death.
Death pours from me.
Get it out!
I sob.
Just come!
I sob.
I retreat to my bed.
I sleep.
When I wake, it’s time to go.
The pains come.
I can’t move.
The waves of pain are so intense.
I fear I will scare my living child.
He stays home.
I scream, “Hurry! Get there!”
We can’t get there any faster.
I moan in pain but I just want to catch her.
She is coming.
I know it.
The ultrasound reveals she is still in my womb.
They will take her.
The coolness of the drugs enters my veins and fills my body.
I settle.
I walk to the operating room.
It’s so bright.
It’s so cold.
Hold me.
Hold my hand.
Someone show emotion.
My face hurts from the exhaustion of crying.
I lay on the table.
A warm blanket is placed over me.
I am asked to reveal my femininity.
Place your legs here. They said.
My legs, wide open for all the world to see.
I want to die.
Someone kill me.
Wait! Don’t! I want to see my son.
The thick white liquid fills my veins.
My life goes dark.
My baby comes.
She’s gone.
I wake.
I struggle.
She’s gone.
She is gone!
I can move on!
But I can’t.
I am different.
I was told I birthed her in the operating room.
“’It’ was in your vagina when we started.”
“We removed ‘it’ but continued cleaning,” they said.
What does that even mean?
I wanted to see her but we chose to have her tested.
She is on her way to Texas.
I miss her.
My heart hurts.
I am so dizzy.
I crawl along the floor.
Why does this hurt so bad?
I am in the hospital again.
My heart wants to stop beating.
It’s so slow.
My mind tells my body to function but my heart wants to stop.
It hurts.
I struggle.
I wish I had died with her.
I don’t want to be here without her.
But I am stuck here now.
I am stuck in this pain.
I can’t get out.
Stop the hurt! I yell.
“You’re depressed,” they said.
NO! I lost a child two days ago!
“You are overreacting,” they said.
“It was an embryo,” they said.
My heart hurts.
I turn away.
I shut down.
I want to scream, “Get out of my room!” but I don’t.
I lie there.
They talk about me.
I am discharged four days later.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” they said.
But I am dizzy.
My heart is beating so slow.
I begin the fight.
My urge to survive is too strong.
I can’t succumb to death because of it.
I breathe.
I breathe again.
The sun no longer shines.
I no longer smile.
I am here.
Because He made me be here.
I leave Him.
I don’t trust Him.
He took my baby.
I breathe more.
I have to breathe.
I miss her.
I hate pregnant women.
I want them all to lose their babies.
I want to see them lose their babies.
I want to see them in this pain.
This horrible place.
Get me out!
Save me!
Someone hold me!
I breathe.
I begin the walk.
I find my guide.
I meet others like me.
A piece heals.
I breathe.
I write.
I don’t stop.
My fingers ache.
My mind hurts.
I write more.
Another piece heals.
I breathe.
I share.
I tell others.
It feels better.
I smile.
More healing.
I breathe.
My heart beats faster.
My path changes.
I desire to help others through this.
I heal.
I find newness.
I keep breathing.
I found survival.

In memory of Ruby Josephine Petrucelli

– Breaking the silence of First Trimester Miscarriage

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