February 24, 2015 - 5:42 p.m.
Losing a baby. Fern. 12 weeks. 6 days. ' Everything is transformed. i feel like i will always remember verfremdung what i was wearing. what the floor looked like what towels were spotted with blood what message came through on my phone what time it was no one should have to see the ultrasound image blurred in black and white come swirling to life in red and dull fleshtones in their bathtub adding tears to hot water pouring out steam filling the bathroom while the things you knew were made visible. It was our turn to trade shock I was the rock, stoic on day one the day the news came holding your crying frame you showed all the symptoms of science and survival kicking in, while I sat on the tiles crying after scooping out the shape of a curled fern the twin of our 9 week ultrasound come back hauntingly into the present tense and unable to pull the flush handle First in the sink I couldn't imagine where to put her then, wrapped in paper into the toilet it seemed unbearably cold and fucked up. I want my mom. We stood in the shower together letting the water, so hot that only you couldn't feel it, hit us cramps, crying, talking trying to cling to some logic They should really tell you that it might look exactly like a baby. And it might feel exactly how you'd imagine it would feel to lose a baby. You don't want to write about it. because it's disgusting. and the saddest thing I think I've ever felt. But we have each other. And somehow that means that we, in the past 24 hours, have found small moments of humour - Abby's fig, left in the hole in central park. Other things I can't remember. Watching Friends and feeling like it's almost normal for a second, until you actually remember then remember you forgot for a minute what's really happening. You hope that people will tell each other, so you don't have to. That they'll not look at you so you can see what they're thinking. You know this happens all the time. You know no one is okay about this. Those moments when you thought you were, you weren't. That's the body's way. I think we prepared ourselves for this. We will always get through. But seeing this together, made me cling to you, like you're the last thing on earth. Because something like this really does make it obvious - the things we can't say. Yesterday felt better. Tomorrow probably will too. Now, feels like awful and sad and nothing looks the same. It all looks like the scene where something happened that I can't unsee.
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