I wrote this awhile ago. Every few months, I would reread what I had written, allowing time and introspection to reshape the final paragraph. I knew I wanted to share this, but only when the time was right. The time is now right; the final paragraph needs no further editing.
At first, I am curious. What is that? Clinging to the end of my tampon is an uncharacteristic glob. Closer inspection reveals a mass of tissue, enclosed in a spotty, translucent gel. Extending from one end appears to be a thin, tapering tail. At its nucleus is an opaque kidney bean-like body, complete with arms, legs, and a disproportionately large head. And then it hits me. And it hits me hard, as if my life has been yanked from my body. Shock stifles my curiosity as I mouth the word: Miscarriage. Indeed a life has been yanked from my body.
My views towards motherhood have changed over the years. I married in my early twenties, right after grad school. My husband and I abided to society's expectations of a newly wedded couple. We landed reputable jobs, bought a comfortable home in the suburbs, and embarked down the path of starting a family. In optimizing our chances to conceive, sex became a pleasureless deed. Day-in and day-out, I was consumed with becoming a mother. I took prenatal vitamins, charted my temperature, determined the days we needed to do the deed, and interpreted every body ache and nose twitch as a sure sign I was pregnant. I even quit my job and started my own business so I could maintain a career while being a stay-at-home mom. For nearly a year, I peed on strips of paper. For nearly a year, those strips showed disheartening flat lines. Shortly thereafter, my relationship with my husband flatlined; we divorced.
