There were three pregnant women in our office on Thursday. On Thursday night, the young woman I don’t know lost her baby the week before it was due. Her little girl was named Audrey, and she died when she was choked by the umbilical cord. The woman had to be induced and the family held a service today.
Hello, Nightmare Shit Platter. Welcome to the bad place.
I have lots of women at work who are very supportive of mein this, and went out of their way to cushion the fall when the all-building email went out about this woman and her baby. They wanted to make sure I heard it outloud before I read it in email. So sweet. So thoughtful. I mean, I didn’t know her name.
I had coveted her belly initially, and then was able to watch it grow as mine puffed out at its own rate. And I’d giggle a little to myself when she’d stand there moaning at the copy machine. That was my future, I thought.
And now this woman I don’t even know is out there completely ruined, and it sounds looney, but every single day someone comes to my blog looking for information about miscarriage and I feel like the weight of all this womb trauma is heavy on the heart. Are babies ever actually born? It is harder to get out of the womb than previously thought. I wish I were blissfully unaware of this.
And having gotten SO CLOSE and there are thoughts, like, bad thoughts. And that whole thing is just a huge garbage dump of a situation. And as confidently as I project my plans about the month of December when we will have a new baby girl living with us, I think a very large part of me fully assumes that something like this is destined to happen, and that is a thought I do not like to confront.
And then today a woman accidentally ruined pregnancy for me from 8 p.m. until 9 p.m., which might have been good because I’m not allowed to bury the thing when I’ve just been punched in the face with it.
She came around with a card and warned me that at eight months, if the baby is too active, it is time to go to the doctor because that means that she is being strangled to death by her umbilical cord.
A normal reaction would be something like, why the FUCK are you trying to scare the living SHIT out of me?
Because whatever strong woman I am or have become, at that moment when she was talking about excessive kicking late in labor and if only she would’ve known and the death of a baby the week before it was due and the realization that that woman had to FEEL her baby in her first pregnancy basically struggle to death inside her own womb not knowing until later what had happened, as if there;s not enough blame and paranoia already inherent in the gestation process suddenly I’m KILLING MY BABY WITH INACTION AS WE ARE SITTING THERE … I should have spoken up to that poor woman but instead I reverted to a 5-year-old child.
Wide eyes were all I could muster.
And I tried to write a message on the card for the woman but I had to scratch it out because I became a little distracted. If she gets that card and sees the only message with chicken stratches she won’t know that this commemorates approximatley the time that the SHIT was scared out of me.
Immediately, co-workers rushed to the scene of the crime via email, and thank God they did because I was able to hold it together. But sometimes feelings are slow to catch up because then I completely lost it on the drive home.
But I’ve had the realization that that woman did not tell me these things in order to ruin every single kick that I’ve felt in the last few hours. She did not intend for me to spend my waking hours straining to determine whether the kicks on in my body are erratic or not and my reaction is my own. Silly. And paranoid. And not from the Good Place, which I claim to be familiar with.
And I think because she was so blunt that I am able to count up my demons and I am letting it go.
These kicks are a blessing. These kicks are not dying.
Can you feel that?
I have let it go.
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