TW: This essay discusses miscarriage.
By Kate Kane
I hate the spring. All that sunlight and daylight and exposure; shocking and achy. All that light exposing the world. Poor little buds trying with all their might to push out of the cold, icy dirt. It’s so bright, the colors and clarity; it startles and hurts. I want winter to keep on going. The dark evenings and the cold nights. I am never ready for the spring. The pressure of it all.
I remember I was wearing a bright orange skirt when I told you. And I remember you turning to straddle the concrete bench where we were sitting so you could look squarely at me; absorbing the news. And then you taking my hips gently between your hands and kissing the low part of my belly. Leaning your forehead against it.
Weeks later there we would be in the waiting room; you nuzzling my neck, and me having a distinct feeling that none of this was actually happening. I remember you folding the white jeans that I had dropped on the floor while we were waiting for the doctor to come in. You, folding my white jeans. The irony of it all. You, tidying up the mess.
“Is this your significant other,” the doctor asked with a casual gaze in your direction. We look at one another. “Yes,” I finally say. Then the white, fuzzy image of the baby on that machine and both of us simultaneously straining to see it. The monitor was a little behind me and I couldn’t really see the screen from where I was lying. But I could see you. You. Looking intently with an expression I couldn’t quite pin down. Those beautiful dark eyes narrowing. Leaning forward with your strong, tan forearms, resting on your legs. Squinting to see your baby. What were you thinking then? I still long to know.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor says. And everything fades to black.
I won’t forgive you for what you said to me later in the car. Because, no, I was not even a little relieved. We spent that afternoon together. Me feeling faint and dizzy, you managing to lose your phone, your house keys and your car keys in the span of a few hours. The metaphor is not lost on me. We went to your classroom to drop something off. The window was broken – glass in the shape of a spider web. It looked so violent and harsh. The sight of it made me cry. You were busy emptying boxes of books. When you looked up, you looked pained for me, came to me fast and hugged me too hard but then went back to your work. Continue Reading…