After Two Recent Reproductive Disasters

After something like this, the rabbi told me, there are no good answers.

Expect a little blood, the doctor said.

I spent hours on the couch doing nothing besides feeling depressed and bitter. I held books open on my lap but could not get my eyes to read them. I went shopping for new jeans because none of my pants fit.

After, I drank coffee twice a day instead of never and had at least one glass of wine each night. I wanted to cultivate vices; I wanted to be bad.

At preschool pickup for my son, the teacher told me: He said your tummy doesn’t feel well. Oh, no, I’m fine, I said.

I bled and bled and kept on bleeding. I had not been so far along and still, after meals or at the end of the day, my stomach was so round it easily looked like someone was still curled inside.

Remember to keep breathing, the therapist said. Instead, I started wearing lipstick. I ate turkey sandwiches, even though I was a vegetarian, made an appointment to put a streak of blue in my hair, dreamt up plans for a second tattoo. I was restless for any small rebellion; I was desperate for comfort. I cried on the shoulder of my son’s preschool teacher, while my son stood next to us and peed in his pants.