The Miscarriage
Laine Slatton
There isn’t a sound on the monitor, no lively music, and the image isn’t the right size—too small.
A hot, August afternoon sun waits for me outside, but here, in this air-conditioned space, I can ignore the beckoning light. I am lying, surprisingly unstuck, on the cheap, pleather examining table in a darkened and machine-filled room. There is no wallpaper to cheer me, but posters of maddeningly happy families aren’t frolicking along the wall, either, to show me what I don’t and will not have. Cold bricks and a seamless, nonporous floor are not welcoming.
I am shivering more than the cold of this room encourages. I am lonely, scared, and most of all, vulnerable. Is this a typical response for a woman in my place? A woman like me, who is young, newly-married, and at once excited and terrified by an unplanned pregnancy? Would I even be comforted by the knowledge that other women have shared these feelings? Because I am definitely not comforted by this icy place.
Still, this room will do, as it must. And with that in mind, I’ll accept this large, rectangular, hardened nurse as my lifeless solace. And then I will accept what it is that I am going to hear, what is about to be narrated out loud.
Looking at the blurred screen—a live snapshot of my womb—the nurse gives me an impersonal glance, and then steps out noiselessly for a moment. She’ll be right back, she says.
She returns, the party now enlarged by the addition of a woman in a white coat. This other woman, she is the doctor, and she is sorry to say that the fetus has no heartbeat and is not going to be viable.
The fetus is not any longer going to become a person, is what she means.
The fetus is not going to be a baby, that is not going to be a toddler, that is not going to be my child that I will love and sometimes hate, that will keep me up at night, that will cause me to worry for the rest of both our lives, that will be one of the reasons that I live and care and can fully experience the life that I am meant to lead.
The baby is dead, I am told.
There is no detectible heartbeat, but should I think this might be a technological glitch or grasp for a sliver of hope, the doctor makes it clear that this lump she is touching through the screen is the size of a nine-week-old fetus when it should be the size of something at twelve weeks. At least, it’s clear to her. She repeats that she is sorry, and tells me I should go home and wait. My body will expel the fetus itself.
My husband of just eight weeks continues to hold my hand, looking composed and un-relatable. I know he is not saddened. Before today, every discussion we had, each action taken to plan for the arrival of a child in our lives and the growing distance I could feel between us, made it clear he was not yet looking forward to being a father. Right now, he must be quite relieved. But at least he knows this is not the time or the place to tell me that.
So we walk out the door from this brief appointment, and we continue our lives. Until we are halfway to the car, where I stop suddenly, standing on the warm, worn asphalt. I am cramping—right here and right now. Just like that.
How appropriate. My body must not have liked the deadened interior of the hospital and its unmoving staff. No, my body would rather repair itself here, where there are reminders of life, where trees and homes and cars can be seen and fresh air can be breathed.
There isn’t a sound on the monitor, no lively music, and the image isn’t the right size—too small.
A hot, August afternoon sun waits for me outside, but here, in this air-conditioned space, I can ignore the beckoning light. I am lying, surprisingly unstuck, on the cheap, pleather examining table in a darkened and machine-filled room. There is no wallpaper to cheer me, but posters of maddeningly happy families aren’t frolicking along the wall, either, to show me what I don’t and will not have. Cold bricks and a seamless, nonporous floor are not welcoming.
I am shivering more than the cold of this room encourages. I am lonely, scared, and most of all, vulnerable. Is this a typical response for a woman in my place? A woman like me, who is young, newly-married, and at once excited and terrified by an unplanned pregnancy? Would I even be comforted by the knowledge that other women have shared these feelings? Because I am definitely not comforted by this icy place.
Still, this room will do, as it must. And with that in mind, I’ll accept this large, rectangular, hardened nurse as my lifeless solace. And then I will accept what it is that I am going to hear, what is about to be narrated out loud.
Looking at the blurred screen—a live snapshot of my womb—the nurse gives me an impersonal glance, and then steps out noiselessly for a moment. She’ll be right back, she says.
She returns, the party now enlarged by the addition of a woman in a white coat. This other woman, she is the doctor, and she is sorry to say that the fetus has no heartbeat and is not going to be viable.
The fetus is not any longer going to become a person, is what she means.
The fetus is not going to be a baby, that is not going to be a toddler, that is not going to be my child that I will love and sometimes hate, that will keep me up at night, that will cause me to worry for the rest of both our lives, that will be one of the reasons that I live and care and can fully experience the life that I am meant to lead.
The baby is dead, I am told.
There is no detectible heartbeat, but should I think this might be a technological glitch or grasp for a sliver of hope, the doctor makes it clear that this lump she is touching through the screen is the size of a nine-week-old fetus when it should be the size of something at twelve weeks. At least, it’s clear to her. She repeats that she is sorry, and tells me I should go home and wait. My body will expel the fetus itself.
My husband of just eight weeks continues to hold my hand, looking composed and un-relatable. I know he is not saddened. Before today, every discussion we had, each action taken to plan for the arrival of a child in our lives and the growing distance I could feel between us, made it clear he was not yet looking forward to being a father. Right now, he must be quite relieved. But at least he knows this is not the time or the place to tell me that.
So we walk out the door from this brief appointment, and we continue our lives. Until we are halfway to the car, where I stop suddenly, standing on the warm, worn asphalt. I am cramping—right here and right now. Just like that.
How appropriate. My body must not have liked the deadened interior of the hospital and its unmoving staff. No, my body would rather repair itself here, where there are reminders of life, where trees and homes and cars can be seen and fresh air can be breathed.
Working notes
As for so many other women, my first miscarriage was traumatizing. Not only was I surprised to find myself having one, I was flummoxed by how far-reaching its effects were and have continued to be. It took a couple of years to feel capable of accurately translating my thoughts and feelings into words. I was inspired to try by a writing prompt in a New York University creative writing course I took this past spring, where I was to write about…anything that I wanted. My miscarriage immediately came to mind.
Over the summer, I continued to work on this story, bit by bit, with the help and encouragement of several students from the NYU course – a small group of talented women who have maintained semi-monthly gatherings to drink wine, eat takeout, and discuss each other’s writing pieces. Through this review process, it became apparent that what I remembered, and could communicate, most clearly was the two to three hours during the fateful doctor’s appointment. I greatly value community with women, and my motivation while writing this piece was being able to share with other women the experience of being inside my head during that short, disconcerting, and painful period.
Over the summer, I continued to work on this story, bit by bit, with the help and encouragement of several students from the NYU course – a small group of talented women who have maintained semi-monthly gatherings to drink wine, eat takeout, and discuss each other’s writing pieces. Through this review process, it became apparent that what I remembered, and could communicate, most clearly was the two to three hours during the fateful doctor’s appointment. I greatly value community with women, and my motivation while writing this piece was being able to share with other women the experience of being inside my head during that short, disconcerting, and painful period.
About the author
Laine Slatton is currently a grant writer working in New York City. She spent most of her childhood in a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee. After graduating from Vanderbilt University with a B.A. in Women's and Gender Studies, and leaving behind several jobs and several cities, she found herself to be a resident of New Jersey. She enjoys cooking, reading, learning to do useful things, hiking, backpacking, and basically finding any excuse to get outside of the City and head toward upstate New York, where Laine and her husband, Houston, own a shack-of-a-cabin and thirty acres.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.