Lost

"So...are you still bleeding?"

This was the first question I faced, on my first day back at work, from the first person I saw who knew what had happened.

"Are you going to try again?"

"At least you know you can get pregnant."

"It's nature's way of taking care of problems. It's probably for the best."

"Better for it to happen now rather than later. Imagine going through this when you are further along."

"My sister/cousin/friend/fillintheblank had a miscarriage, and..."

"How are you?"

I don't know how to answer this last one. Are you looking for an honest answer, or a polite "I'm ok"?

I am not okay. I find myself wanting to tell everybody and nobody what has happened. I resent insensitive comments from people who can't know any better.

For the past few weeks my last thought at night and my first thought in the morning were the same: "Wow, I'm pregnant." Filled with awe and excitement and anticipation. Now it is the opposite.

I go about my day. I get up, I let the dogs out, I step into the shower...and am paralyzed by the vision of blood splashing on the white tub between my feet.

I do my hair, I make my lunch, and I go downstairs to look after the cat...stopping at the litter box, then remembering it no longer matters that I scoop.

I eat my breakfast, then make a last stop in the bathroom where it happened.

I am mocked by the "What To Expect When You're Expecting" book on my nightstand, by my prescriptions in the bathroom, by my prenatal vitamins on the counter, by the pregnancy tests littered throughout our house, and by a thousand other small reminders of what we have lost.

I try to sleep in the bed I couldn't leave for a week as I suffered, and prayed, and raged, and grieved.

We try to make sense of it, and take turns being strong for one another. And we try to make plans to keep going.