The morning:
I wake up feeling pretty good. I have weird dreams that distract me from the fact that I didn’t move muscle all night and now I desperately want to stretch. My legs push down and quiver until my stomach yanks them back in pain. I stay still for a moment and asses. The pain gets better everyday but I lay there and think that if I’m no longer in physical pain, no one is going to care that I’m in emotional pain. I have to space out my day so I don’t use up all my activity in the first hour. I shower, eat, and take my iron pills so I can stand up without passing out. This takes me three hours.
The afternoon:
I’ve probably cried two or three times so far. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the memories, probably both. I take Advil and pretend that it’ll do something for me. I check out my incisions and wonder if I’ll scar. If I do, will I cover it up with a tattoo or do I wear it like a warrior? I’m lonely by now. My boyfriend comes over and I want to hold him but I can’t. I want to cry into his shirt but it hurts to move my body toward him. We lay a foot apart, the only contact being made is our little fingers. And then I think about the littlest fingers of all. Smaller than a grain of rice. I don’t know where they are now. Probably in a biohazard bag somewhere in the hospital. I fall asleep thinking about it. Waking up to search the internet for answers about it. Did it have a heartbeat? Could it move around? But no search would be able to tell me if it loved me. If I was a Mom.
Night:
There are no more distractions. I’ve watched all the tv I could. I have sewn buttons and drawn pictures. My boyfriend leaves my room and for a moment I panic because dear God don’t leave me alone with my thoughts. Now is the time I ache the most. My stomach is exhausted and sore from sitting up and standing and walking and all the things people my age don’t even think about doing. I realize every night I couldn’t handle what I did today and promise I’ll do less tomorrow. But I know the rest of the world doesn’t stop functioning just because I have. I’m frustrated. And I feel myself losing the will to move and I’m scared of that. All I’ve wanted all day is to sleep but now that it’s right there I want to run as far away from sleep as possible which is ridiculous because I can barely even hobble. I think about the baby. I stare at pictures of drawings and sonograms of women whose seven week old fetus is comfortable in the right spot and I hate them. But I love my baby. I ache for it to be back in my belly so I can tell it I love it. So I can have a chance to at least say goodbye. And I call her Stella because that’s the storm she came and went with. And I love her.
Fly with Time 