I may forget a lot of things, but I have a fierce recollection of my body cringing when a cramp propelled me to the bathroom, forcing me to witness the spotting on my underwear. The red flag that signaled that my baby couldn’t hang on.
I’d give a king’s ransom to forget the D&C my Ob/Gyn assured us wasn’t a big deal and had even suggested to My Man that we have dinner at our favorite place. Yeah, right. No big deal. I still carry a fantasy of strapping him in for a breezy aspiration him while I hum Mr. Rogers’ theme song.
I considered hypnosis after losing our little girl. Our morsel of perfection. Even a frontal lobotomy seemed a possibility when memories of our time together paralyzed me with grief.
But there is one thing I’ll never forget…
Chapter III – Autumn 1993
“…We spent the holidays sequestered. For months I slept with a letter I’d received from my oldest brother, Peter. He’d gone to church and lit a votive candle to help my tears and grief flow. His anger kept him from praying to God. Instead he’d prayed to our grandparents, asking them to do him a favor, and kick God in the ass when they saw him. What would I do, if I came face to face with God? Walk away was my answer. I had nothing to say to him.”