Friends of Adrian: A Southern Scrambled Egg

Guest post by Jackie Perr

“This y’all’s first pregnancy?”

The doctor lulled the question out as we all settled into our chairs. He sat behind a large mahogany desk with ornately framed degrees from the seventies covering the wall behind him. He leaned back and relaxed as my husband and I found our awkwardly separated chairs.

We chirped back a “Yep!” and “Yea!” and nervously muttered, still a bit cloudy at the prospect of officially being pregnant.

His eyebrow arched, indicating that this was not the socially correct response.

“Yes Sir.” My husband corrected cheerfully as I bit down hard on my tongue. “We are set to pay you a shit load of money to watch me squeeze out a small human and then take all the credit for it. We will respond however we politely fucking please” would not be a useful thing to say to this very old, and apparently, very southern OB/GYN.

A sideways glance from my husband that read “What in fresh hell???” calmed my nerves. We had moved to Alabama four years earlier and had mostly adjusted to southern behaviors. I had southern roots; I was born in the south and had lived a good portion of my life across the south.

Asking which college football team one was associated with was necessary for a polite introduction, as was inquiring about one’s church attendance. Our responses to these questions were “None” and “Never”, so most people probably discounted us as a strange outsiders and kept a polite, but distinct, distance. We found it to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. It meant we had most restaurants and stores to ourselves on Sundays and Saturdays as well during football season. On top of that, we both came from military backgrounds so the “Sirs” and “Ma’am’s” weren’t much of a bother.

But today, we were both a bit thrown, mostly because we were confused about this seemingly formal meeting to begin with. I had taken an at-home pregnancy test and called the clinic with the positive results. They had said to come in so they could run their own test and then get our initial check ups scheduled if it was, in fact, positive.

This seemed fair enough in my mind. While I was confident in my urethra’s precision, (a decade’s worth of military piss tests meant I could pee quite confidently into or onto my target with great accuracy), I’m sure it could be a daunting task for someone who has not had to precision pee before. Especially while one’s nerves are in a tangle over the possibility of motherhood looming in the future. It’s probably like trying to get a popsicle stick wet from a malfunctioning sprinkler. By the time it’s done sputtering and spraying you are completely soaked, but your popsicle stick is still bone dry.

Instead of a stick, I had been given a cup to urinate in once we arrived at the clinic. I was proud and relieved that I knew I was supposed to pee into this cup by myself in a designated bathroom. I had learned this a few years earlier, whilst completing my first drug test for a civilian employer. In my time with the military, my urine tests were accompanied. In other words, I had to pee into a cup while a trained escort observed me pee into a cup. This was Department of Defense policy as it ensured I had not smuggled in a sampling of someone else’s urine, or my own urine taken from a previous time.

No, the DOD would only take freshly squeezed, untainted pee pee. And because there were apparently enough executive-thinking, drug addict service members walking around completely stoned with a baggie of clean wee in case of a piss test, we all had to urinate in front of someone.

I had become so accustomed to being watched while peeing for a drug test, I assumed that was protocol everywhere…even in the small, eastern Alabama drug test lab that supported my privately-owned civilian employer. I waited dutifully for one of the nurses to get up from her desk and follow me into the restroom after they gave me my cup. But they did not. They sat at their desks, clickety clacking on their keyboards until my presence annoyed one of them.

“Do you need some thing Ma’am?” She frowned at me while the other continued her work.

“Um. Are you…going to come with me?”

At that, they both made an audible garuuumph sound at me, wide-eyed.

“No Ma-YUM.” One of them said with extra oomph in the “yum”.

“You do it ba yer-self!”

It was the first time I actually felt embarrassed urinating in a cup, and no one was even watching.

But!!! There was no such confusion about that today. Oh no! I pee pee’d those baby hormones right into that cup all by my lonesome without a drop out of place. They would see the hormones and schedule us for another appointment and we could go get some lunch and talk about baby stuff before we both had to be back to work. So when the nurse said “Congratulations, you’re pregnant. Please step into the doctor’s office”, we were both surprised.

I supposed it was good to meet my OB/GYN. I had heard his name, but never seen him. I had imagined him as being younger and less…old fashioned Southern. His accent was thick-yuck and sloooow. He had antlers on his walls along with fish and a huge cross. So now I was getting nervous. If football and church was a gauge by which he measured future parents, we were sunk. Not to mention I was not thrilled that a guy with more pictures of football coaches on his walls than- I don’t know…babies? A diagrams of a uterus? Some thing that indicated an affinity for his profession? -was going to be getting close and personal with my hoo ha. I could tell from my husband’s face that he was probably less thrilled than me at this prospect, if that was even possible.

“Welp.” he looked at my husband. “I delivered thousandsa babies.”

Christ.

“An I can teh-ll yuh. Pregnancy an chall birth is like havin ham an eggs fer breakfast. An the two-a you is like the chicken and the pig.” He smiled and looked at me.

I smiled nervously and tried to act like I was following.

“One uh ya is making a contribution to the meal and one uh ya is fully committed.”

The…fack?

I won’t lie. Part of me was impressed with the analogy. I don’t think I have found a more accurate one in all these years. But a bigger part of me was like “Did you just call me a pig you old coot?!”

I don’t remember what happened after that, I was so dumbstruck by the audacious and yet hillarious analogy. I do remember going to lunch with my husband; we were excited at the prospect of being pregnant, but both of us being over-thinkers, it was a suppressed excitement. Based on my menstrual calculations, we were about WTHK weeks along. I felt no different, and certainly didn’t feel like there was a…thing? Blastocyst? Embryo? Fetus? Growing inside me.

We struggled with what to call it. We decided the most accurate term would be “a complex collection of cells constantly dividing and taking on specific functions whilst absorbing nutrients from my blood supply.”

But that took too long. So we looked at pictures on the Interwebs of embryonic development during the first trimester.

“It looks like a bean.” We were disappointed in its lack of appearing human.

And that’s how we decided to call it our little bean. Bean for short. We told our parents and siblings about the bean and joked about becoming parents. But beyond that, we mostly went on about our lives. I remember feeling content because I had been wanting to start a family for a while. But I was also confused because I felt no connection with the bean. No warmth or maternal feelings came as the days passed, and no cravings either.

Then our ten week check up appointment came. The day we could officially get excited.

I probably would have known better by looking at the ultrasound tech’s face if I had had an ultrasound before. But this was my first one. Her confused expression as she rolled her sensor over my tummy, spreading that cold, clear squishy, goo all over my abdomen, did not set off any red flags. Her squinting at the screen, re-adjusting her position in relation to it, and then her long sigh didn’t seem alarming.

“Ahm sorry y’all.” Her pupils softened as she turned her gaze to us and put her hands in her lap.

“It’s gotta real weak heart beat.”

That was the first time I felt some sort of connection to the bean. Hearing the ultrasound tech mention it flipped a switch somewhere in my brain and all of a sudden I thought “Oh OK there’s a bean in there. Wait, what did she say about the heart?”

She explained slowly and sweetly that the bean looked like it had stopped developing at the six week mark. And since it was the 10 week mark, this was not a good thing. She also explained how it was strange that it even had a heartbeat at this point. She had not seen anything like this before, but the doctor could explain more.

“Ah’ve neva seen any thang like this before.” The old coot was visibly confused as he looked at the ultrasound screen.

“Hmm, what a surprise.” I thought. Also realizing how incredibly thankful I was that he could look at this thing inside of my uterus without having to stare into my vagina. Thank Goddess for modern medicine.

“The fact that it has ah heartbeat is quite astonishing. Ah’m gonna contact a counta paht of mine in Birmingham an see wut he makes uhv it.”

“Oh great.” I thought. With any luck he’s probably older than this guy.

“He’s been in the business ev-uhn longa than ah have so ahm sure he’ll have sumthin to offa.”

Jesus.

He took off his glasses and looked at us.

“We’ll have ya back next week an take ah-notha look. Ah…” he hesitated and took a deep breath, looking down at the floor.

He looked back up at me, his grey wizard eye brows wilting.

“Ah’m sorry. Ah don’t see this pregnancy goin’ full tum.”

His statement wasn’t news; I had done the math and the word “miscarriage” popped in my brain back when the ultrasound tech was explaining things. But he seemed genuinely sad, and in sharing his sadness, I finally felt a bit more comfortable in his presence. He was human after all; at least a little.

He left the room, giving a quick nod to his nurse on his way out, as if to signal that he was done and she was free to begin her task. Closing the door, she sat down across from us and gave us a brief description of what to expect.

“Once your body realizes what’s going on, you’ll start getting some cramps and…” she struggled for words, “have…basically…a really heavy period.”

“What if nothing happens?” I was not looking forward to going on with my week waiting to miscarry.

“We’ll schedule you for a follow up in a week like the doctor said. If it’s happened, you’ll get a check up and if not, we’ll do another ultrasound.”

I remember feeling like I should cry when we got into the car, but nothing came right away. My poor husband was expecting the same thing because he looked at me and squared his shoulders off to mine, ready for me to collapse into him and sob. But there was nothing.

“You ok?” He asked cautiously.

“I don’t know. Probably not.” I sighed out.

I have a tendency to stare off somewhere when we are discussing my feelings. I don’t know how to handle them and I always think not having to process his facial expressions simultaneously will simplify things. But it usually just ends up isolating us in a time when we need each other most.

Seven days came and went about as slow as they could. Nothing happened. My body felt the same. We were in utter limbo.

I did cry during that time, and in the most awkward place: the cereal aisle in the grocery store by myself. I had stopped in to get us a box of cereal because we were out. Something with fiber. I saw the rows and rows of colorful sugary cereal boxes with big eyed cartoon characters, beckoning shopper’s children to ask their parents to buy a box of calorie coated carbs and call it breakfast. And then the parents having to say ‘no’ and deal with the ensuing tantrums; some so severe they must abandon their carts and drag their children out of the store, kicking and screaming.

“Well. At least I won’t have to worry about that.” I thought. And that’s what brought the tears. So many tears. My face exploded into uncontrollable salty sobs and snorts, making a mess all over my face and shirt.

“Fuckk…” sniffle, snort, sob. “You, Captain” sniffle, snort, sob. “Crunch.” The military’s stupid emotional constipation under which I had lived for so many years meant my husband’s sweet hugs and my Mom’s gentle phone calls hadn’t accessed these fragile feelings of hope and grief. I had buried them too deep. But stupid Captain Crunch could get to them?!?! What was wrong with me???!!! “Fuck you Captain Crunch. Fuck you.”

I rage sobbed for a good while there in the cereal aisle, clutching my box of fiber cereal, cursing everything from myself to the military to the bean to the old coot. And as quickly as they came, my emotions and tears cleared. So I wiped my face on my sleeve and went to check out.

“I cried today.” I told husband later that night.

“Oh.” He stopped and looked at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Um. I think I was, you know, looking forward…to…” The waterfall tears returned. And this time I sobbed them all out onto my husband’s chest as he held me. It felt so much better than the cereal aisle, even if he did have to change his shirt afterwards.

We both felt relieved going to the clinic for our next ultrasound. We had grieved the loss of what could have been and were ready for confirmation of that loss.

The bean still. Had. A. Heartbeat. Slightly weaker than the week before, but there it was; pumping slowly and steadily. The ultrasound tech’s eyes were transfixed as she went to a nurse, asking for a double check in case she had been mistaken.

“Oh ma guhdness.” The nurse smiled. “It’s soldiering on in there!”

I looked at my husband. What in Sam hell? We were both confused. Was this good news?

“Has it started growing again?” My husband asked.

“No.” The ultrasound tech seemed in awe staring up at the screen.

“It’s mostly the same. It’s just really rare that the haht is still goin’.” She looked at me, straightening her face as she saw our grief and confusion.

“Ahm so sorry.” I wasn’t sure if she was apologizing for being impressed at the apparent medical phenomenon, or for the state of our bean.

“I’ll go tell the doctor y’all ah ready for him.”

“We are?” I thought. Ugh. I was ready for the sad wizard eye brow doc, but not the ham and eggs doc.

She and the nurse both left, closing the door behind them.

“Maybe he’ll have something from the Birmingham doctor.” I uttered trying to convince myself more than my husband.

We were in that room together but we were miles apart, staring into different corners in our own fears and questions; too afraid of upsetting the other to mention it to them.

Why was this happening? Was it going to survive? Would it be healthy? How did we feel if it wasn’t going to be a normal, healthy baby? Unable to speak of the bean in the room, we forgot it for the moment and called upon our very reliable, old friend: humor.

“What do you think they keep in all these cabinets?” I scanned the rows up upper and lower white cabinets surrounding us on three sides.

“Narnia.” My husband got up and started opening each one. Carefully, he peered inside each door as though a coiled snake was waiting to strike inside.

“Empty.” He slammed it shut and moved onto the next one, slowly creaking it open.

“Empty.” Slam.

“Empty.” Slam.

“Empty.” Slam.

As he opened the next cabinet door, his eyes focused, confused at what he was seeing; and then with sudden realization of what it was, a huge smile spread over his face. He looked at me, full of the dickens.

“What?”

He started giggling to himself, teasing me by pulling the item out of the cabinet but keeping it hidden from me behind the door.

“What is it?” I was smiling now too.

“You’re not going to believe this.” His eyes widened.

“What?!?!?!?”

“It’s too perfect.” With both hands, he heaved a comically large, industrial sized flashlight out of the cabinet and clunked it down onto the counter.

“Oh my God!” I chuckled. The thing was roughly the size of a toaster oven and the bulb inside was the size of a regular light bulb you’d hang in a bedroom.

He laughed hard and so did I. Under what circumstances would a medical professional require that flashlight for an examination? Did they treat elephants here? Blue whales? The thing took two hands to hold!

“Vaginal spelunking?” He said between chortles.

“Keep checking the other cabinets! Maybe there’s some rigging gear somewhere.”

Voices at the door startled us both as my husband jumped and hurriedly stashed the flashlight back into its cabinet.

We both Cheshire Cat smiled at the door, awaiting its reveal and were quickly yanked back to our grey reality when the ole coot came in.

“Still beatin, huh?” He didn’t look at us as he came in casually and sat down, easing back in his chair. He had a print out of something he appeared to be deciphering as he rolled his tongue around in his mouth. Ugh. It was ham and eggs doc.

“We were HOPING you could tell us.” My husband had had it with the doc’s overly casual bedside manner. The old coot seemed to pick up on this as he straightened up and leaned forward, finally looking at us.

“Unfortunately, ma friend in Birmingham has no insahts on our…little situation here.”

Great.

“He said he’s been practicing’ fa ova thirty years and neva had a heart beat at this point.”

“This point?”

“Well…” he lulled as he flipped through his papers. “You’re about eleven ana half weeks along, with development kinda stalled out at six.”

“Right. So…what does that mean?”

“Well…” he was searching for words. “In most cases…it’s nothin’ to fret about. Just cells not quite comin together right or not being quaht compatible.”

That gave me some breath. This was normal, I remembered. Miscarriage is common; we just don’t realize it because we don’t talk about it. Our bean had a mismatch of our genes, but it still had OUR genes. Our overachieving, perfectionist, competitive, “do or die”, never give up, slam our heads into a brick wall until our brains are poking out because we make things happen genes. Our bean was making things happen; mismatched genes be damned.

We wouldn’t have a baby. But we had an embryo with a badass heart, beating as long as it had the tissue and electricity to do it; never mind if it wasn’t needed. Never mind if the rest of the cells were like “Meh. This isn’t really working. We’re going to go lay down.” Bean’s heart was like “Ye lazy bit of wallowers!!!! DIE THEN! I’ll be on without ya!!!”

As I connected and realized what was happening in my womb, I felt respect and grief for the (apparently Scottish) bean… and also deeply sad. I was helpless to do anything for it.

“Okaaaay. But what does this mean?” My husband was growing impatient as he and our OGBYN swapped looks, navigated each other’s faces.

I remember thinking I should tell them what’s going on, now that I had figured it out. “No need to worry! It will end.” I would say. Just not yet. Then I could lower my voice like the guy on the Gladiator movie, and put my hands on theirs. Looking my husband in the eye, smiling, I would say: “Not yet.”

But they were on a different thought plain, trying to exchange information about a topic I had clearly missed during my own thoughts. The doctor raised his eyebrows as though the higher his scraggly hairs went, the better they would help him breech the topic they were tip toeing around.

“We can’t do ana-thang while there’s a haht beat.”

Oooooooohhhhhh!!!! Okay, now I get it. They’re tip toeing around abortion, I realized.

“Why not?” The anger in my husband’s voice surprised me a bit. But then it occurred to me that if I was feeling helpless while this whole thing, he must be feeling REALLY helpless. And scared.

“Simple law.” The old coot set his papers on the table next to him. “Awll we can do is wait an see whut happens, ahm afraid.”

“What if it continues to grow and it’s…not healthy?”

The doctor gave us a long shrug, “There ahr certain laws in place that ensure the protection uhv your wife’s lahfe, should the pregnancy threaten it. But outside ah that, ahm afraid there’s not much to do otha than wait.”

My husband was struggling, but he was staying calm. He took a deep breath as I raged against him in my head.

My first spark of maternal instinct.

I didn’t want the baby to be unhealthy either. But no one, not even my sweet husband would dare suggest harming the super and apparently William Wallace-y heart embryo I had been working on, whether it was already doomed or not. I was that bean’s guardian and the only one it had. I didn’t have thoughts of protection; I had feelings of it. Pure bulky, explosive, deadly feelings from which no one was safe and from which grew a tiny wedge in between my husband and myself; it was a strong and awful feeling.

The car ride home was an awkward one. In our twelve years together, we had never really discussed having a baby with disabilities or having an abortion for that matter. And now we had twenty minutes trapped in a car with both subjects forced upon us at once.

“I don’t think these are things we need to worry about. I think it’s going to pass…eventually.” I tried to keep a smooth tone to my voice.

But he was worried. To the point of being in another place. “But what if it doesn’t?”

His jaw was tight as he tried to find a way to say what he was thinking.

“I know I’m…supposed…to be supportive of you and of this…pregnancy no matter what. But I don’t want a kid with disabilities. I just don’t…I can’t… People who do that… It’s gotta be hard and I have a lot of respect. But I don’t want that.”

I tried to bring him to calm despite the real hot burning anger I felt. “I don’t think most people WANT it.” Calm, soothing voice I thought.

“Do you?” He looked at me then back at the road.

“No. But…” How do I say this? I want to fix your pain my love. But I cannot hurt the little thing in me. Like, I actually physically do not think I can do it. Why would you ask me to? Why is he asking this of me?! I felt the rage building. Calm down; he’s not asking me to do anything yet.

“I don’t think anyone WANTS a disabled child. It just happens. It’s not the end of the world. My uncle has Downs Syndrome and he is one of the sweetest people I have ever met.” Which he was.

“I know that. What I am saying is…your uncle’s parents. That is probably a lot of work for them. Like A LOT. And in a world that isn’t…kind to people with disabilities.”

He was right. I hadn’t thought of the parents and how hard it must be on them. I knew how to care for babies and children but I had absolutely no experience with special needs children and as I realized this, a sudden pit of fear opened up in my gut.

“It would be something we’d have to work very hard at and for a long time…like the rest of our lives. Well…the rest of…bean’s life.” His voice softened.

Fuck. Burying a child. I had not thought of that either.

I felt helpless and able at the exact same time. On one hand, I was on the same page as my husband. The fear in my stomach I had about caring for a child with special needs wasn’t anything I had experienced before. Other people did it. They had survived. Surely we could? Perhaps how I felt about the situation was how some people felt about military service? For my husband and I, sure, war was a scary prospect; but one we were built to carry out. That’s why we had both been drawn to the military. Why we had both held up our hands, and sworn to potentially forfeit our lives. It made sense to us. I guess some people looked at that and thought we were probably crazy? How could we ever do something like that and thank goodness we did? Whether it was true or not, it’s what I told myself in the moment to try and understand how we felt about parents of special needs babies.

But on the other hand…

“I just can’t do anything to hurt the bean.” I finally muttered.

At this, his posture relaxed in a resigned “If it’s not something you want to do, then I can’t ask it of you” kind of way. And guilt punched me in the gut.

I wanted the conversation to be over. We were getting worked up for no reason.

My miscarriage had not been like a heavy period. It had been like labor, except with no baby at the end of it. Contractions, nausea, vomiting, dizziness and a lot of blood. A. LOT. OF BLOOD. And not just blood. Chunks. Tissue. Baseball sized wads of my insides so big they splashed the toilet water out and over the seat, making a mess on my bum and legs. It reminded me of the berry preserves I liked to use on my biscuits at Cracker Barrel, but in huge quantities.

I remember trying to keep my breathing under control as panic attacks came and went. I remember thinking “Is this normal?! Should someone be with me?! I really don’t want to be alone right now.” But at the same time I couldn’t envision asking anyone to come in, even my husband. It just wasn’t something I had heard of. I didn’t know how. Women miscarried quietly at home by themselves. I guess I thought it was supposed to be lonely.

But all that went out the window when I passed out on the toilet. Like, literally, slumped over and bonked my head.

“I thiiiiiinnk we… need to… go in!” I slur-yelled to my husband, dizzily coming to. He had been the other room, nervously trying to give me space. He called the clinic to confirm that, yes, I should come in. Passing out was not a great sign.

I don’t remember going to or arriving at the clinic. I just remember the relief hitting me when we finally entered the examination room. These people had seen and done this before, so they would know what to do.

“Here’s your cover.” The nurse handed a sheet-like dressing gown to me, non chalant.

“Just get changed and lay down in the stirrups.” She said as she left the room.

“Lay down?!” I thought. Those stirrups were as high as my neck.

Exhausted, contractions coming and going, and blood all over my ya ya and my legs, I was really surprised. Like, seriously? I’m only going through a traumatic medical event here. No, I don’t need a hug or a kind word. Just get yer knees up, get out the spelunking flashlight, and let’s take a gander in yer life makin hole!!!

So, choking back tears, I heaved my bloody hairy leg slabs into those stirrups and IMMEDIATELY felt a huge clot pass out of my vulva. I heard a loud and almost funny “splat!” as it hit the tile floor. It was like a sound effect you’d hear on Tom and Jerry, and OF COURSE the old coot came in right at that moment. I could tell immediately by his soft expression that he was sad wizard eyebrow doctor. Thank goodness.

“Ma’yum. Can we please git this cleaned uhp?” He looked at the nurse, pointing to my freshly made berry preserves on the floor. Then he placed a warm hand on my knee.

“Hello there. Ahm sorry but Ah have to use sum tools here to take a look an see what’s goin on.”

“Oh…kay.” I managed to choke out. Bracing myself.

“It may feel a little cold?” His half question and passive tone confused me; then I realized he was standing there, not doing anything – just waiting for me. He was asking for my permission to look into my lady bits. And that ask. Made. All. The. Difference. My tears ebbed.

“It’s ok.” I said. “I’m ready.”

And I was. My poor husband, however, was not nearly as comforted by sad wizard eyebrow doc as I was. I could see the anger welling up in his face as the doc put in the vaginal speculum, and looked into my canal of humanity as a golfer would look into a cup on the course: Hmmm. Can I get it in under par? Maybe if I use the putter…

For anyone who doesn’t know what a vaginal speculum is: yes, it is as bad as it sounds and two: it’s basically a crow bar for your vag to keep everything open so the doc can get in and out of there without whatever horrible looking metal torture tool things they use. (Seriously medical community, can we at least make the tools less scary looking?)

After a minute or two of looking around inside my life portal, the ole coot backed up and placed the pokey metal things on a dressed table.

Please take the speculum out before you start talking.

Please take the speculum out before you start talking.

Please take the speculum out before you start talking.

My prayers were answered.

“It looks lahk you’ve passed mosta thuh tissue, includin’ thuh embryo. So we have sum options here.”

I felt both relief and incredible sadness because that meant that the bean was flushed down the toilet…or wiped up from the floor beneath us. Part of me had hoped the doctor would be able to take it out and I could see it, if that’s something they did. But more than anything, I was really ready to be done. I had just passed the first trimester mark and we had been waiting to miscarry for over two weeks.

“Why do we have options now?” My husband could not let go.

“Thuh embryo is gone. So that means ya have two options. Go back home an let thuh rest pass on its ow-“

“We’re here because she’s been PASSING IT ON HER OWN.” My husband interrupted, with clenched fists.

“Since early this morning! SHE passed out from passing it on her own.” My husband’s tone every time he said ‘passing it on her own’ meant he was about to unload. I knew what he was mad about. They could not do anything to help me the week before because of their backwards laws and that had led us here: me bleeding out on our toilet, breathing through panic attacks, and passing out. I understood his anger and loved him for it, he was my protector. But I didn’t want him exploding now, with my feet in the air and berry preserves going all over the place. Thankfully the nurse interjected.

“Has she had anything to eat?”

Ugh. Never mind. Time to pipe up.

“Nope!” I gritted between a cramp-contractions. The military officer in me was awake now and she needed to take control of the situation.

“Kinda hard to eat a nice breakfast when I’m dry heaving and can’t get off the toilet without passing out!”

Everyone snapped their faces at me as though they had forgotten I was there. Then they waited for me to speak.

“D! And! C! Please!” I bared my teeth at all of them, pretending it was a smile.

I had read about D and Cs, (dilation and curettages) on the good old inter webs the days prior. The procedure was simply removing the remaining tissues in my uterus; it would stop the bleeding and provide us with the end to a journey which we both very much needed.

It went…I guess as smoothly as culminations to failed pregnancies go? I was miserable, physically and mentally, and quite happy to be put under for the thing. The ole coot was going to be poking around in my insides, but at least I didn’t have to be conscious for it like I did for the examination.

I remember coming to after the procedure and seeing the doc standing over me in scrubs, which I had never seen him in.

“Ever-thang went well.” A pale green surgeon’s mask muffled his voice.

“Oh. Oh…kay.” Things were slow and blurry and while I felt safe, I remember not being able to tell if it was ham an eggs doc or sad wizard eyebrow doc. And we were the only two in the room.

“You should take it easy for the next few days.” He started to leave the room but before he did, he turned around.

“An don’t skip breakfast! Most important meal uhv thu day.” He closed the door and left me alone.

Ha! Ham and eggs doc, I laughed to myself. My worry was gone; so, half asshole or not, I was grateful for him and wished him well in that moment.

Years later, I am able to look back and know that I had three additional pregnancies after he performed the D&C. Two of those pregnancies gave me children so he did me no harm. I am grateful for that. I also know that he was certainly better than nothing. And I am grateful for that too.

Is that a low bar?

Absolutely.

But it’s ok; because most days, I skip breakfast.

~