I drag myself through the next couple of days, my body as dead as my heart and mind. The doctors say you can recover from a D&C quite fast and resume normal activities within a few days. They say it’s a safe and simple procedure. They say your body may still feel like its pregnant and that it may take some time for your hormones to adjust. They say a lot of things, but what they don’t tell you is your heart may never recover. I don’t think mine will ever recover from this.
Mum has called every day. So have Cleo and Lily. I don’t want to talk to anyone, so I tell Winter no each time he tries to get me to talk to them. The sad look in his eyes when I tell him no makes me want to hide under the blanket. I hate seeing that sad look in his eyes. It’s one thing for me to be sad, but it takes chunks of my soul knowing he is.
“I’ve gotta go into the clubhouse tomorrow,” he says as we lie together on the third day after we lost our baby. He’s stayed home with me since then, and I’ve dreaded the day when he has to leave me. But I know he can’t stay here forever. Neither of us can, even though it’s exactly what I want to do. I’ve barely left our bed, and I don’t think I ever want to.
I roll over to him so I can be close to his warmth, to his love. Spreading my arm across his body, I say, “You go do what you have to. I’m good here.”
His strong arm comes around me. “You are far from good, angel. I won’t be long at the clubhouse. Maybe you could facetime with your mum while I’m gone.”
I’ve spoken with Mum once since the miscarriage, and I know I should talk to her again, but it all feels too hard. However, that’s not fair to her. She’s my mother and I know she’s hurting for me. “I will.” If I were a mother, I’d want to comfort my child as she went through this.
Oh God.
I’ll never be a mother.
I’ll never have a child to comfort.
I’ll never have a child to love.
I grip Winter’s T-shirt as fresh tears slide down my cheeks. “Why?” The word rips from me, a jagged slice of emotion, and I sob into his chest as more words tear from me. “Why do we not get to have a child?”
He hugs me tighter. Winter thinks he can protect me from anything, but he can’t. He can try all he likes, but he can never protect me from the harsh reality that I will never bear a child. I will never be a mother to my own flesh and blood.
We lie together in silence for a long time. I think about the room we started preparing for our child. About the cot and the sheets and the blankets and everything else I bought to fill it with. But mostly I think about the love we filled that room with. The love we have for a child we will never have.
I don’t think God is even a man anymore.
He’s a monster.
No God I love would ever allow me to hurt this much.
“Birdie.” Winter’s voice sounds from the doorway.
I stop what I’m doing and turn to him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“What are you doing?”
It’s pretty obvious what I’m doing: I’m dismantling the cot. But I know that’s not what he’s asking. He’s asking why I’m doing it four days after losing our baby. He went into the clubhouse today for the first time since my miscarriage. I wandered around the house, lost, after he left. The numbness I’ve had inside me since I discovered the blood in our bed refuses to leave. I’m not sure it ever will. I felt it more keenly without Winter home and spent hours crying. When I managed to stop the tears, I found myself in here with a burning need to get rid of this cot.
“We don’t need this anymore,” I say.
“Yeah, but you could have left it for me.”
“Why? Why should you have to do all the shitty jobs? That’s not fair to you.” He’s been taking care of all the shitty jobs for seven long years; it’s time I handled something for him.
He moves closer to me. “What’s going on, angel?”
“Nothing’s going on; I just want to get this out of here. It’s time for us to start our new life.”
“Fuck, baby.” His eyes flash with concern. “It’s been four days. There’s no need to rush shit.”
I exhale a long breath. “I’m exhausted by it all. You are too. I just want it all out of our lives.”
“It all?”
I throw my arms up. “All this baby stuff. All the IVF stuff. All of it! We’re done. We agreed this was our last shot. It failed. Let’s move the fuck on.”
The concern in his eyes intensifies. He probably thinks I’ve finally lost my ever-loving mind. I might have; who the fuck knows anymore. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m finally done with IVF. I can’t go through this again and neither can Winter. He’s as broken as I am, and I hate seeing him so devastated.
He pulls me to him. “Don’t you think we should talk about this some more?”
“What’s left to say?”
“You always have a lot to say.”
“I have zero words left on this topic. I’m all the fuck talked out.”
“You’re angry and sad and defeated, angel, but I guarantee you, you’re not all the fuck talked out.”
“I am. Trust me. I fucking am.”
“Talk to me, Birdie. Throw your hurt out.”
“I don’t want to throw it at you. You don’t deserve it.”
“I’m not saying to direct it at me. I’m just saying get it out. With me.” When I stare at him in silence, he pushes, “Do you think it’s fair that we did seven fucking years of IVF to end up with nothing? Do you think it’s fair we lost this baby just after we lost Max? Do you think it’s fair you had to endure ten fucking rounds of IVF with all those needles and tests and fucking scans? All those moods? All the fights we had because of all that shit? Because I fucking don’t.”
The ugly words he speaks coil through my mind and body, dragging up all the hurt I’ve shoved down deep over the years. So much fucking hurt. And anger. And bitter, crushing disappointment. These emotions and feelings flood my veins until I can no longer contain them.
Pushing away from him, I yell, “I hate everything we had to go through! All of it! I hate that I injected my body with God knows what chemicals. I hate that my body failed us. I hate that I subjected you to all my moods. I hate that I don’t get a baby even after giving up so much.” I reach for him again as tears stream down my face. “I hate that you don’t get a baby when you did nothing wrong. I hate watching you go through all of this. Oh, God”—my voice cracks—“I hate all of this for you.”
I bury my face in his chest. His strong arms circle me and he holds me tightly while I sob.
It takes me a long time to get all my tears out. Winter doesn’t let me go; he waits it out with me.
When I finally gather myself, I look up at him. Touching my hand to his face, I say, “I hate that we can’t do it all over again and try one last time, but I know we won’t survive it if we do, so I choose you.”
I’ve never seen Winter cry. Not once. He doesn’t cry now, but I know he feels his emotions stronger than ever by the way he’s looking at me. He looks destroyed. Ruined. And when he speaks, I hear the utter brokenness in his soul. “I choose you, too.”