Instead, I felt swindled and scared for my body.
Swindled, because on a hazy August morning, the book of my womb (and its softball sized invader) would be pulled out page by page. Not by the normal cycles of time, but through my belly button by a expert surgeon. Her delicate fingers would hold a machine that minces it all to pieces in a process called morcellation. Then pack it neatly in a bag to protect me from any potential poison it might hold. A lab tech would examine it for pathology and finally incinerate it all to dust.
Gratefully, no pathology would be found. Latex covered fingers wouldn’t notice the tiny place where a short chapter, written over 7 weeks, held the answer to the mysteries of cell replication and pure love. Though the miscarriage washed away all the ink, the wall of my uterus where my pregnancy had been written was still there. It had been real. Like a private monument this gave me peace, which the surgery rattled apart.
Along with this sadness, there was an earthquake of fear that cracked me open as my head hit the pillow every night. Like shock waves, anxiety would roll out question after question. Doubt would do its annoying little dance to the music of search engines. The internet became a sort of oracle. It glowed late into the night, fueling my dreams with images of scalpels slicing skin and hospital nightmares.