I Had a Miscarriage by Jessica Zucker

Author:Jessica Zucker [Zucker, Jessica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY
Published: 2020-03-14T22:00:00+00:00

8

“Why did it feel as though this loss had only happened to me?”

“So, what are your plans for today?” Jason asked as he haphazardly shoved a sesame bagel toppling with lox into his mouth before taking off for work.

The nonchalant way in which he spoke stung to the core; it had been all of six days since losing the pregnancy, and I couldn’t quite understand how he was able to wake up fresh-faced each day and approach the ensuing twenty-four hours with such relative ease and familiarity. As if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t been fundamentally changed.

“Not sure. Bleeding, I guess,” I replied insipidly.

Of course, I probably had a laundry list of things I needed to get done—“plans” for my day that I have no doubt my husband would have much rather discussed than the blood still being collected between my legs. But each of those daily tasks felt more insignificant than the one before it. Grief’s disbelief hovered full-time, and that alone was enough to manage. I was visibly defeated.

“What can I do to make this better—or at least easier—for you?” Jason asked as he moved toward me, his eager words rich with care and concern.

I was grateful for this moment of recognition. Of connection.

He seemed so himself, so normal. It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t seem to make sense—not to me, anyway. It certainly didn’t seem fair. There I was, entangled in this wretched grief, all my usual energy oozed from my worn and weeping body, and Jason’s demeanor was so seemingly unaffected. I desperately longed for the partner I knew Jason to be—loving, connected, there. And perhaps selfishly, I wanted him to ache as I was aching—to feel as if I was not alone in my despair but had a partner who could feel, to some extent, the physical ramifications of a pregnancy lost, of a trauma endured. I needed us, now more than ever, in these newfound depths of mourning.

So why did it feel as though this loss had only happened to me? It didn’t, of course, it happened to us. Together, we had a vision for our imagined family of four; a vision now marred. We had an “ours.” And then we didn’t. I wanted to climb into his arms and sob for hours—days, even—to nestle in and breathe together, but instead I found myself adrift, feeling like Jason was elsewhere—there but not there.

Between loved ones, I felt such a confounding sense of isolation. A feeling so searing, no one should know it. A feeling that should be rendered obsolete.

Jason, for his part, meant well, of course; I sensed his attentiveness, and I could see the concern in his soft, blue eyes as he intentionally focused on me for the first time all morning. I knew he wanted to help, but I was too lost in myself to help him help me. I didn’t have it to give. Perhaps some semblance of tenderness or vulnerability on my part could’ve bridged the unforeseeable growing gap between us, but my evolving resentment and head-to-toe exhaustion shut me down.

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