Vomit From The Past

*warning: this post talks about a miscarriage that happened in 1995*

I married Chicken's father on March 15, 1995 after a whirlwind courtship. Beware the Ides of March, indeed. We started trying to get pregnant that summer, exactly when I am not sure because the dates are hazy at this point. I do remember that in August of 1995 I was suffering from severe lower back pain and I went to the doctor. Before the doctor would give me any medication he made me take a pregnancy test, even though I protested that I had been off of depo provera for only a month. Guess what? I was pregnant.

I was fucking overjoyed. Giving my son up for adoption had left a jagged hole inside me. I wanted a baby so badly, I wanted to quiet the screaming in my head. Not the best reason to get pregnant, but there was no logic to be found at the time. A few weeks later, a hurricane threatened the coast of Virginia, and my husband had to leave on along with his ship. He was, and still is, active duty Navy. Whenever a large storm approaches all the ships in port head for the ocean to avoid being smashed against the piers. He was gone for three days.

Shortly after he left I started bleeding, bright red blood. I drove straight to the nearest Naval emergency room. I had only lived in Virginia for a few months, and we had no family or friends at the time beside one neighbor. When I arrived at the hospital the first thing I remember seeing was a HUGE sign indicating that if you were pregnant, less than 20 weeks along, you were screwed. It was not an emergency and oh, by the way, fuck you. I estimate that I was between six and eight weeks along then, although I suppose I could root through my medical file and figure it out for sure.

I waited, and waited, and waited in the emergency room waiting area. Finally they called me back, put me in a room and asked me questions for what seemed like an eternity. They examined me. They asked me if I was sure that I was pregnant about 100 times. I told them that I had a confirming blood test at XYZ clinic and to call them. It didn't seem to do any good. I was scared, alone, stressed and freaked the fuck out. Eventually they said that the only thing they could do was a blood test and I could come back and get the results the next day. They drew blood and sent me home to bleed. I drove myself home.

I went home, alone, and got into bed. I have not ever, aside from giving birth to a full-term baby had cramps like I had that day, into the next and the next. The pain was horrific, but at least it temporarily blotted out the emotional pain. I went back waited for the results. And waited, and waited, and fucking waited some more. In the end, someone noticed me standing and patiently waiting and asked what I needed. I told them what happened, the person looked up the number and said, "Oh, it was probably already dead when you came in, the number was really low" and walked away as I stood there with my mouth open. I went home.

To Be Continued...