What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  When I open my eyes, reality settles in as dawn fades to daylight. Cassidy stares at me from where she’s propped up on her pillow, her green eyes curious, framed with the same long lashes as those of the little boy in my dream.

  “You okay?” she asks, brow furrowing. Her hair sticks out in every direction, an unruly halo of loose curls.

  I nod, savoring the last image of the little boy looking up at me and calling my name. Soon his face will be just beyond my grasp, hovering on the horizon of my mind’s eye until I dream of him again. I contemplate telling Cassidy but don’t. I hate keeping things from her, but I want this small thing for myself. It may lose some of its magic if I unleash it on the waking world. For this reason, I don’t begrudge her the small things I know she keeps to herself. We all have special secrets we hold dear. The dreams of my son are mine and mine alone. Normally, secrets are hard for me, but not this one.

  “Just a dream,” I murmur, kissing her mouth. She wrinkles her nose at my morning breath.

  “Anything good?” she asks.

  “I can’t remember,” I say. She smiles at me, unconvinced, but doesn’t pressure me for more. “But I’m pretty sure it was a good one.”

  ♦   31   ♦

  CASSIDY

  After

  October 20

  WHEN I CALLED TO schedule my first appointment, I was told it was customary to wait until eight weeks for the first ultrasound. Waiting three more weeks filled me with such acute terror that I’m sure the receptionist could tell by the tone of my voice that I needed to be seen sooner.

  She put me on a quick hold before agreeing to make an exception. She passed along a message from Dr. Julian herself, warning me that it was often difficult to hear a fetal heartbeat this early and that this was the primary reason she urged patients to wait those extra weeks. No heartbeat didn’t always indicate a problem, rather that her machinery wasn’t sensitive enough to pick it up.

  I assured her I understood the risks but still wanted to be seen. I’ve no doubt many parents do panic, only to come back a few weeks later to hear a healthy heart, beating away. This doesn’t scare me. I saw my baby’s heart beating strong and loud plenty of times. Until I didn’t. It’s everything else that fills me with dread. All the unknown factors that might go wrong with this pregnancy, along with something deeper, something darker.

  I’m scared to hope.

  To hope this baby might be okay, only to have my world shattered when it’s not. To get excited for a new life when my son never had a chance at one.

  * * *

  Despite Dr. Julian’s warning, the internal ultrasound picks up a steady heartbeat, and the tiny dot that will be our baby is clearly visible in the sac. Owen is obviously relieved, clutching hope like a drowning man clinging to a raft. I wish it were as easy for me.

  My first ultrasound with our son wasn’t much different from this one, but I was a different person then. Then I felt nothing but pure joy at hearing a strong heartbeat. Then I was elated when the doctor informed us he was measuring properly and growth was on track. Then I was arrogant enough to expect everything to be okay. I assumed we’d have a baby in nine months. Now I’d never be so cavalier. This baby’s strong today, but who’s saying it will be tomorrow? Or the next day. If the miscarriage has taught me anything, it’s that anything can happen, at any time. So, I vow to take nothing for granted. I smile along with Owen and the doctor, but my throat’s dry and my own heart is anything but strong.

  “Since you’re considered high risk, I’ll be seeing you for a few extra ultrasounds in the first two trimesters. At thirteen weeks you’ll have the Ultra-Screen,” Dr. Julian says, referring to the in-depth genetic panel that checks for chromosomal abnormalities. She rattles off a few more dates, and by my calculations, I’ll be at the doctor’s office approximately every two weeks.

  “But the last baby had nothing wrong with him on the ultrasounds,” Owen interrupts. The autopsy and ultrasound confirmed he had no genetic or physical deficits. I’ve read the report so many times, I have it memorized.

  “Nope, my hostile uterus was the problem,” I kid. Owen’s face falls, and I wave him away. “I know. It wasn’t my fault,” I mimic, trying not to roll my eyes. “But something about my body was the problem; let’s hope it was a one-off.” I cling to this hope, praying that whatever happened was a fluke. An anomaly. Truly one in a million. But reality’s much bleaker. We won’t know if I’m prone to recurrent miscarriage until I have another. Possibly the worst catch-22 ever.

  Dr. Julian clears her throat. “It’s true we found nothing wrong with the fetus. Your blood work showed some autoimmune physiology that might affect the body’s ability to maintain a pregnancy. We started you on a daily blood thinner, which should prevent clots. If we suspect any other problems related to this, we’ll prescribe something stronger.”

  I nod. After my diagnosis, I researched how certain disorders are treated. Some require daily injections of a blood thinner. For now, I hope the one small pill a day is enough.

  She goes over a few more details before abruptly standing and saying her good-byes. As we leave, she hands me a printed-out copy of our tiny dot baby, and I tuck it carefully into my purse. My mind instantly goes to the album folded away in my son’s memory box. My son at eight weeks, then twelve, and finally at sixteen. The only photos I’ll ever have.

  “You okay?” Owen asks as we head back to the car.

  I’ve been pregnant for forty days. My due date is June 16. I have about 240 days until then. Two hundred ten days—give or take—until my baby can survive outside the womb without major problems. In my heart, I know I won’t be “okay” until my baby’s safe in my arms.

  “Sure,” I mumble, my left hand falling to my stomach. It’s too early to feel movement and my body hasn’t rounded, but my baby’s in there and my womb thrums with the electric presence of life.

  * * *

  I can’t understand the fascination with social media that grips so many of my peers and has completely overtaken the younger generation. Facebook was founded while I was in college, and I’ve watched it morph into what it’s become today. Instagram’s a little better. I follow a few nature photographers and horse accounts, but if I scroll through my news feed a few times a week, that’s a lot for me. Our clinic maintains a business account I contribute to every once in a while. According to our office manager, clients like seeing updates. I’m always surprised when I scroll upon a picture of myself standing next to a horse’s head or bent over an ultrasound machine. The interns are in charge of the witty or informational captions beneath the picture. No doubt the clients enjoy seeing their vets at work in carefully curated and captioned photos, but I wonder if it actually helps garner more business. I’m pretty sure the Lombardos don’t give a shit if our Instagram is updated as long as we keep their horses healthy.

  Now that it’s too late to go into the office, I regret taking the whole day off from work. My brain could use a distraction from all the worrying. But the schedule is already set, so I’d only be twiddling my thumbs at the clinic instead of from the comfort of my own couch. So, I put my thumbs to work and open Instagram, ready for some mindless scrolling. Most of my feed consists of animal and medical accounts, with the occasional photo of an exotic location thrown in to remind me of all the places I once wished to travel to but never got around to visiting. “Liking” the pictures on Insta is the next-best thing. Not immune to guilty pleasures, I follow a handful of celebrity accounts. Even I can appreciate the glitz and glamour and pure marketing genius of the Kardashian lifestyle as illustrated through their heavily photoshopped and purposeful pictures.

  My thumb stops as I come to a lesser-known celebrity, the wife of one of my favorite comedians. I followed her after one of her pictures piqued my interest. Young and beautiful with a legend of a husband, she had a cool and down-to-earth persona I found most refreshing and compelling. Her posts comprised mostly photos of her family (they had four children), books she wa
s reading, and some products she used (but wasn’t paid to promote—according to her captions). Her account was normal, almost boring—in a good way—since it gave a glimpse into the life of a celebrity that looked very much like my own life. Her post today stops me in my virtual tracks.

  We are sad to share that our angel passed away today at four months … The caption appears beneath a candid picture of her face, free of any makeup and staring straight at the camera, her oldest daughter leaning against her chest. The rest of her post is frank and honest, thanking God for her other healthy babies but wondering why this happened and expressing surprise at finding out such a thing could happen so late in a pregnancy. The words resonate deep within my soul. She says miscarriage happens to one in four women in the United States but is rarely talked about. The second picture in her post is a simple reminder: I am the 1 in 4. October is Miscarriage Awareness Month.

  Staring at this woman’s brave confession, I head to the comments section, where hundreds of fans have already landed. Most are condolences. Many women share their own story of loss. A few hurtful posters shame her for publicly posting something so private instead of spending the time grieving with family, accusing her of posting for attention. These comments make my blood boil. Who are these people to dictate how she grieves? I click on the profile images beside each nasty message. Two are men. One is an older woman, a grandmother of eight according to her profile. A bot with no picture exclaims, I DO NOT FEEL SORRY FOR U! U HAVE 4 BABY ALREADY AND PEOPLE CANNOT HAVE ANY BE THANKFUL AND MOVE ON! The words sting as I recognize hate born of jealousy and ignorance. Didn’t a small, envious part of my soul think the same, just for a second? I’d never plaster such vitriol on someone else’s pain, but it’s telling how people judge each other’s grief. You have other babies, so your loss is not as great as that of someone with none.

  I take a screenshot of the second picture and crop the image until I have a square box with a simple statistic inside. Before I can change my mind, I click the plus sign at the bottom of my profile screen and add the picture without further editing. It needs none. Underneath, I type a simple caption:

  I am the 1 in 4.

  Rest in Peace ~Angel Baby Morgan~ <3

  #miscarriagematters #miscarriageawareness

  SHARE.

  Locking my screen, I toss the phone on the couch beside me before shutting my eyes, my mind at ease.

  ♦   32   ♦

  JOAN

  After

  October 21

  I PREFER FACEBOOK TO Instagram. Until recently, all I had was Facebook until Claire set me up on Instagram, insisting it was the “new” way to share pictures. But all my friends still post plenty of photos on Facebook, more than ever before. It’s also great for keeping up with all the news—like a one-stop shop for catching up on friends, politics, and gossip. My friends and I can’t get enough of the funny pictures with witty phrases on them. “Memes.” We get a kick out of sending them to one another.

  Although I consider myself proficient in navigating the realm of Facebook and using its special messenger system, Instagram’s still a bit of a mystery. As on Facebook, you can comment and “like” people’s pictures, but there’s a different vibe to what people share. On Facebook, there’s an album for every occasion. Betty’s granddaughter was baptized last week, and the next day I clicked through at least twenty photos of the day. They weren’t all great. Sometimes family members are blinking or not looking at the camera, but the assortment makes it real. These albums leave me smiling and feeling closer to my friend, even though we haven’t seen each other in years.

  Instagram, on the other hand, creates distance between the user and the follower. The pictures are clearly edited or filtered. Instead of an array of photos, there’s usually just one picked for its apparent perfection. No simple album name will do, either. Instead, there’s some ominous caption leaving me to wonder what the actual picture is about. Can’t they just say when and where this picture was taken? For some reason, an inspirational quote seems like a better description. Facebook brings people together. Instagram keeps us apart, highlighting the divide in our lives. Claire made fun of me when I voiced this opinion, claiming I was from a different generation.

  I rarely get messages on Instagram, so I don’t check my account often. I follow only a handful of people, so I don’t miss much. After scrolling through Facebook this morning, I open Instagram for the first time in a few days. The little arrow in the top right corner of my screen has a red circle and a number highlighted. I know enough to understand this means I have a message, maybe even quite a few, and a little rumble of excitement fills my body. It’s the same way I used to feel when I received a letter in the mail. No one sends letters anymore, unfortunately. Not quite the same anticipation as ripping open an envelope and holding a handwritten page in your hand, but as good as it gets in this day and age.

  When I click on the dot, my message log pops up and I see I have six messages. The first is from Helen Ember, the mother of a girl Cassidy went to high school with (but is no longer friends with, she will argue, despite what a kind girl Helen’s Janice is).

  Yesterday, 6:42 PM

  HEmber55: Is everything okay with Cassidy? Janice and I are worried about her. Sending prayers. Call me if you need ANYTHING.

  I frown, not sure what my good friend is referring to. I scroll down and see she’s forwarded a post from someone else’s page. I click the thumbnail and see my daughter’s Instagram account, DrCassidyDMV. Quickly I scan the image and then the caption. There are over a hundred likes and dozens of comments.

  I click the next message. This one from Lynn Briggs, a woman I met in a painting class a few years back.

  Yesterday, 7:39 PM

  BriggsyBoo3: Joan! I had no idea. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your daughter at this time. Please call me if you need someone to talk to. I can’t imagine what you are going through. Give Cassidy a hug for me. <3

  Cassidy’s post is attached to the message again. I am the 1 in 4. I shake my head, confused. It’s been months since she lost the baby, and she’s hardly spoken about it. What a shock to see my normally reserved daughter’s public business out in the world for everyone to see and comment on. I swallow back a lump of bile forming in the back of my throat.

  The next four messages are mostly the same. Friends sending prayers and expressing distress at the news. I’m embarrassed that some of my friends had to find out the news over something as impersonal as Instagram. Anger replaces my initial confusion, and I scroll through the comments. Each word of sympathy infuses me with renewed irritation. I’ve begged Cassidy to talk to me, yet she’s shut me out, choosing to parade her grief in front of perfect strangers instead. Nothing like picking a scar off an old wound.

  Closing my message screen, I type Cassidy’s username into the search bar, and her profile comes up. Most of her infrequent posts are of her and Owen on vacations or of work-related stuff. I click on a photo of her and Owen skiing in New Hampshire. Fifty-two likes. A photo of their dog Rosie snoozing under a maple tree, forty-seven likes. I click her newest post, added yesterday afternoon, and it already has 131 likes. Instagram is great for making you double-tap out of sympathy.

  Using the skills my youngest daughter taught me, I send the post to Claire.

  Today 8:42 AM:

  Joaniegirl57: Did you see this? Please call me.

  * * *

  It’s almost ten by the time Claire calls. The two extra cups of coffee I’ve drunk have left me jittery and irritable. This sense of unrest has only been heightened by the likes and comments Cassidy’s post racks up as I stare at her feed, refreshing every few minutes. For someone who claims to hate false friends and insincere platitudes, her post is bringing up a lot of both. I’m pretty sure some commenters haven’t talked to my daughter in ten years.

  “Well, it’s about time,” I answer before Claire even says hello. “Did you see Cassidy’s post?” I pace to the window and peek through the curtain
s. Jack’s outside, puttering back and forth from the shed to the garage. When I showed him Cassidy’s latest antics, he waved me away. He’s made it clear he has no use for social media. Refusing to even get a smartphone, he’s a man of a different era. Different century, almost. Although his stubbornness is frustrating, it’s also kind of charming, like a breath of fresh air.

  “Good morning, Mom,” Claire mutters as I let the curtains fall back into place.

  Taking a deep breath, I step back from the window and sit. “Sorry. I’m just a little worked up this morning,” I say. My hips are killing me, and I shuffle from one seat bone to the other on the hard chair. Rain must be in the forecast.

  “It’s okay, and yes, I saw her post,” she says. “I’m not sure why you’re so upset over it.”

  My heart races and the blood rushes to my cheeks. “I don’t understand why she posted such a thing,” I say, flustered. “And why now? It’s been months. How does she expect to move on if she keeps bringing it up every chance she can?”

  Claire’s silent on the other end of the line. I fear the connection’s lost, but then she clears her throat. “She doesn’t bring it up whenever she can. She’s sharing a very real and troubling statistic,” she adds. “No one talks about miscarriage, for obvious reasons. But it happens to so many women. I think she is just trying to share her story so other women might feel okay doing the same.” Claire pauses, and I can hear a little voice in the background, maybe Derek, followed by the rustling of a bag. Snack time. “I actually think it’s really brave of her. It couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Brave? I expected more from your sister. Do you know how many people have messaged me about this? Worried about Cassidy and me?” I say, shaking my head. “She bit my head off for sharing this with a few close friends, yet here she is, begging for sympathy from strangers on the internet. I don’t understand. Cass never struck me as an attention whore, but now I wonder.”