What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “I have a son named Henry,” she says, shoveling a very large and unladylike bite of maple-syrup-drenched French toast into her mouth. She swallows, not noticing the Nutella on her lower lip. “He’ll be five next month,” she says, dabbing her face with a napkin. “Light of my life, the little devil.”

  Maybe I misheard earlier, but my memory is generally my strong suit. “I thought you said this was your third?” I ask, savoring the cheesy eggs, perfectly fluffy. Although my dish is delicious, I’m a little jealous of the decadent concoction Layla digs into. As if she’s read my mind, she cuts off a big piece and plops it onto a side place before nudging it my way.

  “My third pregnancy, yes,” she says, not missing a beat. She pops a piece of crispy bacon into her mouth. “I miscarried my second pregnancy at eight weeks,” she adds. She tells me this as if she were reciting the weather or reading off the menu. “That was a year ago. This little guy or girl is our rainbow baby,” she says, placing her greasy fingers on her bump.

  I’ve never heard someone speak so casually about miscarriage. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone speak about it at all aside from celebrities on social media. On the rare occurrence when someone asks about my first pregnancy, I tell them I lost the baby. End of story, no further questions. In private, I stalk miscarriage and grief blogs where other mothers openly communicate about their losses, but I’ve never spoken face-to-face with another woman who’s experienced losing a baby.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss,” I say, my mouth dry. A slight wave of nausea passes over me, and I lay my fork down. The smell of eggs wafts up and I push my plate away, suddenly full.

  At least it was early, I think to myself. Eight weeks. Some women don’t even know they’re pregnant at that point. The fetus is barely more than a bunch of cells, not a fully formed baby with fingers and toes. The image of my little boy, so tiny he fit in the palm of my hand, comes to mind.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Are you okay? You look really pale.” She stares at me with concern and slides my water glass toward me. “Take a sip,” she orders, and watches me take a long guzzle. Some of the blood comes back to my head.

  “I’m okay,” I mumble, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Layla stares at me so intently, I swear she can see into my soul. “No, actually,” I say, letting out a hurried breath. “I’m not okay. I lost my first pregnancy too.”

  Layla’s face falls. “Oh, honey,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry. Tell me about it.”

  Tell me about it. No one, not even Owen or my own mother, has asked me to talk about it.

  “It was a few months ago,” I start, voice shaking. “I miscarried at twenty weeks, and it was horrible.” It feels good to admit how terrible it was instead of trying to hide the horror, afraid I’d scare them away. This woman knows the pain and misery I feel.

  “I can’t imagine,” she says, reaching her hands across the table. Her fingers are sticky with syrup, but I don’t mind. I clutch her hand like a lifeline. “I thought I’d die of heartbreak, and my baby was only eight weeks, barely a twinkle in the womb. I don’t know how I would have survived losing it later,” she says. “And this was your first pregnancy? I don’t know how you did it. I had my baby boy at home to help me through, and I thank God every day for my blessings,” she says, squeezing my hand a little tighter.

  I shake my head, not sure what to say. Layla is right. Listening to her speak about her own loss, I realize I’ve been so wrong in so many ways. Losing my first baby so late in pregnancy was unfair and awful and might sound worse than Layla’s loss, but losing a baby at any stage is terrible. My first instinct was to compare my loss to her’s and judge the degrees of our pain and deem my own loss greater. And this isn’t the first time. For months I’ve read stories of women who miscarried at five, twelve, fourteen weeks. Only a handful lost babies past my own mark. Many of these women had other children at home. For every story, I quantified and compared the pain to my own using some sick formula I created—how many weeks along minus how many children at home plus how many additional pregnancy losses—all factors to help me deduce whose pain was greatest.

  Safe behind my keyboard, I gave myself permission to think women with other live children should be thankful for the ones they had. Their pain was less than. Women who lost babies before a heartbeat was heard should be thankful it was only a bundle of cells and they didn’t have to deliver a fetus. Their pain was less than. It was wrong, but it made me feel better.

  I’m ashamed of myself now that I’ve talked to Layla, a real, live woman who has experienced loss. I’ve been blind. You can love your existing children and still mourn the one you lost. Women who miscarry early still deserve to grieve, since a mother’s love is instant. Diminishing the pain of others made me feel better in some twisted way. For too long I’ve held on to the idea that my pain was the most painful of pains, and it’s grown into a malignant tumor inside me.

  So, I open up and tell Layla the complete story. I start with my water breaking and relive holding my son in my palm, his face perfect and blue. I don’t stop and I let the tears fall. She doesn’t interrupt, just listens and cries with me. This woman I’ve known less than an hour shares in my pain and doesn’t compare it to her own or judge it to be greater or less than.

  “It sucked,” I say, finally finishing my story. I wipe my cheeks and try to smile. “But we are lucky to be pregnant again,” I add, still afraid to offend the karmic gods who’ve blessed us both with another chance. Society insists that we be thankful for our gift, even if it’s tainted with pain and grief.

  “Of course I’m thankful,” Layla says, picking up her fork. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified.”

  Looking into her startingly light eyes, I see my own reflection and nod. “Completely, fucking terrified,” I agree. I pick up my own fork and take a bite of her French toast, relishing the way the sugar melts in my mouth.

  ♦   37   ♦

  CASSIDY

  After

  January 28

  THE BABY HASN’T KICKED in a few hours, and I’m worried. Not worried enough to text Owen in a panic. Not yet, anyway. But worried enough to start down the rabbit hole of Googling and consulting the baby forums.

  Today began like any other day with a small coffee and banana on my drive to the clinic. Usually the little jolt of caffeine wakes him up and I feel the familiar fluttery hiccups in my lower belly. But not today. Today he’s been still, even as I bent around a horse with a swollen leg and examined the lame animal. Finished with my first patient, I sit in the truck with the radio off, hoping the silence and stillness will allow me to focus on my body and feel something. Anything.

  I swallow the lump rising in the back of my throat, the first little bubble of hysteria beginning to take shape. Instead, I try to temper the panic by focusing on my next call. Letting my body run on cruise control, I make it to the second farm and find another lame horse. Different limb, same basic treatment. I prescribe icing the knee and a cold poultice to relieve the swelling. I distribute a mild anti-inflammatory and suggest a follow-up appointment if the horse is still sore in three days. Thankfully I can diagnose and treat these ailments in my sleep, and the customer doesn’t even notice my mind is elsewhere.

  As I close up my truck once more, the first stab of pain slices across my abdomen from left to right. After the first throb, it settles to a dull ache, almost like a hunger pang. Resting my arm on the trunk, I take a deep breath and count to five. Another pang, this one sharper and higher on my side.

  My eyes water and full-blown panic sets in as I stumble to get into the driver’s seat. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I notice my hair is stuck to my sweaty forehead and my hands are shaking on the wheel. From the driveway the barn owner looks toward me with a concerned face, and I hold up my fingers in a weak wave as I back out of the drive, hitting the gas a little too hard and sending gravel sailing. The owner waves back and smiles, probably assuming I’m just running late for my
next call.

  Without signaling, I pull out into traffic and cut off a mid-sized sedan, who slams on the brakes before laying on the horn. Flustered, I pull onto the shoulder and slide to park just in time for the car to pass me in an angry hurry but not so fast that the driver doesn’t have time to hit the horn once more and flip me off with the other hand. Taking another deep breath, I lay my hands on my bump. Closing my eyes, I wish for him to kick against my touch. Last week I swear I felt him, even though Owen claimed he couldn’t feel a thing. Maybe I imagined it all along. Lifting my light sweater, I press my palms firmly on my hard belly, but still nothing. Then another pang.

  Fighting back tears, I scroll through my phone and dial Owen’s number. The phone rings repeatedly across my Bluetooth speakers, cutting to his voice mail message. I want to scream. Why isn’t he there?

  “Call me as soon as you get this,” I say, even though I know he never listens to his voicemail. I follow up with a text. Call me. Going to Dr. Julian’s now. Meet me there. I worry two missed messages might frighten him but decide I don’t care. It should scare him. I’m terrified. After hitting send, I pull back out into traffic and cause an SUV to swerve to avoid clipping my back bumper. The driver lays on the horn and I flip him off, answering with my own horn even though I know it’s my fault.

  * * *

  Cutting to the front of the line while cradling my tiny bump, I demand to be seen at once. The girl at the front desk is both patient and kind, despite my terrible behavior upon entering Dr. Julian’s office. For a split second, I contemplated going straight to the emergency room, but I couldn’t face that trauma again, not alone. The other women waiting take a step back and look at me with pity before turning their eyes away as though my pain might be contagious.

  With a practiced smile, the receptionist leads me directly to an exam room and motions for a nurse to come straight over. Embarrassed at my rude display in the waiting room, I compose myself and hope the other pregnant women understand I’m not truly a bitch, just scared. I glance down at my phone. No service and I’m not connected to Wi-Fi. Owen has no way of getting in touch with me and is probably worried sick.

  This morning we both pretended this afternoon’s appointment was like any other. But it’s not. Today is our twenty-week ultrasound. The milestone we’ve been looking forward to with both excitement and trepidation. Afraid to put voice to the lingering fear, we ignored the sense of foreboding and treated it like just another day. Just another ultrasound.

  The nurse takes my blood pressure and vitals before asking me to leave a urine sample, like any other visit to the OB. Afraid to look down after wiping, I spare a glance at the tissue and am relieved there isn’t any blood. The cramping is gone, leaving just a tightness across my midsection. On the quick drive to the office, I convinced myself I was covered in blood and even checked my pants twice for stains before rushing into the clinic.

  Walking back to the exam room, I hear him before I see him. “I’m looking for my wife?” Owen says, his voice loud and distressed. “Cassidy Morgan?” I wait in the hall as the receptionist points him in my direction and he locks eyes with me, his face dropping to my stomach. “Cass,” he moans, his lower lip trembling. “Are you okay?” He pulls me into his arms for a quick embrace before letting go to inspect me. “Is the baby …?”

  I shrug, unable to find my voice. Any semblance of composure falls away in his presence. “I don’t know. I started having pain, and I got so scared,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to go to the hospital,” I say, shaking my head. “Then you didn’t pick up the phone, and I didn’t know what to do …”

  He pulls me against his shoulder. The handful of women in the waiting area look down at their magazines, anyplace but at the distressed couple embracing in the hallway. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s go into the room,” he says, eyeing our audience. “I’m here now.”

  We head back to the exam room, leaving the door cracked. Two minutes later a new nurse heads in, clipboard in hand. It’s Sarah, the same nurse I’ve seen at every appointment since our loss. I’m happy I won’t have to repeat my terrible history again, since she already knows my story.

  “You’re a few hours early for your appointment,” Sarah kids, her tone light but her eyes compassionate. “What’s going on?” she asks.

  Suddenly I feel foolish. The cramping has stopped and I feel perfectly normal again, just freaked out. I’ve never been an alarmist, but everything has changed. Who is this harried woman panicking on the exam table? “I had some cramps earlier while at work, and I might have overreacted. I actually feel a lot better now,” I say, color rising to my cheeks. “I just wanted to come in and get checked out in case something was happening. Like before.”

  Sarah nods and pets my forearm. She reminds me of Owen’s mom, soft in all the right places. “You did the right thing. Let’s go to the sonogram room and take a look. You’re lucky—the room is empty, so we can just get to all the fun stuff a few hours ahead of time.” She stands and motions for us to follow to a high-tech room dedicated to specialty imaging. Two giant screens line the wall, and an exam chair is set up next to a large ultrasound machine. Today we’ll get to see all the different parts of our baby boy. Because of the extra blood testing done earlier in the pregnancy, the gender won’t be a surprise, but I’m still excited to see all his pieces.

  Sarah asks me to lie on the chair and lift my shirt as she fills in my information on the computer screen. Rubbing some warm jelly on my stomach and on the wand, she murmurs, “Don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay.” I wish I could take her at her word—it’s all going to be okay—but I can’t let go of the hard nugget of fear lodged in my core, in my marrow. Maybe I’ll see my baby today and things will look perfect, but nothing will be okay until I hold him, crying and alive in my arms.

  * * *

  Owen’s mesmerized by the bits and blurs moving across the screens suspended from the ceiling. His enthusiasm is contagious, and I smile along with him. It’s amazing how clearly we can see his little toes, his pert nose. Holding my hand in his own, Owen squeezes each time the nurse points out another organ, proclaiming each in perfect order while methodically measuring and recording as we go. Every time the baby moves, Owen nudges me on the shoulder to make sure I’m watching. He’s beaming from ear to ear.

  “Do you want to know the sex?” Sarah asks, lifting the probe and squeezing more blue jelly onto my belly.

  “We know …” Owen starts, but I shake my head playfully and put a finger to my lips.

  “Yes, please,” I say. Why not pretend we’re a “normal” couple, excited to find out the sex of our baby? It’s refreshing to feel this sense of ease and innocence, even if it might be short-lived and artificial.

  “Let’s see if I can get a good picture,” she says, furrowing her brow as she digs the probe into my belly a little harder at a right angle. “Little bugger is being shy,” she jokes, passing the wand back and forth. I arch my back and wriggle a little further up into the chair, hoping to jostle him into a better position. He’s been twitching like a jumping bean the entire exam, and suddenly he’s playing coy. “There we go!” She taps a few buttons, freezing the moment. I study the image, confused. I’m not a human doctor, but I’m familiar with reading ultrasounds. There must be a mistake, because if I’m seeing things correctly, something important is missing.

  “It’s a girl!” she exclaims, smiling at us.

  Her smile fades as she sees the bewilderment on our faces. Owen drops my hand. “But the blood work said it was a boy.” His eyes flit between me and Sarah before landing on the black-and-white screen. He squints, but I know it’s nothing more than gibberish to his untrained eyes.

  “There must be a mistake,” I say as I study the image. Sarah has frozen the image on a very clear shot of our baby, and it looks like a girl. “We had the blood test done with the genetic panel a few weeks ago, and the results came back as male,” I say, feeling guilty for “tric
king” Sarah into thinking we didn’t know the sex. “We just wanted to be surprised all over again,” I mumble. Panic creeps back, sliding around my heart once again. Something’s wrong.

  Sarah nods and snaps a few more pictures before replacing the wand. If she has an opinion, she keeps it to herself. “I’ll run and get Dr. Julian,” she says. “We have multiple views of your baby here, but I want her to look.” Seeing the concern on our faces, she continues, “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve been doing this for twelve years and have seen a lot of babies. Yours looks like a perfectly normal and healthy baby girl. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for everything,” she says, excusing herself from the room.

  Owen turns to me. “It’s okay, right?” His desperate look of hope is all too familiar. The last time an ultrasound technician left to consult the doctor, the news was anything but okay. “Maybe the blood test was wrong? Or maybe it’s a bad angle?”

  I frown and study the images. Sarah has to be right. There must be a perfectly logical and scientific explanation for why the blood test and the imaging don’t match. Normally, science and facts calm me. Order and logic bring definition to this chaotic world. But every scientific reason that comes to mind implies a problem with the fetus, and I can’t help but jump immediately to the worst-case scenario. My ability to hope for the best has been forever corrupted.

  “Maybe he’s just crossing his legs or something,” I mutter, realizing Owen is actually waiting for a response. My answer seems to satisfy him, and he lets out an audible sigh. Whenever he’s nervous, he holds his breath before letting it out in a giant whoosh, a tic I normally find endearing. Not today. Today I’m annoyed at how quickly I’m able to put his mind at ease while I’m still overcome with anxiety. Why is it I’m the one who always takes away his fears and then holds on to them, adding to my own crushing load? Why can’t we both just sit and share the discomfort?