As the nurse exited the room, I mumbled that I needed to use the bathroom. She helped me out of bed, then promptly left. Staggering in pain, I dragged the IV pole behind me and sat down on the toilet. They had put an enormous disposable diaper on me. My stomach folded softly over the elastic. The saturated medical pad fell on the floor, covering it with patches of lumpy blood. Folded in two, my chest against my thighs, I waited out a contraction. The burning made me retch. I tossed the soiled tissue, but didn’t have the strength to wipe up the mess. Blood had started to dry on my ankles.
Before leaving the bathroom, I caught a look at myself in the mirror. My lips, eyes, and hair seemed scrambled, their colours washed out.
I resumed my position in the bed and slid under the messy sheets, damp with tears and sweat. They had given me a private room, vast and bright. Behind the closed door, I heard the cries of newborns. Their screams distorted as a pain pulsed in my temples. There was no bassinet in my room. Only silence, in the room as in my belly, devoid of life.
I thought back to the moment they injected the baby with morphine. Gregory stood at my side, determined to shoulder the decision for both of us. He held my hand firmly, already resigned. A long needle passed through my belly button, to reach the baby directly. Then I held out my arm, offering up my veins. The tube went in, and the nurse massaged the saline bag to make sure the liquid was flowing smoothly. With her hand on my shoulder, she assured me this would only take a few minutes. These precautions were repulsive. I wished they would stomp on my belly or beat me black and blue, rather than try to ease my suffering.
I was sure I could feel the moment his heart stopped. I imagined him floating in my stomach, moving his little toes, his little fingers… and then suddenly, no more. Eternally still. Hot saliva filled my mouth. I vomited a few streams of sour bile in the wastebasket.
My hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. I shivered. The suffering wasn’t enough. I should have been the one to die on that operating table. Tears stung my cheeks. I threw my head back and gouged my nails into the flesh of my left arm, leaving a long, deep, three-pronged scrape. From my wrist to my elbow, the skin rolled up beneath my fingernails. I finally fell asleep.
When I woke, a young nurse was getting ready to bandage my arm. Her black hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. Her eyeshadow was meticulously applied. Her uniform was too tight to flatter her full figure.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said.
She disinfected the wound.
“But don’t worry,” she added, smiling conspiratorially, “I didn’t record it in your file. You can still be released this afternoon.”
I pulled down the sleeve of my hospital gown to cover the bandage she’d just finished applying.
“Where is my husband?” I asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m just starting my shift.”
Her ponytail swayed across her back as she left. I scanned the room for my phone. It was a modern room, freshly renovated. The cupboards were fake mahogany; the colour matched the maroon curtains. My phone was not on the plastic tray next to me, and I didn’t see it on the bedside table. Then I noticed my clothes folded on the grey leather armchair, and my purse. My phone would be inside. Over the chair hung a framed black-and-white photo of a mother feeding her baby. I clenched my teeth and lifted myself out of bed.
The spot on my hand where the IV had been was swollen with a big bruise. It was painful to work my phone. There were a number of texts from Gregory, and I had missed several calls, two of them from my friend Magalie, and one from my mother. I didn’t read or listen to any of them, just texted Gregory. I didn’t feel like talking.
“Come. I’m getting out.”
I felt the device vibrating as I put it back in my bag, but I didn’t answer.
Six weeks later, I had to go through a standard postpartum exam. In my gynecologist’s waiting room, I tried not to meet anyone’s eyes. The happiness emanating from all the pregnant women was unbearable. It was like I could feel their pregnancy simply from the joyful satisfaction of their voices, the way they wriggled in their seats. They all wanted to talk, to exchange experiences, to compare bellies. A few weeks earlier, I’d have been excited about my appointment too.
“Emma?”
Dr. Maxwell closed the door to the exam room behind her. She spared me the meaningless “How are you?” and immediately opened my folder. “I know it’s hard, Emma,” she said.
The autopsy confirmed the ultrasound and amniocentesis. The fetus couldn’t have survived. A silence fell between us. She was waiting for me to question her, but I had nothing left to say.
The gynecological exam was quick: manual exam, pap smear.
As I tucked my shirt back into my pants, she presented me with a number of pamphlets, one of which was for international adoption. She told me again that I was in perfect health, but that right now I was emotionally fragile. I was still young, nothing was stopping me from getting pregnant again, but it was up to me to determine whether I could handle it.
It was out of the question. I didn’t want another child. That was the one I wanted. She told me that my reaction was entirely normal, and suggested that I take my time and talk to my husband about it. I slipped the brochures into my bag without responding.
“Feel free to contact me if there are any problems.”
I called Gregory on my way to the elevator.
“I can’t have any more children,” I said.
“Oh Emma,”
