By: Cecilia George

Heartbeat

          You are standing in the cereal isle of Kroger debating between Captain Crunch or Honey Bunches of Oats. The clattering of shopping carts dissipates as your inter-debate deepens and you sink into a comfortably banal discussion with yourself about whether you want to eat healthy or indulge your guilty pleasure. The normalcy and pettiness of this debate relieve you. You choose Captain Crunch.

           You continue down your shopping list, delighting in the casual routine and discounted goat cheese. You muse over how grocery shopping has turned into your escape from the rest of the world. You wonder why there is a such thing as “color changing Jell-O.” You put the Jell-O in your cart. You cross the last thing off your list and slowly make your way to the check out line, passing isles of produce, chips, baby food, juice and eventually find yourself in line behind a person who must be an extreme coupon-er because who else would buy 10 ketchups and 5 packs of toilet paper at one time. You check your bank account.

           Someone goes to stand in line behind you and calls your name. It’s a girl you used to work with. You immediately recognize you’re going to need to find a way to have this conversation without revealing the fact you don’t remember this woman’s name. You ask how she’s been. Good. You ask what she’s been up to. Work. You ask how her boyfriend is. They’re getting engaged. You consider turning back around, effectively closing the conversation, but she asks about your life and your husband and your work. She asks how long you and Aaron have been married. 5 years. Oh how sweet, what does he do? Financing. When are you planning on starting a family.

           And there it is. The moment. You reach in your library of pre-thought answers but your groggy brain stutters just long enough to throw you under a metaphorical bus. And the only thing that comes to mind is your 5th date with your now husband at your local pub. He’s already figured out your normal drink order so when you arrive (7 minutes late as usual) it’s already at the table. He said he had ordered cheese fries to share and that they would probably be out soon and you vowed never to tell him this but it was that precise moment you knew that you would marry him. It was his innate nature to do things for others that attracted you to him.

           And then it’s three years later and it’s your wedding day. Despite everyone suggesting an evening wedding to avoid a cramped day-of preparation you both wanted a brunch wedding. Which of course was cramped, and crazy and exciting but the first time you felt calm that day was when you turned the corner and began walking down the isle and you see him smiling brighter than you’ve ever seen and all of the stress you had been feeling just washed away. And from that moment on, he became the poured concrete foundation of the home you were building together.

           Now what do you tell this woman? (You still can’t remember her name) Do you tell her that you’ve already been pregnant? Twice. You think about your very first ultrasound. The crinkle of the paper gown and table guard. While you and Aaron waited for the technician, every sound outside the door or potential twitch of the doorknob sent shocks of excitement through your chest. You look at Aaron. You have never felt more alive. More complete. This was how it was supposed to be. You look into his eyes and reflecting back at you is an pool of gratification, of satisfaction and overwhelming happiness. He squeezes your hand.

           Do you tell her, this almost complete stranger who now you’re forced to have this conversation with, about the bleeding? And how the pants you were wearing to work when you miscarried the first time are still stained? Do you tell her about the loss and fear in your husband’s eyes when he walks into your hospital room scared out of his mind—and you—not being able to offer any solace to him because you’re just as scared as he is. As you look him in the face and know you have nothing to say. Because all you can feel is death inside of you and repulsion you feel at your body and its rejection of the one fucking thing you took for granted that it would do.

           Coming home from the hospital after the first miscarriage was a relief. It was over. The second time, the fear of it happening again, the dread of what we now knew was going to happen when we got home overwhelmed you. It stunk like sewage.

           The checkout lady interrupts your thoughts. You put the color changing Jell-O you had been clutching on the conveyor belt. You pay 58.67$ plus tax. You don’t remember how you end your conversation with stranger friend behind you. You want to hate her—for asking, for forcing you to think about it, for invading your sacred space, the grocery store, with thoughts of burying not only one but two 34-inch coffins and hearing your husband get out of bed at three in the morning, go into the bathroom, silently closing the door and crying by himself. How he can’t look at you in the face anymore because it hurts him so bad because what he’s a fixer—he fixes problems—and this is one of those things that you can’t fucking fix. You want to hate her for her intrusion into parts of your life she definitely doesn’t deserve to know and her ignorance at the fact that not everyone can have a biological family, Jean, you remember, walking through the parking lot, her was Jean. You want to hate her for not think about how it would feel to give birth to something that was dead, for your husband have to leave mid-delivery to throw up in the maternity suite bathroom because he couldn’t handle the dread and the death draped over an ironically bright and happy birth room. But you don’t. You can’t hate her. You just fear that one day, she will understand.

Heartbeat

          You are standing in the cereal isle of Kroger debating between Captain Crunch or Honey Bunches of Oats. The clattering of shopping carts dissipates as your inter-debate deepens and you sink into a comfortably banal discussion with yourself about whether you want to eat healthy or indulge your guilty pleasure. The normalcy and pettiness of this debate relieve you. You choose Captain Crunch.

           You continue down your shopping list, delighting in the casual routine and discounted goat cheese. You muse over how grocery shopping has turned into your escape from the rest of the world. You wonder why there is a such thing as “color changing Jell-O.” You put the Jell-O in your cart. You cross the last thing off your list and slowly make your way to the check out line, passing isles of produce, chips, baby food, juice and eventually find yourself in line behind a person who must be an extreme coupon-er because who else would buy 10 ketchups and 5 packs of toilet paper at one time. You check your bank account.

           Someone goes to stand in line behind you and calls your name. It’s a girl you used to work with. You immediately recognize you’re going to need to find a way to have this conversation without revealing the fact you don’t remember this woman’s name. You ask how she’s been. Good. You ask what she’s been up to. Work. You ask how her boyfriend is. They’re getting engaged. You consider turning back around, effectively closing the conversation, but she asks about your life and your husband and your work. She asks how long you and Aaron have been married. 5 years. Oh how sweet, what does he do? Financing. When are you planning on starting a family.

           And there it is. The moment. You reach in your library of pre-thought answers but your groggy brain stutters just long enough to throw you under a metaphorical bus. And the only thing that comes to mind is your 5th date with your now husband at your local pub. He’s already figured out your normal drink order so when you arrive (7 minutes late as usual) it’s already at the table. He said he had ordered cheese fries to share and that they would probably be out soon and you vowed never to tell him this but it was that precise moment you knew that you would marry him. It was his innate nature to do things for others that attracted you to him.

           And then it’s three years later and it’s your wedding day. Despite everyone suggesting an evening wedding to avoid a cramped day-of preparation you both wanted a brunch wedding. Which of course was cramped, and crazy and exciting but the first time you felt calm that day was when you turned the corner and began walking down the isle and you see him smiling brighter than you’ve ever seen and all of the stress you had been feeling just washed away. And from that moment on, he became the poured concrete foundation of the home you were building together.

           Now what do you tell this woman? (You still can’t remember her name) Do you tell her that you’ve already been pregnant? Twice. You think about your very first ultrasound. The crinkle of the paper gown and table guard. While you and Aaron waited for the technician, every sound outside the door or potential twitch of the doorknob sent shocks of excitement through your chest. You look at Aaron. You have never felt more alive. More complete. This was how it was supposed to be. You look into his eyes and reflecting back at you is an pool of gratification, of satisfaction and overwhelming happiness. He squeezes your hand.

           Do you tell her, this almost complete stranger who now you’re forced to have this conversation with, about the bleeding? And how the pants you were wearing to work when you miscarried the first time are still stained? Do you tell her about the loss and fear in your husband’s eyes when he walks into your hospital room scared out of his mind—and you—not being able to offer any solace to him because you’re just as scared as he is. As you look him in the face and know you have nothing to say. Because all you can feel is death inside of you and repulsion you feel at your body and its rejection of the one fucking thing you took for granted that it would do.

           Coming home from the hospital after the first miscarriage was a relief. It was over. The second time, the fear of it happening again, the dread of what we now knew was going to happen when we got home overwhelmed you. It stunk like sewage.

           The checkout lady interrupts your thoughts. You put the color changing Jell-O you had been clutching on the conveyor belt. You pay 58.67$ plus tax. You don’t remember how you end your conversation with stranger friend behind you. You want to hate her—for asking, for forcing you to think about it, for invading your sacred space, the grocery store, with thoughts of burying not only one but two 34-inch coffins and hearing your husband get out of bed at three in the morning, go into the bathroom, silently closing the door and crying by himself. How he can’t look at you in the face anymore because it hurts him so bad because what he’s a fixer—he fixes problems—and this is one of those things that you can’t fucking fix. You want to hate her for her intrusion into parts of your life she definitely doesn’t deserve to know and her ignorance at the fact that not everyone can have a biological family, Jean, you remember, walking through the parking lot, her was Jean. You want to hate her for not think about how it would feel to give birth to something that was dead, for your husband have to leave mid-delivery to throw up in the maternity suite bathroom because he couldn’t handle the dread and the death draped over an ironically bright and happy birth room. But you don’t. You can’t hate her. You just fear that one day, she will understand.