If you lose a baby, and nobody knew about it in the first place, does it make a sound?
I know what I'm seeing before she tells me. I knew when the midwife excused herself from the examination room, claiming not to be an ultrasound expert. I knew when the ultrasound tech looked at the screen and recommended we move to her room, where the machinery is more advanced. I knew when I saw her face, and the tiny white figure hanging motionless on the monitor.
I knew the night before, even before Googling, that no blood is good blood when you're pregnant. I called the twenty-four-hour nurse line, curled up in bed, with Aaron beside me playing with the ends of my hair and tracing an infinity symbol between by shoulder blades. "It's not blood," I tell her, "it's just, blood-ish. Like, it's more gray than pink." Never in my life have I paid such attention to anything that's come out of my vagina, including the very alive child who is sleeping in the room next to ours.
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