Member-only story
Measured and Perfect: A Miscarriage
I just experienced the thrill of pregnancy — and loss of miscarriage — for the first time. Inspired by the women for whom it’s devastatingly common, as well as the stigmas and heartbreak which urge us to stay silent, I’m sharing my story here.
My miscarriage was quiet, and private, and soft.
It didn’t hurt. I didn’t feel anything.
After our big Pregnancy Confirmation Doctor Appointment, we went to the beach. He packed up his fishing cart and I packed mocktails.
He got a few bites, but didn’t catch anything that was legal to keep. I floated in the water on my back in the twilight, the dusk making the water itself dusky, an ashy green that looked more powdery than clear. But the caps of the waves glistened almost blindingly white. The moon was out, and its light danced across the surface of the water, creating filigree atop the shallows, and I floated amongst its glittering web and looked up.
I looked at the crescent in a way I would’ve never looked at the sun. I stared at it fully, and pondered the idea of the feminine divine. Waves and ebbs and tides and periods and wide hips. Ancient fertility symbols and goddesses. Cascading breasts, cascading water, me floating, my husband fishing nearby. My ears were blocked by water; all I heard was the gurgle and lap of water into the small…
