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Yesterday was a blur of misery. When I say “blur,” I used the word in its most literal sense. Went to Jen’s house, and watching her with Maggie was almost unbearable. Nausea lurking in the back of my throat, and finally skulked off to the upstairs room to take a nap. Except instead of a nap, I cried. And cried. And cried. Until Jennifer gave me a cup of water and a little pill, which pretty much erased the next five hours or so. Slipping your sister an oxycodone – there’s probably some moral issue afoot, but I appreciate it. Being asleep is preferable anyday.

Many kind, concerned people tell me that this proves that I can, in fact, get pregnant. And because I can get pregnant, I’ll have another baby – one who is perfect and healthy and normal and desirable – and this is how it should be and I’ll be happy and put this unfortunate event behind me.

But I find myself lingering on the tiny mass of would-be baby in my hand Sunday morning. THAT was a baby. THAT was my baby. My first baby. And he died. Everyone seems very easily able to discount that poor, tiny little baby who never had a chance. What about him?!? How can everyone forget him?!? He wasn’t a little bird that fell out of the nest, or a hairless possum that you try to save and who dies anyway. He was a HUMAN. A BABY. The baby that Bobby and I have been waiting for. And all the future babies in the world can’t undo the fact that I held my tiny dead baby in my hand Sunday morning. It’s not just a “miscarriage.” You can’t just label it, euphemize it, and move on to happier things. It was a DEATH. Another death.

I get the feeling that people think I’m overreacting. Making this “miscarriage” into something bigger than it actually is. To those people, I say “fuck you and your opinions.” Flushing my firstborn down the toilet 9 months after watching my mother die has earned me some leniency for self-pity. I dare you to tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself.

Oh, and one more thing. While I’m spewing opinions and just laying it out there, I resent my situation being used as ammunition for pro-lifers. The irony of it is this – the “pro-lifers,” the ones who are so ready to judge and hand down decisions for others, those are the SAME GODDAMN PEOPLE who are dehumanizing my baby by labeling it “a miscarriage.” Don’t DO that. You can’t decide it’s a baby for those who don’t want or aren’t ready for a baby, but then call mine a “miscarried fetus.” You get all up in arms about people you don’t know and babies you’ll never meet, and yet, according to the logic that is your truth, my baby is only a fetus that can be easily replaced with a couple of well-timed copulations. What the fuck?

These people – these self-righteous, judgmental, hypocritical people – are doing the very thing they claim to detest. They’re dehumanizing my baby, thus robbing me of the right to grieve. How convenient for them.