Anger Leashed by Want and Choice

Reflecting on my miscarriage from 2019 and contemplating the unique and often silent struggles of women.

My first reaction when I knew you were coming was “I’ll write about it”

I’ll write all about it. I wanted you to know right away about your dad

how we met, his quirks —there are many– 

how he’d love you in small sturdy ways

your presence brought a surge

that needed somewhere to go, a tidal wave 

an energy wrought with destruction and new beginnings

then just like that, you left

sank back into the depths of the ocean

you stopped moving

dropped out of me

and off the earth

I couldn’t bring myself to write about it

until now

I knew I did too much. I know it isn’t my fault.

I biked home at night after a full day of classes, teaching, and playing a gig

the DJ inquired if I wanted a drink

my face showed excited nuance: yes but no, not now, not for some time

It was dark. I biked with two saxophones, a sax stand,

my school bag weighing heavy on my tired body as I lowered the gears

pushing uphill

my phone fell on the cold pavement

I hobbled off my bike, leaned over to pick it up

a saxophone slid forward off my shoulder

I corrected, tried again, over and over

a child carrying too many toys, unable to recognize overcommitment

a dark slapstick humor, dropping, picking up, dropping again

the reality of my adult life

curled over

defeated

crying on the street corner

next to people quietly waiting for the bus

I made it home (see – I always do)

silently agreeing to do less blocks before I rolled into the driveway

that night I bled you out of my body

and I didn’t want to write about it.

It’s a funny thing, losing a future child

I went to the doctor, through the necessary procedures

a cold intrusive probe in my body confirmed all of you was gone

they celebrated my empty womb – a sign of good health after a miscarriage,

they congratulated me for your full departure from My Body

“Don’t try again for a while”

but we did, we needed to

the waiting was worse

and so your sister came, but I couldn’t see her

I refused to acknowledge her

if I did, surely she would leave, too

I didn’t want to write

there was nothing to write about

writing makes things real, brings them to life

it is an agreement of existence

it is a relationship

I tell you, there was nothing to write about.

You must have sensed this,

you became impossible to ignore

of course you fought for my attention, you still do

what followed was weeks of illness and isolation

quarantine months before the pandemic

and then, too.

I treated you like a sickness instead of a child

I’ve learned pregnancy and fetuses are two very different things

I wanted a child, I tried to have a child, I was lucky to grow a child.

I couldn’t work, I couldn’t eat, 

throwing up multiple times a day

vile and blood, scraping at the bottom of the barrel 

at the edges of my flesh

IVs and identities shifting, poking at a different body

than what I like to think

I was before

someone who moved freely, ambitiously in the world

lay sunken and empty, watching the sun rise and set

unable to show affection, even to herself

filled with anger knowing that people go through this against their will

I could see how they’d lose their jobs, become homeless

lose friendships to an illness impossible to express with words

a sickness that should be a joy becomes challenging to explain

I wanted my baby, but what if I didn’t?

knowing this was My Choice got me through the illness, the anger, the deep mourning 

of my old life and body

what if I had been denied an abortion? 

if cold unfelt policies had fanned the flames inside me, too?

I wonder

where would my anger go

if not contained—

Leashed to My Body

by Want and Choice?