Skip to content

A moment




Photo from the mosaic benches surrounding General Grant’s Memorial, NYC

It’s been five weeks and one day since my D&C. Yes, I am counting. No, I really don’t want to. I wake up every fucking morning and it is the first thing that comes to mind – five weeks, one day. No longer pregnant. Staring down the possibility of actively trying to conceive. Slinking away from the possibility of more loss.

I mentioned before that I had my D&C performed at a Manhattan abortion clinic because in a city of 8 million it takes a week or more for your OB’s clinic, or his OB buddies, to get you on the D&C schedule. Some might be able to live for a week with a dead baby inside of them. I cannot. So I opted for the abortion clinic.

I did not cry the morning of the procedure. I did not cry in the cab. I did not cry in the waiting room. I did not cry as I sat, naked and draped in a gown in the “holding area,” absorbent square of paper under my butt. I did not cry when they called me back to use the restroom.

I did cry when they walked me through the doors into a sterile, brightly lit room. I cried big hot tears when I saw that all to familiar table and stirrups. I cried when I saw all the white coats, all the machines, the suction device. I could not catch my breath as they laid me back and put the IV in. I desperately needed to speak but I couldn’t find my voice between the sobs.

All I wanted was to tell these women my story. I needed 60 seconds to say that this baby was WANTED and if they saw a heartbeat to leave it. But I couldn’t. I could not get the words out and rather than give me a moment to collect myself the anesthesiologist said, “You are going to feel sleepy.”

And then I was gone.

I just wanted to tell my story. I wanted them to know this was not an abortion. I’m sure they knew from my paperwork but I still needed to say it. I needed them to know that this was my miracle that they were about to suck from my womb. I needed to share my pain for just a moment. I needed closure.

But there was no moment.

For the last 36 mornings I have woken up wondering if my baby might have been alive. Even though I know it wasn’t. Heartbeats don’t come and go. But the ache is still there.



Post a comment
  1. April 1, 2016

    I’m so sorry belle.

  2. April 1, 2016

    I have read your blog forever, it seems, with you from almost the beginning, but never (or maybe one time) posted. I couldn’t keep quiet today, because your pain brings so many emotions flooding back to the front for me, too. Please know you are not alone.

    I am so sorry you have gone through this. There is nothing worse than having a dreamed for miracle be cruelly ripped from the womb that was supposed to protect it and give it life. My heart aches for you. I have been in this position far too many times, and I am sorry you were unable to share how badly you wanted this baby with your team at the clinic. May your baby’s memory be eternal, Belle.

    • April 6, 2016

      Thank you for your kind words. It is a terrible, horrible thing to go through and I’m so sorry you are one of us. Sending love and light to you, as well.

  3. April 1, 2016

    I am so sorry. I have been so worried about you during your “silence”. Your silence is completely ok. I wish there was something I could say to help.

  4. April 1, 2016

    I’m so sorry. Thank you for still telling us your story, stories…I know it means a lot to those who find your writing here who cannot tell their own. ❤

    • April 6, 2016

      xoxo Hope all is ok with you Amy. You are on my “to email” list. I hate how hard it is to find time to write an email lately! Sending you lots of love.

  5. April 1, 2016

    I’m really sorry, Belle. I wish those words could more adequately express how deeply I feel for you. You, and your lost baby, are ever in my thoughts. Many hugs to you.

  6. lkgaddis #
    April 1, 2016

    I’m sorry for your loss. I can feel the sadness, and I only wish peace and healing for you 😞

  7. jak #
    April 1, 2016

    i am sitting here reading this crying for you and sending you long distance hugs. i lost my miracle baby also, but in a different way. i didn’t cry either (had cried too much by the time i was at the hospital for the operation), but i lost my cool and burst out sobbing when the doctor and nurse told me they were/had gone through ivf. the doctor still didn’t have her miracle, but the nurse did, two of them. there’s really deep sadness, but also a lot of support and hope. know you are supported, and that you are giving others hope.

    • April 6, 2016

      Thank you, Jak. I think of you and your miracle baby gone too soon, too. We are moving from the NYC area in a few months. I still hope to make it down to meet you before then, though. I feel like our reproductive lives have paralleled one another too much! xoxo

  8. April 1, 2016

    I am so sorry you have to go though this. It made me cry to read. Pregnancy loss is the worst. You are in my thoughts.

  9. April 1, 2016

    I’m sorry.

  10. April 2, 2016


  11. robin #
    April 3, 2016

    I’m so so sorry. The whole situation is so awful. i am sure they knew even though you didn’t tell them with words. Your chart and your tears were enough to tell a story. I’m sorry you keep reliving it. Sending you lots of hugs.

  12. April 4, 2016

    Aww I am so sorry Belle!

  13. April 4, 2016

    I’m so, so sorry you didn’t get your moment to tell your story, to tell them to check just one more time. You’re right, heartbeats don’t come and go but I wish you’d gotten that moment if only because you needed it.

    • April 6, 2016

      Tommie, I needed to hear someone else agree that heartbeats don’t come and go. Thank you. xoxo

  14. April 9, 2016

    Oh Belle. I’m crying. For you. For me. For all of us who go through this shit. Thank you for writing and sharing. I read your Durham post before I read this post, so I’m also really happy for you. A change will be so good for you. Blessings beautiful woman. Many blessings to you.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: