Hopefully this is ok.
She moves through the hospital until she can go no further, her body unable to hold her upright any longer. The weight of everything forces her to the ground and she allows the tears to spring from her eyes and to slip down her cheeks. The dark of her environment tells her she has somehow made it down to the hospitals basement, something for which is glad. She is unlikely to be found here still though she presses herself further back against the wall, aware that she is flanked on either side by two seemingly abandoned objects. She has no clue what they are, and no desire to find out. Instead she draws her knees upwards, trying to make herself as small as she can. She rests her head against her arms; the skin there becomes damp as her tears leach out on to it.
She should have known that this would happen. That the embryo would be lost, that having a child is something too good for her. She has done what comes naturally and destroyed it, like everything else in her life that had the potential to good. She had known, her risk was higher; she had known it like she knows the heart has four chambers. She known it and yet she had dared to allow herself to believe that for once, she would be the one to beat the odds, that good could come.
She had beaten the odds once; beaten the odds to even conceive the child, for it to have implanted in her 'unnecessary' womb. And she had thought that she was one of the lucky ones. The lucky ones who were given the chance, when they had seen the door slam so tightly shut in their face.
She had been scared, scared that she would be bad mother; that she wouldn't be able to love and nurture a child. Scared that she would destroy it. And yet she had been hopeful, bordering perhaps on happy. She had made changes, though small in the hopes of protecting a being so tiny. She had abandoned the bike she so loved in favour of the car she had less affection for, she had eaten foods that the being seemed to crave; eaten more in general because she felt the perhaps it would need more than she normally consumed. In little ways she had tried to take things more carefully, because she feared this moment; the moment when it became lost to her.
In some ways, she is so very unlucky. She is so few weeks. By her calculation she is just 5. If it hadn't been for that stupid gynaecologist and that ridiculous urine test he had made her take, she probably wouldn't even have known. She wouldn't have known that the bleed she had today was anything more than her period starting; she wouldn't have known it was in reality a miscarriage. So many pregnancies end that way, the mothers never knowing, probably never even suspecting.
So she is unlucky because she knew. She knew it existed and now she is trying to force herself not to mourn for something so tiny, something that had barely even existed at all and yet she had started to dream of its future; started to make even the most tenuous of plans, for a being that is little more than a disc, barely even 4mm in size.
For one so tiny, the dreams had been big. She had imagined the newborn that it would become, the howling screaming mewling infant who would be placed in her waiting arms. She had thought of the baby who would grow bigger, who she would watch reach milestones, who would grow in to a toddler with pudgy hands and an opening smiling face. She saw a child in a school uniform, walking through gates in to a building for the first time, the building they would spend the next seven years learning until they moved on to the bigger high school as a preteen. She thinks of the teenager who will go to college, who will learn to drive and move away to university, perhaps to medical school. She imagines watching her child in a cap and gown on graduation.
Only that dream is lost now; that future no longer attributable to the being that had been in her womb. It was stupid to allow herself to think that way. It is her own fault that she feels this way now.
Even when she had seen the blood, she had dared to have the small ounce of hope. The bleeding was minimal, that was what the hopeful voice had tried to tell her, its argument lost against the stronger clinical part of her mind that told her differently. There had been no more blood, no more cramping since then, but now she expects it to come. Knows it will come soon – nothing more than a period she will have to reason with herself as she swallows the painkillers to control the cramps; the physical pain.
The emotional pain is more complicated to deal with. She has her methods, those which would be considered unhealthy by that American woman they have pushed on to Doctor Valentine. But they work for her, they allow her to get through the day. They have served her well, getting her to this point in her life; though she knows the effect of them has been damaging.
She hears the bleeper at her hip. She has to go operate, to save a life though she couldn't save the one that had mattered most to her. She has to stand in an operating theatre and act as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing has happened. She has to do this for the patient, for the child. For the child who had appeared like a physical representation of the child in her dream.
She wipes away the tears that have stained her cheek and which still dare to fall from her eyes. She wipes them away and tells herself that she is strong, that only the weak cry. That she doesn't cry, that she cannot cry over this any longer. It is gone. Over. It was never to be. And once again the door will slam shut on her barren useless womb and the aching desire within it.