8 weeks.

The night before; it was the weirdest feeling.

She didn’t think there would be a feeling associated with it, naiveté spilling with every tear. Her hand lingered over the lower half of her abdomen, she thought if she touched her skin maybe it would change her mind. “How could there even be a connection”, she had never thought of it this way.

The morning of; a series of mundane morning rituals.

Even when big moments take place in our lives, they are punctuated with ritualistic, mundane, everydayness. She got ready, still making sure she didn’t accidentally graze her lower abdomen, choosing a dress so she didn’t have to button any pants. Her phone flashed, he was waiting downstairs.

It was cold, even for October.  Walking into the nondescript building they were ID-ed and brought into the reception room, which was trying too hard to be cheerful. Women of all ages were sitting, reading magazines and chatting. To her surprise, so many were middle-aged, married women with other children. Soon, they were called into an office, the doctor explaining the procedure, talking about anxiety and counselling, giving them a stern look when talking about contraception.  He held her hand under the table, the whole time.

It was like a relay race; from the doctor’s office, down the hall to change into a gown. “Why don’t these things have a back to them?”, she thought as she put on booties made of hospital-gown-paper. She felt like she was gliding towards the ultrasound room. Ultrasound.  A thing happy, married people did, when they wanted to see their baby. As the nurse powered the monitor and began to rub the cold jelly on, she turned away feeling a strange sadness for losing something that did not exist, that she did not even want.

Finally, at the end of the race, she could sink into the sleepy warmness provided by the narcotics flowing throughout her body. The doctor’s voice was talking about the process, “it feels like a vacuum, you’ll feel some pressure”, with a loud whirring sound acting as a soundtrack to this moment. “Why are the tubes transparent?” she thought, as she watched the clear tube become varying shades of red.

Ten minutes.

In the narcotics haze, she turned to the nurse, “how big was it?” breaking into sobs. The nurse, a warm woman, seemed unfazed by the suddenness of emotion in the room. “It was nothing. 8 weeks is nothing”. She sat a few minutes in another room, eating soda crackers with a can of Canada Dry. He waited in the reception, with a box of chocolates. They left, and he let her cry in silence the ride.

The night of; she let her hand mindlessly wander onto her belly button ring, and fell asleep.