My Phantom

Well, I finally went back to the doctor on Friday. I’d been putting it off. Why did I want to hear the definitive proof of the end of my pregnancy? Yes, I did miscarry at week thirteen of my pregnancy, which was several weeks ago. But Friday would have been my twentieth week of pregnancy. The doctor used the word “tee tee” to refer to the urine sample I couldn’t give, thus destroying my confidence in his medicinal abilities, but I consented to the blood draw nonetheless. The nurse missed the first vein but found blood in my other arm; I left with holes at both arm-bends. Yesterday they were supposed to call me. Yesterday they didn’t call me. Today I called them and they called back–my HCG levels, I was told, have dropped below 5, but aren’t 0. “That’s a good thing” says the nurse, assuming I’m happy to hear that I am definitely for sure not pregnant anymore. No, lady, sorry, not happy to hear this. Not happy to hear that the movements I’ve started to feel in the last couple of weeks–consistent with the stage of pregnancy I would have been–are just a sudden hyper-awareness of bowel activity. Not happy to hear that the tenderness in my breasts, the morning sickness, the food aversions and cravings, the hypertension, the various other symptoms–consistent with any stage of pregnancy and with my previous pregnancies–are still around because I’m crazy. Not happy to hear that my continued abdominal growth–consistent with the stage of pregnancy I would have been–is just the result of too much sugars and starches. Not happy to hear that my body has once again failed.

Rasheed–I wrote this outta love for the kids of the Earth surfin’ this tough turf for what it’s worth. To all the new born I give my soul for the Lord to bless, and to all my homies with infants up in this wickedness birth control the worst control miscarriage no lullabies unborn babies in disparage. Let the semen enter the center inside the placenta, when the child is born watch him grow to años sesenta.

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