The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Done.

My sister K. called me last night in a controlled state of panic. It began with a few pleasantries while I was stirring spicy sweet potato soup, and then she asked me with a slightly shaky voice what she should do because she was 'spotting'. At three months pregnant, she figured she was beyond the 'danger phase' but the small amount of dark blood was worrying her. Are you cramping? Is the amount of blood increasing? No, she said, but she was a little concerned. I told her to call Telehealth (twenty-four hour nurses on duty to assist in health matters for free), and she did. The nurse told her to go to the hospital if there was cramping and if there was an increase in the amount of expelled blood, but other than that, just sit tight and try to relax. When she called me back, I tried to sound reassuring but my gut told me something was happening. I tried to delicately lay the groundwork for the possibility of an unfavourable outcome. I talked about how easy she gets pregnant, that if something were to happen, she would survive it as would her husband and three-year-old son. I didn't want to be doom and gloom, but I didn't want to seem so certain that everything would end up postcard perfect. When you do that, the people who suffer look back at you in anger, wondering why you wrapped them up in a false sense of security which made their fall seem harder. I looked at the reality in my words as a pillow of sorts, and hoped it would be taken as such.

She went to the hospital this morning and learned that she was miscarrying. This baby will not be.

I feel terrible for many reasons, not just the most obvious ones. I feel badly that I've been emailing baby name suggestions to her, that my last one was two days ago (Emerson for a girl, Emmy for short). I feel badly that I sent home a bag of maternity clothes with her on Saturday (you might not need the capri pants since you'll be delivering in May). I smoothed my hand over her thickened middle on the weekend, and teased her about how big she was getting. She went on and on about how she has been faithful to her treadmill this time, that she didn't want to get big and fat like last time, and I shook my head in disbelief saying that as long as the baby is healthy it shouldn't matter if our thighs are a little wider than they used to be.

Mostly, I feel bad because my sister K. has never lost anything. When she competes, she wins. When she plans, she follows through. She is the kind of woman who puts things on the calendar and crosses them out when they're done. I've never known her to suffer or buckle. She has barely ever been sick. I have to wonder how this will affect her, losing a baby, when her first pregnancy was so simple, so effortless. She thought her biggest challenge would be selecting a paint colour for the nursery (which was to be this weekend's activity). Either she will take it in stride, or this will embed itself in her confidence and wiggle repeatedly. It's tough to know if the sadness will find her, if she'll embrace it or tell it to go. Like I said, she rarely loses.

The conversations have been beyond awkward between all the family members. What can you say about something like this? Better luck next time? Don't worry, it'll be okay? At least you have one child? None of that will matter much. When I spoke with my mother earlier today, she seemed disconnected from it, like it wasn't that big a deal and I decided she was selfish. When she called me later, five hours after the first conversation, she announced that the baby was gone, like I didn't know. Are you going senile?, I asked angrily. She responded just as angrily that she hadn't known before, and I told her that we'd discussed it hours before. No we didn't! she insisted. Uh, yeah, we did. Then she told me she wasn't in the mood for this, that she'd had a hard enough day without me 'pissing her off'. Oh, I forgot. This day is about her.

If it's not about her, she doesn't focus, my dad said when I spoke with him about my mother. This is not news to me.

So, I have yet to speak with K. to see if she's okay, if she's dealing well with being emptied of the life she was carrying. Sending flowers seems too dark, somehow, too final. Is this a death? Was it ever a life?

If it were me, I'd want to cry in a dark room until the tears ran out. I'd want to feel my body reset, letting go of everything that had to do with the failed attempt, and I'd want to focus on the future without dwelling on what wasn't meant to be.

I'd want that, but I have very little faith that I'd be capable of doing that. I'd feel the death of it, I think. I'd want to mourn it.