We lost baby Alice/Ingrid/Lana/Caroline/Paula/Rita, or the baby boy that was ready to run around with Izzy, our dog.
I had to go to the doctor, despite telling myself it was probably nothing.
“I only had the pharmacy test,” I explained. I wasn’t sure if “pharmacy test” would be enough. I’m not sure if it’s the right word. I guess doctors are used to people losing their articulatory abilities when under stress. It was a woman, thankfully.
I felt so stupid while the doctor was taking my blood pressure. In Portuguese, I could think of a billion definitions, slangs and explanations to what peeing on a stick means. In English, I could barely think of one. I hate how stupid I sound sometimes, and that’s even worse in English.
“Did you feel any migraines? Migraines are like strong headaches that...“
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I know what a migraine is. But I haven’t had any.”
This didn’t feel like condescension. The doctor was kind. Yet, I felt stupid. So stupid. For thinking I could even not have this baby. For thinking that some letters would fix everything between us. For thinking about you, over and over.
While the doctor got an ultrasound, the only person I wanted to call was you. The only person I needed to realise what was happening was you. I wasn’t afraid to explain to anybody that I wasn’t pregnant… but you. The only cultural difference I really cared about was the one between you and me.
The doctor said it was normal and that I shouldn’t feel discouraged. It happens often and it’s nobody’s fault. She talked to me about it and was kind enough not to assume I wanted babies.
“Whatever your decision may be in the future, you seem to be healthy,” she said.
Whatever my decision may be in the future.
I sat on the back of the bus and didn’t cry. I know I sound whiny and nagging and I hate to feel like this, but I wasn’t going to cry. Not for an unnamed seven weeks old baby. They say they’re only the size of a small blueberry. I bought some blueberries before getting home from the clinic. I stared at them, as if I were separating bean grains.
Do people do that in Ireland? When you buy the raw beans, do you need to separate them? Because when you buy in big quantities, some of them may not be as good? Even talking about beans makes me sad now. Even thinking about not wanting a bean can extend to the metaphor of an unwanted baby in an organism, then the organism spills it out.
This may be the most important letter so far. Because it’s the letter in which I realise all the other letters were pointless. However, I don’t want to finish this in an unsatisfying way. I don’t want to burn these things, or any dramatic equivalent. You will receive this. And if you want, you can read them.
I wanted to tell you when you got home. Because I had even insisted that our guest leave the AirBnB for a while. I told him about that place that had live music and insisted today was the best day. I didn’t kick him out. I just emphasised a lot. So we could have the apartment to ourselves. So I could tell you.
There is so much to tell,