The backs of both my hands are covered in bruises. They are starting to heal, morphing into splotches of blue and green and red, like topographical maps. I earned the bruises at the hospital on friday.
I didn't want a D&C, didn't want anything to do with the hospital or anesthesia or finality. My body didn't want to let the baby go, and I could see its point. But the doctor kept warning me with words like "sepsis" and "asherman's syndrome" and "hemorrhage." Clay told me, "I know you don't want this, and I don't want to pressure you, because you're the one who has to go through it." But I could see he was scared for me, and most of all I was unbelievably weary at the thought of more possible drama, so I consented.
At the hospital one nurse put an IV in my left hand, and another tried to take blood from my right, blowing a vein. I don't mean to make them sound bad, the nurses, because they were so very kind. But my veins weren't cooperating any more than the rest of me was. I watched the back of my right hand puff up, and I didn't even care. I'd just seen some paperwork that described my pregnancy - 16 weeks, 6 days, and I was awash in anger that I'd never be able to say 17 weeks.
The anesthesiologist explained that because I was so far along, he would have to consider me as having a full stomach. So after I was put under, he put a balloon in my throat, along with the breathing tube, to protect my lungs should I vomit. When I woke up, my throat was raw. For days when I spoke, my voice came out in a thin, whiny whisper. I hated the sound of it, so weak and pitiful, underscoring everyone's worry about me.
My voice is mostly back, although I find I have little to say. And the bruises are healing. As the colors shift and recede, I find I am sorry to see them go. Somehow it seems more true to be bruised.