After a long night, Casey, a photojournalist, started taking pictures. We had dinner together, which lasted well into the night. He came over to catch up with us, as we are mutual friends. It also happened that Casey and I live not far from each other in Woodstock, where I bought a home in 2020. We first met 15 years ago in New York City. We have only recently reconnected and gotten to know each other again. At least we had known each other for three months when I became pregnant.
I was given one dose of mifepristone at the doctor’s office and sent home with the misoprostol to take 24 hours later.
Who had previously consumed this medication? Did they have to induce a miscarriage in order to terminate their pregnancy? I was unaware of anyone who had taken it before.
The doctor did not prepare this. It appeared so ordinary, as she portrayed it. With a nonchalant manner, she expressed, “Regrettably, this occurrence is frequent.” However, why was there a lack of discussion regarding this matter?
Two weeks later, we flew to Europe. Let’s not stop and continue enjoying our lives together. We know what you’re thinking, but we said “No” to canceling the trip after the miscarriage. Let’s make this kind of babymoon and go later, not sooner. Initially, we had planned to travel to Paris in the fall because it was my 40th birthday. Plus, there was something special about it.
I cried as I handed her back. At my childhood home, I used to balance along the edge of the sink, and the nurse led me to the bathroom at the hospital, handing me a waxy paper cup of urine sample.
The mug in the garbage bin rested delicately as she softly murmured in her thick French inflection, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” the nurse retrieved it from my possession, gleaming and intact, resembling the shade of my collegiate nail treatments, an amaranthine globule resided within.
The infant was the one. I inquired of him and gestured towards the garbage bin, “Was that the infant?” Casey remained clutching the doorframe, exchanging looks with the nurse.
It was the first time I referred to it as the infant.
In my previous years, why had I not experienced the reverberation of my biological timepiece? My physical form betrayed me. If I had sustained it for a longer duration, those cellular entities would have transformed into an infant. I had disregarded this bereavement as a congregation of cells.
I found myself trying to define it, and I blamed myself for needing to find something in this adoption. It was still hard for me to be. There have been many tasks and goals to complete. There have been numerous distractions.
Becca Leitman, a psychotherapist, and Casey Kelbaugh, a photographer, are located in both New York City and the Catskills, where they have created Carriage, a web3 platform for individuals to exchange their experiences of miscarriage and provide mutual assistance.