APRIL 2016
It was an accident the first time—one I hadn’t known occurred until I noticed something in the water.
I'd been soaking in a warm bath, waiting for ibuprofen to relieve my twisting uterus. My period had arrived days behind schedule and angrier than ever. As I stretched my toes to turn off the tap, a pink, fleshy object floated past my knee. I cupped my palm and lifted the popcorn shrimp-like thing from the water to examine it closely. My breath hitched. Wonder and shock trickled through me like the water through my fingers. Staring at the dot-eyed organism, I twisted between relief for having been spared an unintended pregnancy at nineteen and sorrow for the tiny form that would never house a soul. The decision had been made for me. Still, I didn’t know what to do with . . . It.
“How?” My boyfriend had asked. “I thought we were on the pill.” The way he said we spawned fanciful visions of us holding hands at the altar, him running errands to satisfy my cravings, our baby secured to his chest during sunset walks along trails in a quiet suburban neighborhood . . . one day. “We are,” I assured him. It likely happened when I missed a pill and didn’t use back up, a mistake we vowed to never make again. Neither of us intended to saddle our relationship with the kind of responsibility a baby brings. Not yet.
While we waited until after graduation and marriage to plan our miracle, sunlight would nourish the Hibiscus tree adorning my parents' home where I lived during those college years. I never mentioned why I bought it, or that I buried our fetus in its pot. But my boyfriend was drawn to it, in awe of its spectacular orange flowers. We all were. And everyone cared for it without me asking.
It was the last time recovery after losing a piece of me would be easy.