Betrayed.

It seems like such a betrayal of nature, that a woman’s body can continue behaving as if it’s pregnant even though the pregnancy is no longer viable, no longer there.

I mean, I was walking around smiling to myself, lightly touching my still-flat stomach every time I thought about it, brimming over with happiness and joy, laughing with Gilles, talking to him about strollers and eye color and where in our little Swiss flat this soon-to-be-ours baby might sleep, sharing a secret so little it was larger than life, happily reading chapters of the brand-new pregnancy guide, counting down the months and the weeks and the days, even buying baby clothes. All the while the pregnancy was failing, had failed, inside me. I didn’t even know. Didn’t even suspect (until afterwards, with hindsight).

A few days ago I thought of a now-defunct blog I’d read a few years ago. The sparse, simple, heartbreaking description of their missed miscarriage struck me at the time and even more so now. I think, too, that it would have been easier had the actual miscarriage actually occurred, instead of finding out about it during the ultrasound. Perhaps there might be less of this sense of betrayal.