(Scene twelve is here.)
On Tuesday, eleven days since the Friday night when I went to the emergency room, I am alone in a hallway by the ultrasound rooms. I’m daydreaming about my ultrasounds during my pregnancy. I had my first one when I was nine weeks pregnant and I remember seeing his small body move like a jellyfish on the black and white screen. I think about how full of awe I was as I watched him. My baby, there you are.
I realize how different this ultrasound will be. Instead of searching for life today, they are searching for any problems still lingering in my torn up body.
After they push my bed into the tiny room, a young technician begins squeezing clear jelly on my squishy, childless belly as she searches for remaining signs of infection.
She is not saying anything.
“I sometimes forget that ultrasounds can be used for things besides looking at babies,” I say, trying to make conversation with her.
“Yeah,” she says, quietly probing my belly while she stares at her computer screen. Continue reading