Chapter Twenty-Six: Losing Angel

For once, I was happy and hopeful towards a better future. I was confident that I could work everything out. I was away from all negative influences, I visited my children as regularly as I was able, I had gotten a job at the Winn-Dixie within walking distance to my house, Curt pretty much left me alone, which I liked. I had so much time to myself because he was always off at the college or doing a play or some other nonsense. The only downside was that the trailer in which we lived was not exactly up to code, and we did not yet have furniture to replace what we had sacrificed in the move.

That, and my then-idiot cousin kept trying to rescue homeless people by bringing strangers into the house. There have been various groups of people – and he even allowed our drunk and druggie neighbors to use his car, sometimes for so long that we’d actually believed they’d stolen it. The homeless people began to do drugs and other things in the house, take off and do criminal things, and always returning as though they lived with us. I didn’t like it, but there was a woman involved, and I pitied her. Eventually there was a huge fight, and I got into the man’s face around the same time my idiot cousin started to fight him with a bat. I left the room to protect my unborn child, and casually sat in the rocker in the livingroom with my knife, waiting on the rear bedroom door to open. Finally, it did, and the homeless people were gone for good. As an added bonus, our drunk neighbor was arrested and his girlfriend left with another man while he was in jail.

Everything was calm again, but on the morning of September 19, 2010, I awoke to the sensation that I was wetting the bed. I carefully got out of bed and went into the bathroom to discover that I had not, in fact, peed on myself – I was covered in blood. My first instinct was to sit in the bathtub, and the moment I sat down, I felt the painful pressure of menstrual cramps as a large burst of blood rushed out of me – along with my baby. I held it in my hands – only 12 weeks along, no determined gender – and yelled for Curt. He sat on the toilet, and I closed the curtains so he wouldn’t have to watch this happening. I thought it would be over after a short while, but I continued to bleed out. The placenta, and the uterine lining came next, and still more blood. There was nothing left in me to expel, and yet still I bled. I began to get tired, but did not want to let go of my lost child. My child with no gender, no name – no, wait. I can at least give him that. A name befitting both genders, a name to show that I love you even though you’re gone. A name to describe just what you are, who you are: My Angel. Yes, Angel, my little lost love. As with all my babies, even knowing he/she could not hear me, the first words I whispered to them were “I love you” and I held them against my chest, and cried. I was also so out of my mind, I did not know if a miscarriage was worthy of a call for an ambulance, so I called my mother instead, who told me to go to the hospital.

I had to throw away my bathrobe, I placed all of the parts from the miscarriage into a bag, intending to bring it with me to the hospital, but Curt (believing that the child was his) instead put it into the trash can outside – I had not even noticed because I was in so much pain, I did not see him. I was struggling just to get to the car. I wish more than anything that my unborn child, my sweet Angel, and Grim’s child, had not been so discarded, and to this day I still get highly emotional over it.

my cousin had driven Curt and me to the ER, where I’d walked in wearing loose-fitting clothes with a red towel between my legs. They saw that I was covered in blood, and immediately brought me a wheelchair with a birthing pad on it to wheel me in. I don’t even recall filling out any paperwork, but I was brought back and they examined me, confirmed that I had miscarried, and painfully pulled a clot from my skin before bringing me back for an emergency D&C. They said I had lost a lot of blood, and they were shocked to see that I was still conscious. The cause of the miscarriage was determined to be clots. My womb had filled with clots, and one of them attached to the baby, killing it. The clots were clogging my body, which is why it continued trying to flush the system – the clots were foreign and my body could not expel them. They were attached to my womb and had to be directly removed.

I sat in the surgery preparation room on a hospital bed, quiet, and Curt decided to return back to the trailer to rest (I have no frikkin idea, but I was glad to be rid of him) and all I could do at that point was breathe through the pain and think of my loss. I thought of Grim. I said nothing, but a nurse noticed that I was literally trembling all over with pain, without complaint, and offered me some pain medication. I told her that I would be okay – that I’d been through worse pain than this (physically, anyway) – but that I would consent to the medication anyway if it made things go by more smoothly. She was very kind, and returned with some morphine. The moment my body was no longer in pain, I fainted.

I woke up apparently after the surgery – having come in at five in the morning – to discover that it was 1 in the afternoon. My mother was here, as well as my cousin – but not Curt, and not Grim. I faintly recall telling my mother “Please tell [Grim], it’s his baby.” but I don’t recall who told him later, or in what words. I recall my cousin trying to tell me, “It’s okay, I’m here” in an attempt to comfort me, but I knew that his intentions revolved around the fact that we were not truly family – and I said the first thing that came to my mind, “Where’s Curt?” He was still sleeping, apparently. I missed Grim.

I don’t remember who brought me home. I don’t remember who signed me out. I don’t remember anything except that I had fallen asleep the moment I got home at two in the afternoon, and slept for the next 12 hours. I was on an all-liquid diet for the next 7 days, which I did not mind (I LOVE soup) and I still had to work the following business day – so I did. (with medical release)

I presented my medical information to my manager the next day, and told them I was not allowed to lift certain boxes or perform certain actions, and asked to be placed in at the cash registers since there were 2 people at the bakery that day. The misogynistic bastard told me, “You will NEVER work at the registers, I don’t think you can handle it.” (he was unaware that I had awards from anther Winn-Dixie store for being a top cashier, and a cashier trainer) and insisted that if I could not perform my job duties – regardless of the reasons – that he would relieve me of my position.

So I told him off and quit.

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