Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
Stella spread her empty arms, her empty hands, and stared blankly at them.
She placed a hand over her lower abdomen, remembering the slight swelling that had been there only a couple of days ago.
Now, it was empty. Flat. Once she had valued the flatness, but now it was just–empty.
People meant to be kind and encouraging, but they didn’t know what to say. So they used empty cliches, like “You’ll have another baby.”
That was probably true, but there would never be THAT baby. She would never get to know the baby she had nurtured for such a short time before that awful cramping and gushing of blood that emptied her womb. Gone. Forever.
They said, “It was probably for the best. Usually, in a miscarriage, something is wrong with the fetus.”
Fetus? That was her child, not just a blob of tissue with a fancy name. It had been too early to know if it was a boy or a girl. Gone. In just a few minutes, all the dreams and excitement were gone, and her days stretched out before her, empty. No baby. No nursery to plan and decorate. Gone.
“You’re young and healthy. The next one will be fine.”
Really? How can you know that? Doesn’t anyone understand that my baby just DIED? Am I not allowed to grieve because it was “only a miscarriage”?
There were empty hours, empty days ahead. And no matter how long she lived, or how many children filled up their house, there would always, always be that one tiny little empty space for the baby who had so violently left her womb.