This is chapter 6, part 4 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.
Chapter 6 – Part 4, The Miscarriage
The call from the hospital jolted me out of a work meeting. I rushed over to the hospital, and looked for her room. Two nurses emerged as I approached her room, and I overheard, ¨…ly aborted, too bad, she’s so beautiful.¨ Shocked, I immediately thought, “the cocaine”. I never saw the bump in her belly, and María didn’t tell me she had missed her periods.
María slept, so I collared the doctor in the hallway and asked about the miscarriage and the fetus. His eyes lied, he said it was a painful but unimportant uterus problem. He became angry, then apologetic, when I said I overheard the nurses report a spontaneous miscarriage. He said María had specifically asked I not be told, and the hospital called me only because of her heavy loss of blood. And only María could make the request to view the fetus.
Ten minutes later, after getting in the hospital administrator’s face, threatening him with a lawsuit, I was taken to view the fetus. A nurse rolled it from a plastic bag into a white pan. The fetus, the baby, my baby, was so tiny, with distinguishable genitalia – female, and my heart broke to see it. I dropped into a chair and stared at my baby, too numb to cry. I heard the hospital staff behind snickering at my despondency.
When I arrived back at María’s room, she sat up queasily and the doctor had approved her release. I didn’t tell her I saw the fetus and I didn’t dare ask her any questions. I just told her how crushed I was about the miscarriage. She seemed upset I was there.
I took off work and spent the next few days consoling María. I don’t know if she knew the sex of the baby, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her. We deliberately didn’t discuss the loss – I was afraid she might think the miscarriage was her fault for the cocaine, or feel some religious guilt over what she did with the Pol. Instead, I emphasized the good news – she was fertile again and we could get her pregnant!
But I was depressed too. The nurses had been ugly when I viewed the baby. They thought I cried because the baby was black, but I really wanted that baby. Bunk wormed into my consciousness and said, “I bet she aborted the baby to keep the Pol.” I immediately waved that impossibility out of my head – she was desperate for another baby, especially a girl. No chance in hell.
Two weeks later, on the pretense of a business meeting, I made a quick trip to Houston to a clinic that advertised surgeries to reverse vasectomies. Before the surgery, the doctor told me my vasectomy was too old, and chances of becoming fertile again were not good. He was correct.
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