Miscarriage

The blood gushed out as if from a popped water balloon as soon as I sat on the toilet. Looking between my legs, I saw the pool of thin blood, whirling in a daze at the sudden exodus. Then I felt clumps of mass travel through my body canal and expel out of me, one... two... three, dollops of flesh, like lotto balls riding down the tube to claim someone's destiny.

After three plops, they stopped, and I looked down again, like a voyeur, repulsed yet drawn to see what it was that my body had created and destroyed. Unable to see through the murky red, I returned with a pair of wooden chopsticks left over from some take-out and crouched over the toilet. Dredging through the bowl, I fished out some tissues. I dredged and dredged again, looking for something that could resemble the fetus that no longer was, but all I saw were layers of bloody film like torn wet paper stuck to each other.

I read somewhere that it is advisable to bring in a sample of the expelled tissue for tests. With my chopsticks, I picked up a piece of the tissue, as I would a piece of sashimi, and imagined slipping it into a Ziploc sandwich bag, carefully trying not to drip on the lip and having to wipe it, sealing it tight, and carrying it in my purse to Dr. C's office. And pictured the bag puncturing, leaking out onto my wallet, keys, book, scraps of notes, and tissue, staining all I have. I let it drop back into the bowl and threw the chopsticks away. I put my hand on the lever -- and flushed, and watched it spiral out of reach.