The first was the bad appointment: the somber technician; the clinical, straightforward news'not enough growth for eight weeks and, worse, no heartbeat. She was so sorry; the doctor would be in touch. The second act was the D&C, short for 'dilation and curettage': the paperwork, the kind and efficient nurses, the IV and the sterile room'all stainless steel and bright lights, solid stirrups, and tissue-paper gowns'and the scraping from my uterus of what was supposed to have been my baby. The third act was another D&C: the same as the previous time, but now even less dignified, somehow, because shouldn't it be enough to miscarry once' There's extra tissue, they said; sometimes this happens. The day I learned my pregnancy ended was March 1, 2022, but I remember it mostly as also being the day of President Joe Biden's State of the Union address. As my husband, Mike, and I left the doctor's office, the midday sun glinting off my tears, Mike said he felt like he was going to throw up. We...
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