I have been invaded. A pack of Goblins have declared war on my uterus, pulling on each side with the intention of ripping it in two. Occasionally they get frustrated and decide to gather in one area to alternately kick and poke it with forks.
I woke up with Allyn’s 3:15 alarm—and so, it seems, did the Goblins. I curled up. When that didn’t work, I ran for the heating pad, then ended up in the bathtub. After about an hour, the pain calmed enough for me to get back to sleep, where I dreamed of being in labor.
It seems the Goblins are not happy with the idea of Avelyn exiting my womb in traditional fashion. Instead they hope to tear a hole in my uterus and allow her to swim free in the rest of my body.
Curses to all those who described miscarriage contractions as bad menstrual cramps. Bad cramps are what I had all of last week and throughout the weekend. They are the painful wringing out of the uterus—the Laundry Ladies who have scrubbed and are now twisting the uterus as far as it will possibly go to get the water out. The only possible comparison is that this is the older cousin of bad menstrual cramps – the one on steroids, possessed by demons, and in a gang that never leaves his side (yes, sorry, this evil cousin is decidedly male), except perhaps to race around my lower back. And let’s not forget the forks. I have full confidence that if these Goblins succeed in tearing open my uterus, they will pillage and burn the whole place down.
I’ve raised all the peace flags I can find, but these Goblins don’t seem to care that I am a pacifist interested in calm, creative resolution. If I survive, I’ll be the one coated in ash, waving the flag of surrender.
Author’s note: This is the thirteenth post in a series on pregnancy loss/miscarriage. Read the first post, “First ultrasound,” here.