Her Name is Annabelle…
At thirteen weeks, she was gone. They termed it a miscarriage but I called it murder….
When I think of her, I imagine her calmly floating in an orb of electric-blue goo. Arms folded across her chest, eyes closed, forever sleeping in a world of her own with nothing more than a beating heart to lull her to sleep every night. She never grew any larger than the size of a passionfruit. The images of her peaceful sleep always take a sharp, left turn into a gruesome scene of bright red splashed and splattered across the bathroom tiles and walls of my upstairs bathroom.
Because at thirteen weeks, I killed her.
For many years, I swatted the idea of producing children away. There had never even been accidents because of how careful I was. Much like the entire world buying gallons of hand sanitizers and rubbing alcohol in bulk to prevent COVID-19, I’d do the same with condoms and birth control pills hoping to prevent BABIES-00 (or whenever the first baby in history arrived).
Children were not on my life plan. A large part of me wanted to wait as long as possible, savoring every moment of singlehood, and an even larger part of me never wanted children. At least, until her presence popped up on that plastic stick in the form of two pink lines.
Within weeks, I started picturing the future.
A baby shower with crinkly, pink streamers and a mountain of pristinely wrapped gifts, specifically selected for her. A clean infant tightly wrapped in a fresh, cotton blanket pressed up against me, imprinting our everlasting connection in that instant. A toddler with two uneven pigtails bouncing around the couch cushions, hyper after inhaling too many Hershey kisses.
Then, she was gone. And so were those bright, colorful images I held.
Many people are unaware I am an addict in recovery with four years clean. A prestigious addiction specialist in Orange County placed me on a particular medication that would answer all of my problems.