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Image by Michelle Leman, public domain. Image cropped.

By Rachel Roth Aldhizer, First Things, May 2024

Rachel Roth Aldhizer writes from North Carolina.

 

Here is how I buried the body of my fifth child: I took myself to the emergency room because I was in labor and bleeding. The baby on the ultrasound screen lay still in the curve of my belly, its heart silent. Fetal demise resulting from spontaneous abortion, the medical term for miscarriage. The room was quiet as I delivered the baby. At first I was afraid to hold my child, who fit the length of my hand, its clavicles and ribs delicate as strands of hair. Then I saw the face, and the features were perfect. I marveled. My baby was soft, its bones not yet hardened, and still warm from the heat of my body. In my grief, I was granted a glimpse into secret places. I am made, and I make. I was no longer afraid.

The room went black as I lost consciousness, hemorrhaging. I awoke breathing through an oxygen mask, surrounded by concerned nurses. I avoided emergency surgery because my physician manually extracted the retained placenta lodged in my cervix, a common complication of late-term miscarriages, and gave me a shot to stop the bleeding. …

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