I answered it.
"Is this Robyn?"
"Yes."
"Hi Robyn I'm calling for some background info before your ultrasound today."
Oh shit.
My 20 week ultrasound. I made the appointment my 7th week of pregnancy. Almost three weeks before the missed miscarriage. I assumed the hospital would cancel it. I didn't want to cancel it. I didn't take it off the calender on my phone. I left it on my calender at work. Self torture maybe? Objective acquired.
I couldn't bring myself to erase the last vestiges of being pregnant. Maybe I wanted to pretend I was still pregnant. Like I would, on a subconscious level look at my calender and pretend I'd see the baby that day. My subconscious and the hospital didn't get the memo that there was no baby.
My caller sounded so damn chipper. So fucking proud of himself for making this phone call. For getting "some background info." Well here's some background info for you - I miscarried that baby.
He was mortified. I could tell. His reaction reminded me of someone backing out of a room after walking in on some unspeakable act. Like the gym coach banging the principal's secretary. That kind of stumbling awkwardness.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay." It's not. It never is, is it?
"Thanks for your time."
"Sure."
Click.
