Miscarriage From A Frat House – Katie Haley

October 22, 2024

I had a miscarriage a few years back, during a blowout party. The chunks of blood came and for a second I thought I was gonna die on the toilet of the frat house. Something was falling from my lower stomach, scraping as it went, taking my insides along for the ride. Finally I heard a splash in the bowl, looked down to see maroon veined jello in the middle of more blood than I had ever seen in my life. All I could think about was if I was supposed to take the little jelly sack out from the toilet, clean it off to cart around in my pocket or put it on a charm bracelet. Swallowing it crossed my mind but seemed silly since it would ultimately pass through me again. Flushing it felt incomplete, not because it was a baby or whatever, but merely because it was a small hunk of me. A bite of my cells. Google was no help, some women apparently keep their miscarriages to show their doctors. But that was pointless considering I had no medical at the time. It went down the toilet eventually, after about fifty different hands pounded the door begging to be let in to pee. The blood flushed first, but the little sack hung back swirling. Never saw it again.

The walk back from the party was cold and every house I passed had their speakers all the way up, couldn’t hear the crunch of the frost underneath my feet. It felt unfair, one of the biggest parties of the semester and I hadn’t noticed I was pregnant. Like one of those girls on TV who go to take a shit and end up with a baby instead. My mind struggled to not tune out, everything became gum. Trying to remember the missed periods was impossible, which condom ripped off who, sepsis. I only left the party because it seemed like the right thing to do, you have a miscarriage you go home. When my mom had one twenty years ago she stayed in bed, knees to chest, with the curtains drawn. That sounded boring, I hadn’t even known I was pregnant. I felt the same as ever. But staying for the blow and dancing felt callous. The toilet clump deserved for me to at least pretend to feel bad. It was three in the morning, almost home, when two tweakers on the other side of the road started to brawl. Hitting each other in the neck. A woman behind them narrated the fight like the host of a boxing match. This side of town is known as meth block. Only five minutes from my place.

Once inside I went to shower and my body was no different. My belly and vagina were more or less the same as any. Maybe the lips hung lower but that was about it. I wasn’t mad that nothing changed, I just thought that I should be. That a miscarriage isn’t something I’m supposed to tune out, my knees are supposed to be banged up with bruises from falling to the floor and my throat was meant to be sore from hard sobs. But instead, I wiped rough, came home, got in the shower and let warm piss down my leg into the drain.

Using the towel from the rack I dried myself fast and went to bed still wet. I tried to remind myself it was a waste to worry about what someone else would feel. That night I wasn’t sad or hurt, no tears, but the sound of the toilet bowl splash rang in my ears. The cartoonish plop of the clumpy red thing.

Within a month I had forgotten my bathroom miscarriage. My ears were quickly distracted by the sounds of bar tables I danced on whose legs about busted under my weight. It’s only when something bloody comes out of my nose, nails, or ass that I remember.