Black Hole


A Black hole, a void, an empty space

Nestled inside my womb where you should have been

Shielding my face from the bright screen next to me

As a doctor tried to find you

A river of red now flowing from what started as a trickle

A pain, once mild now stabbing me from the inside and stealing my breath

Pained expressions on the faces of medical personnel as they daren’t tell me the whole truth

My world collapsing and being torn apart by someone who never really, even existed

In my hospital room closed off from the outside world I hear a newborn cry

That voice is like a dagger piercing at my heart as I try to reason that will not be you in 6 months.

Hours later, another scan, I try to explain how hard it is to come to terms with losing you when I should be 13 weeks pregnant and joyous

“There is no baby” replies the callous sonographer, cold in her indifference

I leave the room, empty, shocked, agonised

I had carried you for 13 weeks but despite the sore breasts, the morning sickness, the rounded belly,

You had died unbeknownst to me some time before

Back in the hospital room my tears turn to silence as the morphine makes me drift again into unconsciousness

I wake up unsure if this is a dream, it is not

Two days later I sit in bed bleeding, my discharge note reading “incomplete miscarriage, retained products of conception”.

A Black hole, a void, an empty space

Nestled in my heart where you should’ve been

—   Beth Davis-Hofbauer, Jan 2018

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