Therapy past due

          I don't remember if it was the pain searing its way through everything south of my breasts or the smell – that rusty, bitter smell of death – that woke me. The throbbing pulse of my back, the knife twisted in my abdomen. I could feel something on my legs, on the bed. What was it? Far away in the back of my mind a though occurred to me but it was just out of my grasp, I couldn't reach it.
          I don't remember if my first reaction was to be confused or frightened. Everything had been fine when I'd gone to bed, I'd been the picture of health, the poster child of nutritional eating and exercise – they could have built monuments representing my devotion to personal well-being. But then, what was this?
          I remember my phone. My maroon phone that looked like a miniature brick and had every number I could ever need because I never erased any working number. Where was my phone? I had to call Amanda; she was a doctor, she could fix this. I'm not too fond of doctors or hospitals and yet when I graduate that's where I'll be working, somehow I found that vaguely amusing considering the situation. Amanda, I can't get out of bed. It hurts to move, the pain is everywhere Amanda. The spare key is stuck to the wall of the cabinet under the grill; my room is up the stairs to the left and the last one at the end of the hall. Please hurry. I remember knowing I needed to move. I had to figure out what was wrong. I couldn't take not knowing, I would die of panic before I died of whatever this was if I didn't know what was trying to split me in half.
          I remember wishing I had never pulled back that quilt, I would have save myself the terrible images that would haunt me at night, keeping me awake for weeks. The blood. The smell. There was death in it. Why did it smell like death, what was happening, why was there so much blood?
          I remember being glad my parents weren't there to hear me in the throes of suffering. They were in Dallas for a tournament and my sister's soccer game started in ten minutes. I didn't want them here. I don't remember hearing Amanda on the stairs. I don't remember her opening my door, but when I finally saw her through my tears all I could tell her was that I didn't know what was wrong. But she did.
          I remember putting the sheets, and my clothes, in a trash bag. I remember her helping me shower and refusing to go to the hospital, so she stayed with me all day. My parents wouldn't be back till the next afternoon. I remember her forcing me to drink a lot of water, and giving me some pills for the pain. I don't remember what she did with that trash bag.
          I remember being numb when I drove four hours to get back to school after my parents got home. Pretending everything was fine while in their presence had been the greatest acting performance I'd ever accomplished. My unofficial roommates, two boys, didn't know why I was so distant. I slept when I wasn't in class, I cried in the shower, I hardly ate. I wrapped myself up in sweatpants and a hoodie and curled beneath my blankets with a pillow between my legs so I had something to hold on to and I pretended that I was okay, that nothing was wrong. But I couldn't change it, and I couldn't forget, not matter how hard I tried. I stayed that way for a week, and then I told my love what was wrong.
          I remember he was as shocked as I had been. I remember him saying he was sorry that I had been hurt, that he had done this to me, that I had been alone. It wasn't his fault; it wasn't anyone's fault. These things happen, I said, who knows why. I wasn't prepared for this, I didn't know. Nothing felt different, why didn't I ever feel different? Sweetheart, please don't cry. I can't help it baby, it still hurts. Will you be all right? Someday. I don't remember how long we stayed curled up on that plastic purple mattress in a dorm room that wasn't even ours, but it felt like days went by before we got up and went for a walk. In time, I knew it would hurt less – but it would always hurt.
          I remember calling it a heartbreak I almost couldn't bear.
          Amanda called it a miscarriage.