A Mercedes sedan had just overturned and was sitting in the middle of the oncoming lanes. I know it had only just happened because there was no traffic backup yet and its tires were still spinning, slowly. The car was resting on its roof and there was glass and luggage and belongings spread out in a trail behind the vehicle.
I kept going because I didn't know what else to do. I did not yet have a cell phone. There was more oncoming traffic, so I knew someone had probably already called the police and they were most likely on their way. The whole scene was like a snapshot, taken on a beautiful sunny day, locked in my mind.
This whole week has been like that accident. I started bleeding on Sunday afternoon and after two frantic conversations with the on-call doctor, I realized there was nothing I could do but wait. Wait and keep on going.
The doctor was only reassuring in that she told me it was nothing I had done, but her tone was such that -- while she never used the word "miscarriage" -- I knew what was happening. It was only a matter of when. "Could be tonight, could be next week," she told me. I feel lucky that it finally happened Monday night. The physical part was over, but I've been dealing with the aftermath ever since. Like a car crash, sometimes I'm pinned under the wreckage, sometimes I'm wandering around on the highway, looking for my stuff. But I'm alive. We've got Tess, and she has been a comfort and delight.
Thanksgiving was spent with my family up north, and I needed that. Last night was my 20-year high school reunion, and that also helped in its own weird way (the open bar did its part, I'm sure). I'd like to share photos of the event with you, but it probably won't be until next week. I know you understand.
Thanks, as always, for reading.