I was already in my third month, three blissful months in which I’d gotten more books, more newspapers, more of my cup running over, when I noticed blood. It was all I could whisper into the phone to my mother. Blood. Mammi. Help. Please.
It was a Friday in the office, after I’d eaten a medium challah I had bought in the grocery, because I told myself everything I was eating was for the Little One. One minute I was tearing off chunks of bread and creating a spreadsheet for a client, and the next I was in hysterics, hardly able to unlock the bathroom door in panic.
“I think I’m miscarrying!” I cried.
My mother said, “Stay calm. Stay calm. You should see a doctor.”