Ginger Vee My Chronic Life

The truth is always ugly. No one wants to hear the real story. The truth is raw, painful, and because of its inherent ugliness, often, it goes unheard. Life is just more comfortable that way. For everyone.

The truth is, I sat on the toilet and stared at that bloody mass smeared on the toilet paper for what seemed like hours. The pain faded away, the tears and snot stopped dripping, and I stared. I stared, without moving, barely breathing. It looked somewhat like a fetus…or did it? I contemplated, thought back, tried to figure days and weeks, tried to remember the size of an embryo in the early stages of formation. It was early. Just the size of a poppy seed, right? Not a pinky nail size fetus, right? It was just a bloody mass. I was sure of it. I tried so hard to convince myself it was just a bloody mass of tissue. Plain and simple. It was not a life. No, just blood and gore, and self loathing.

Michael drove us to Ashland and back in silence. When the doctor asked why I was getting the pills, Michael answered her simply, “I’m on chemo. I shouldn’t even be able to get anyone pregnant. But if there is a pregnancy, it will be a deformed fetus and never survive the pregnancy.” The doctor handed me the pills, her instructions faint and mumbly in my swirling mind. “Take 1 now…the other…” I took the pill.

My parents took my 3 year old little girl that morning. I walked her out and she climbed in the truck without an iota of acknowledgement from my parents. They just looked at me, their eyes seething with judgement.

There was no comfort. No discussions of truth or consequences. Back at home I was left in the house to fend for myself. No ginger ale or crackers to help the nausea, no reassuring hug or validation of my fears and feelings. My twin sister didn’t even bother calling.

I sat on the couch as the cramps, sweating, nausea, and despair overtook me. More alone than I’d ever been in my life. Invisible. Because the truth is ugly. Conveniently hidden, camouflaged by shadows. No one wants to see it. No one wants to be a part of it.

The thing is, though, the truth exists even if you don’t see it. It’s self preservation, when you choose to separate yourself, to make sure you don’t witness the raw realness, it’s easier to ignore and forget that way. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of distancing myself from the horrors of that day like everyone else did.

There I sat, on the cold toilet with blood pouring out of me, trying to tell myself that it’s not a little human body in the palm of my hand… convincing myself that there was no heartbeat… I thought telling myself this would make me feel better. It didn’t. In the silence, in that moment, my heart broke in ways that no one can even remotely comprehend.

Michael packed everything up a few days later and moved back to California. I was left with only my clothes and my daughter’s bedroom furniture. Still bleeding and in pain, I was left with an empty house, an empty womb, and no support. Alone for the first time in my entire life.
I was OK until I hemorrhaged in the bathroom stall at work. I called my mom from the toilet and she came to take me to the hospital. In the waiting room she was silent. No one wants to discuss the matters of real life and truth. It was easier to pretend, to feign normalcy. Actual conversations just take far too much effort.

It wasn’t until years later that I felt the guilt of dropping that tissue into the toilet and flushing it away. It deserved more. I deserved more. That life mattered. My life and tribulations throughout the “Weeks of Michael” mattered. I didn’t know that when I flushed the blood and matter down the sewer pipe. I honestly didn’t think I mattered much at all.

The truth gets buried under self-consciousness and shame, it gets lost within the ugly parts inside of us that we suppress. The truth makes us who we are, but eventually the truth no longer matters because not everyone knows what it is. And they never will. They only know their own truth..their perspective is their truth, and I can’t fault them for that. The truth is uncomfortable. Painful. The truth is ugly. No one wants to know it.

My parents bought me a kitchen table set to fill my voided home…because, yeah, that’ll fix all the hurt. Now they could move on. Everyone could. Well, everyone else could. Every August 14th I remember. I remember every detail of the truth.

The truth is, a week later he came to visit, to take care of business, and I slept with him. Without a condom.