The Amber Show

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Flailing Upwards, Part… I Have Stoped Counting

“I have never had it easy,” I said to my therapist, who I’ll call Joan. “I try to remember that not everyone was meant to, but I’m having a hard time not getting hung up on who I could be if only…”

If only I were born into a supportive family (and preferably wealthy and generous.) If only I looked more “black” so that my identity didn’t feel constantly suspended on a the edge. If only I had fought against the overwhelming tide of non-support, and gotten myself properly educated anyway.

My friend Emily and I started our friendship twenty years ago, and I was the one doling out sage sixteen year old advice, but now we are older and she’s a licensed therapist, so the tides have turned a bit. A few months ago, she absolutely destroyed me by saying, “But if all those things were true – wealthy family, etc. – you would not be here.”

And I’m actually glad I’m here. Most days. Usually, I wish I were there. But, as Joan says, “I promise you’re still young, and there’s a lot of time to get there.”

The problem is that it feels like everyone else has gotten there much younger. There, of course, being the dream career I want. My career is good. Great. I’m proud. But I wish it were more… robust. The clients I have I completely adore, but I’m not getting as many of them as I’d like. So it’s like, half of my wildest dreams.

That’s good, right?

I became owner of this online publication. It happened almost by accident; I started working with them just over a year ago, and two of the founders stepped away to pursue other things, leaving me and one one last founder to it. I love it, and dream of it being a force for good in a wedding industry that says the only beautiful bride is one that is thin, and straight, and white.

It’s a little overwhelming learning the ropes. To this end, I’ve changed things in my own business so that it can run more efficiently, by turning to software that will help me manage contracts and invoices instead of doing everything by hand.

The work is almost breathless, but for the first time every, I feel privileged.

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the dogs

Leeloo Dallas Marlow 2004 (probably) – 2008

My heart is breaking, but I cannot waste this opportunity to beg you: please get your next pet from a shelter. There are so many amazing homeless pets that need you. There are so many amazing homeless pets that will make a great fit for your family. Go save a life. Trust me: there is magic in those cages.

I donated to The Sato Project in Leeloo’s name, which helps Puerto Rican street dogs just like her find homes. If you’d like to donate in her name, too, it would mean the world to me. They are an incredible operation will offer other satos the opportunity she got: to live their lives with loving families. (Given the current state of the island, your donation will be very appreciated)

You can also adopt a sato of your own – there are a lot in New York, and some all over the country. I highly recommend them.


Leeloo Dallas Marlow
2004 (probably) – 2018

Leeloo Dallas Marlow died on Wednesday.

Leeloo was one and a half years old (probably) when I adopted her from the SPCA of Connecticut on 25 February 2006. She was scared and curled up in a corner, but became happy and animated when introduced to our older dog. She kissed him enthusiastically on the face and then sat down next to him, looking up expectantly at us as if to say, “Can we just get on with it and go home now? Clearly, I am your dog.”

“Clearly, she is your dog.” the shelter workers said.

On the ride home, I asked my partner if he could remember the name of the supreme being in the movie The Fifth Element. “That’s her name!” he said, but, since smart phones weren’t invented yet, we had to wait until we were home to look it up on the back of the DVD case.

“Leeloo!” I said, “of course! Leeloo Dallas… multipass! That’s pretty good, right?”

The name was perfect, the dog was… well…

During our first week together, Leeloo climbed over the baby gate that kept her out of the kitchen, overturned the garbage, and covered the entire room with trash looking for scraps of food. We couldn’t be mad. Her survival skills developed from spending her first year as a street dog in Puerto Rico (a “sato”) had kicked in. Thankfully, this never happened again as she got used to being fed and loved regularly.

She did, however, discover a Costco box of dog treats in the basement and tore it open. When no one was looking, she’d slip downstairs and gorge herself. We were baffled as to how she suddenly got so chubby. This was also the summer we put a fence around the front yard. We carefully measured the space between the last fence post and the house to make sure she couldn’t get through.

After discovering her Milkbone caper and putting an end to it, she slimmed down instantly, and became thin enough to slip through the fence we had specifically measured to her width. She managed to escape once before we fixed it.

Although Leeloo hated baths, she loved swimming, especially if there was mud or sand on the bank to roll in after a dip. She would use the swim-roll-sunbathe method to get as completely and efficiently filthy as possible.

I’d stand there laughing as she flopped dramatically on her back and rolled in dirt, and everyone at the dog park would look at me like I was crazy for letting her, but I could never bring myself to make her stop. It made her so happy to be so gross.

She also liked to roll in any poop she happened to find in the park. That I *did* try to stop, but she got so quick about flipping herself directly into steaming piles that she was usually hopelessly covered before I could intervene.

Other loves included running as fast as she could up a hill, paddling after ducks in a lake, roughhousing with our older dog Matty, and getting guests to feed her by giving them the saddest eyes ever. She was gentle with small children, and let them pet her ears, put their arms around her neck, and kiss her head.

Leeloo had a penchant for eating whatever was semi-edible that she found on walks, including dead birds. I’ll never forget the feeling of turning around on a day by the lake to see her sprawled in the dirt (of course) munching on a decayed sparrow, wings spread out of both sides of her mouth, golden eyes going from blissed out to wide with surprise that I would object to her snack choice.

“What?” she seemed to say, scrambling away from me trying to make her spit it out. “It’s good!”

She also hated when I brushed her teeth, because of course she did.

Her weirdest quirk was to creep up quietly while I was working and stare me down, silently, without moving or blinking. At first, I thought she was being creepy, but now I think she was simply taking me in, and maybe marveling at us. Occasionally, she would break the stare with a wink, and I’d wink back… just in case it was a sign. “Can you believe it? Can you believe we we were so lucky to find each other in this whole wide universe?”

I’ve always wondered what she named me. She certainly had no idea what I named her, as she never actually responded to her name – she just new to come running when her big brother did, and after he died, she only responded to clapping.

We’ve spent the past twelve years together – exactly one third of my life, Marley pointed out – and at 14, she lived longer than anyone would have guessed, which makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery. I’ve had 4506 days of wonderful, quirky, gross, neurotic love; two states, four apartments, two other dogs… two husbands! All of it covered in dog hair.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Leeloo. You’ve been the best dog. I am going to miss you for the rest of my life.

Last year, I commissioned the Haiku Guys to write a poem about Leeloo that sums her up nicely. I’ll leave you with it.

“the moonlit jaguar
padding softly through her life
proving real live love

– for leeloo”

p.s. I am okay. Truly. For one, she lived longer than I thought. When you sign the adoption papers on a dog, you know your time is limited, and I got over a year of bonus time according to every “how long will THIS size dog live” chart I consulted. I’m also a very pragmatic dog owner, and if I’m being completely honest, I’m happy and excited for her: no more pain. Arthritis has been taking over her body for a while, and it got bad very suddenly over this weekend. At the same time, a cancerous tumor, discovered two weeks ago as a small peanut sized lump that we would “keep an eye on”, has grown over the past 14 days to the size of a plumb. It could not have been clearer that it was time, and I’m so grateful the decision was so obvious.

If you’d like to cheer me up, I’d love to see photos of your dog!

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In Which I Cry

I’m a skeptic. In my dating profile it said, “I don’t believe in anything that doesn’t hold up to scientific testing, and I don’t pray.” I intentionally, consciously don’t remember what my “sign” is whenever anyone tells me, and any talk of ghosts, gods, signs, chakras, or “energy” gets a hard stop.

And yet, there is a girl.

I met her a little over a year ago, and then more recently we connected in a group of larger friends; she’s smart, she’s fun, I probably have a crush on her, and she does “readings” for people.

So, whatever. I’ll try anything once.

SI go. She has crystals on the her coffee, and a burning piece of wood that adds a heady smell to her tiny living room, and a Tibetan singing bowl, and we meditate, and she takes my hands, and I cry immediately at this, because WHO takes anyone’s hands any more? Ever? No one.

A lot happens, but the most powerful thing is she addresses the walls that I clearly have, wherein I let people in, but not all the way, because I’ve been abandoned and have Issues. And how I take certain things as a matter of course instead of deeply feeling them. I’m uptight! Which is not how I feel, but yes, I do hold myself super centered and rigid, of course I do. I’m terrified of making mistakes.

And then she kind of was able to feel how I feel, and it made her cry. So then I cried because I made her cry, and later I apologised, and she said not to, that I was worth seeing fully, and she hugged me, and so now I’m in love. And maybe less of a skeptic – maybe and just a little – and working on relaxing, but I don’t even know how to do that.

So then I go to therapy, and my therapist is like YES. SEE? And a million things click together. Like how I’ve had to be my own parent, because I have had three parents THREE and they’ve all let me down, even though I talk to my dad now and he’s fine as long as I don’t expect anything from him. But then I’ve been hard on myself. Too strict.

So now to strike a balance, and be okay with crying which was NEVER an okay thing to do in front of my mother, so I learned to not do it ever, and I’m exhausted.

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Girl Seeks Doctor

I have to find a new OB/GYN.

On the heels of reading story after story of how women of colour die in childbirth more than white women, and how bad the US maternity rate is overall, and how the number of maternal deaths per year is as low as it is because we don’t count the number of women who ALMOST die, all in situations that would be completely preventable or non-existent in every other developed nation… I’m looking for a black woman gynocologist.

Which is to say, my husband is looking for one for me, because every time I start trying to look for one, I get overwhelmed.

I walked into my old OB/GYN’s office four days after my d&c for a check up. I was heading to an event, and I had a big heavy coat with me, too. I dropped everything on the floor, and waited. The receptionist came in after a few minutes and kicked me out of the room. “You can leave your stuff” she said, shooing me towards the door.

I stood awkwardly in the hall. She had forgotten to weigh someone using the scale that was in the exam room, and wanted her to have privacy while her weight was recorded. This is understandable, but it made me feel awkward and un-special, especially since I wasn’t told why. An invitation to go sit back in the waiting room, or just a mention that it would only be a moment would have been effortless ways to make me feel valued. As it was, I only figured out what was going on because she also neglected to close the door and I heard everything, including the other woman’s weight being read out.

After being allowed to return, she glared at me. “Hang up your coat!” she snapped. “This looks terrible!” She gestured to the things I’d brought with me, and placed on the floor in what I thought was my own private exam room. She continued to stare at me until I dutifully picked up my coat and hung it.

The woman who had gotten weighed was a gorgeous, clearly wealthy woman, and white; I’d rolled up with no makeup, hair askew, and a face puffy from crying for four days, and clearly not white enough to receive the same level of treatment, or the warm greeting that everyone else had gotten.

On top of this, it came out later that the doctor was almost certain something was wrong when he looked at his ultrasound, but wanted to send me elsewhere to be sure. (I was so enthralled with what I was seeing on the screen – I had no idea that at 13 weeks you could see so many features so clearly – that I didn’t notice anything amiss.)

Instead of telling me to go get my husband, I went to the appointment alone, and I’m still wrestling with regret for that whole situation, and ultimately putting the blame right back on the dismissive doctor who knew he was sending me to hear bad news.

This has all been simmering for months in me. I’m sad and angry, and finally ready to use that sadness and anger to fuel finding a doctor that makes me feel valued.

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career Uncategorized

Drinks With Amber

Over a year ago, I went to a local networking event and met another photographer, Alexis, and we formed a low-key drinks-and-snacks meet up for wedding professionals. She eventually told me her life was full and the time commitment too much for her, but gave me the thumbs up to continue it on my own.

I recently branded it #DrinksWithAmber

Does this make me an asshole? I did it while asking myself this, but then thought of all of the mediocre white guys who do more with less success than I’ve achieved, and did it anyway.


Seth Godin wrote about the Dip, a place in business where you’re leveling up and then acceleration slows you down temporarily. Pair that with a constant shifting market, the fact that I want to switch to service a more luxurious client even though, when left in my natural state, I barely remember to brush my hair, and an ever-more crowded industry, and popping my head up to rise above is increasingly difficult.

#DrinksWithAmber might be a tiny part of that, but oh man does it feel strange to promote myself this hard. I also recently spoke at a conference, and was so nervous I forgot to stand up, but my feedback was okay – at least what people said to my face.

I’m supposed to be relaxing next week on vacation, and I promise there are some fun fiction books downloaded on my Kindle, but I’m bringing along my copy of the Dip to study again, too.

I’m working hard, and, to be honest, greif has fueled me and I’m managing that balance as consciously as I can. I’m fueled, too, but the constant desire to rise above my blue-collar roots. I knew it would be tricky, but not this much.

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Set Your Sail

I’m okay.

I had braced myself for not being okay, so this is surprising.


My therapist and I sat in our session trying to remember the penultimate step of the five steps of grief. Neither of us could, so I Googled after I left, and when I read “depression” I groaned out loud, “Oh no!” while looking at my phone.

[Side note: I’ve reached the point of living in New York City that I don’t care that I look a little weird talking out loud to myself occasionally like this. Without solid effort, you would be hard-pressed to be the most unusual person in any given subway car. In this particular instance, no one around me so much as glanced in my direction.]

I emailed her the bad news.


The five stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, the author of these, regretted later that she wrote them in a way that people mistook as them as both linear and universal, but absent of any other guideline (and not liking to be unprepared) I stacked them in my mind and tried to figure out where I was and where I was going on this timeline.

The denial was easy to pinpoint, and brief. When I think back, it was a full four seconds of blinking back at the doctor after she gave me news, waiting for her to say, “However, I have this miracle in my pocket just for you.”

Anger and bargaining were easy. I was angry at the situation, but not at anyone. There was also no one to bargain with. This is the joy and peace of being an atheist.

So I braced myself for depression, and I was for a bit. But then I had an industry event that required me to put on makeup and a dress and heels, and I did, and I had a little bit of fun dancing around, taking selfies on the dance floor and in the ladies room, and ending up with drunk, gorgeous friends in my lap.

And I felt okay. And then I would cry, but then Marley and I would laugh like our old selves again.


I don’t think I’ll ever be over it completely, but I wouldn’t want to be, either. You know?

I carry your hearts with me. I carry them in my heart.

But… I set myself and my mental state in a correct place to navigate circumstances well.

Side note: dear universe. Just because I said it does not mean that you need to test it further. Okay? Amen.

I have no idea how I learned this, but the more I read about self-discovery and personal development, the more I’m in awe of how far I’ve actually come. Not perfect, but way farther along than I thought, and I don’t know how I did it, but I’m happy and proud.

I’m positive a ton of it is part of a survival response to the abuse I endured as a kid, mixed with Iyanla Vanzant in the 90’s sitting on Oprah, pressing one palm to her forehead and one on the back of head just above her eyebrows, saying “Save yourself”. (Try it. I don’t know the science behind touching yourself in this way, but it feels powerful.)

“Set your sail” says Jim Rohn. I like where I have mine.

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pieces of my memoir

Black Thanksgiving 2017

I meant to publish this in late November 2017, and posted it to Facebook instead.

In the car, my dad’s partner has a ring.

“What’s this?” I ask, grinning.

“It’s just a ring. Amber. You cut out that grinning!” my dad is mock mad while driving, and trying to give me a stern look in the rearview mirror, but his eyes are crinkling.

“Okay, fine.” I shrug. “It’s just a ring. On a left ring finger. Just because. But if you need me to hang streamers from the backyard and call a florist…”


They all laugh.

“I’m excited to go to this Thanksgiving. I want to be in a room where I can say, ‘I miss Barak’ and everyone agrees.” We all laugh again, and then sigh.

“Ain’t that the truth.” my dad says wistfully.

Cousin Antwon smiles. “Tequila?” he asks. I’ve never said no to tequila on a holiday. We cheers and sip. It’s barely past noon. No one judges us. Cousin Dougie is trying to work his iPad and taking video of everyone and I can see it’s shakey. I feel like I should have brought my camera, and remind myself next year. Uncle Warren calls me princess, everyone raises an eyebrow. Cousin Robyn gets choked up saying grace and getting thankful, and we all get choked up, too. Her wife gives her a big hug after amen, and a bunch of us follow suit before getting our plates. She has a house full of people, a house she admits is a little too large, and that they bought especially for hosting Thanksgiving, and now it’s full of people, and it’s beautiful, and looking around, I get choked up, too.

My dad is the first in line for food. We sit together, he looks at me expectantly as I eat the collard greens. “Yes, okay. Yours are better.” I’m pretty sure if I don’t say this, I’m walking home. It’s not untrue, though. “Mmmmhmm. That’s right.” he says low enough so only I can hear him.

I promise I’m going to pace myself, but don’t, and wind up eating way too much. Pies and cakes are brought out immediately, without the gap between dinner and dessert that my white family insists on. I start on my first piece of my dad’s pineapple upside down cake, and he talks about his mother, and his grandmother, and reminds me that I come from a long line of strong black women. I’m starting to feel more tired than strong, but power through a slice of sweet potato pie after that.

Uncle Brian falls out on the couch. Cousin Sarah and Cousin Antown pick on each other, and then love on each other. Cousin Sarah chides her ten year old daughter, and Auntie Gloria says, “Don’t pick on my grandbaby!” and my baby cousin gives the smug smile every kid gets when your granny stands up for you.

Uncle Warren and my dad unthaw decades old arguments and fire them up again. They are the exact same size (and I can’t tell them apart from the back) but they each pick on each others small pot bellies.

I find Auntie Gloria and help with her crocheting. She admits she’s leaving soon because she doesn’t want to be in the area at night. There’s a lot of KKK in the town. It’s not safe, she doesn’t know how they live here.

Another Auntie whispers us she has a gun in her purse, because it’s a white town. I start to laugh, but she’s serious. Okay then!

For the first time in my entire life, I feel safe telling a tale of “blackness scorned”: I’m sitting with white friends. One asks if anyone knows of a hairdresser, another quips, “Why? To help Amber out?” and I laugh and let it slide off my back but actually die inside because I had felt cute and liked my messy hair. which I had left out of it’s usual ponytail for the day.

I’m half white, and get scared they will roll their eyes at me for this story, thinking of all the things I get away with that they don’t because I can usually “pass“. Instead, they nod, and furrow their brows, and suck their teeth, and shake their heads. They get it. They understand laughing to keep from crying.

I’m family, and I belong there.

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Currently mulling on the particular challenge of wrapping your arms around an enormous pain. Everything is foggy.

My therapist told me to accept the fog, and do something creative.

“Maybe you can cross stitch, or knit.” (My therapist is an older white lady, and she’s wonderful, but I’m not cross stitching shit.)

I started off small and got a hilarious audio book, then cleaned out our kitchen cabinets, storage areas, closets, medicine drawers, and coffee table. Creative, productive. Given my line of work, they’re often the same thing. Does it count as creative that I just brought four huge bags to Housing Works? No, right? Whatever. I’ll try again next week.

I drew a breath.

Friends sent flowers, and fun crafts, take out gift certificates, a gift certificate for a massage at the spa around the corner, snacks, and, hilariously, two dozen balloons that bounced around our ceiling, I imagine because one time during a particularly grueling season, Marley bought me balloons, and they remembered.

In August of 2016, I started a group of wedding professionals that have the same progressive morals; it’s grown to a group of 150. They pooled their money and sent over some well wishes, and a check, which is probably going to the criminally expensive genetic testing we are having done.

I’ve stowed in my heart tiny texts, heartfelt emails, phone calls, and a dozen stories texted and emailed from other women, of “I lost babies, too” ranging from a few weeks to thirty years ago. I’ve been warmed with love, and all of the ways sharing our story has made us, and others, feel less alone, which is the only good thing I can do with it.

I feel seen.


My friend is seven months pregnant. I asked if she’d taken any photos yet, and she said not really. “Please let me photograph you. You need photos. Trust this heartbroken photographer.”

I photographed her on the streets of Brooklyn, and in my apartment, and pressed my palm down in the middle of her to feel her son squirming inside of her.

“Does this make you sad?” she asked.

“No, it gives me hope.”

I drew another breath.

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I Had Three Hearts

CW: Story of a missed miscarriage of mo-di twins.

Two days after Christmas, we get another gift: a second tiny bean, previously undiscovered. I think of Beyonce, and the poet Warsan Shire.

“I’m beside myself with dreams. I have three hearts.”

They’re identical, the result of overly enthusiastic mitosis. No one knows why. I feel like I’ve won the lotto.

I’m sent for a more detailed sonogram – they’re really close together so they might be in the same sac, which is scary – but for the following week. We make it through New Years Eve nervous, but happy.


Two wiggly gummy bear-shaped shadows are floating inside me, patting each other gently in the face. They are separated by their own sacs, which is good, but share a placenta, which is concerning, but usually fine.

The tech turns up the sound, and we hear one heartbeat, and then the other. It would be the only time we ever heard heartbeats, but of course we don’t know this yet.

Waiting for our cab, Marley asks if I’m okay. “No,” I said, laughing and crying. “I will literally never be okay again. I have TWO people to worry about for the rest of my life.”

Lying in bed weeks later, suddenly empty, my tee shirt drenched in milk for nobody, I looked back over the previous weeks trying to figure out when it was that I fell in love, and pinpoint that it was then, when I saw them, and heard them, and they looked like gummy bears.


At thirteen weeks, I went back without Marley for a diagnostic scan.

I will never go to another scan without him again.

“They’re straight up chillin’ in there!” said the tech. And they were were. They had flipped back to back, one leaning against the other, sucking their thumbs like tiny beach bums in hammocks chugging Coronas. They were also completely still.

The doppler lines went across their hearts without moving. My brain shut down this information, and I think nothing of it. I’m quiet, watching their shapes. So is she. The doctor comes in and leans over me to deliver the news.

I am naked, covered in jelly, and sobbing. This is the worst. It was the second trimester. We were supposed to be safe. Intellectually I knew anything could happen – I’ve experienced “anything can happen” with girlfriends – but still. Still.

Gulping, I ask for a photo of each of them, which I will keep forever. It’s technically too early to tell, but also really obvious they are boys. I was going to have sons.

I find comfort in this: if you’ve only existed for three months and a week, and your arm has just grown long enough to reach your hand to your mouth, and you’ve also just grown a thumb, sucking it is, in your incredibly limited amount of experiences, the best thing ever. They died happy.

I get dressed and slip across the hall to the doctor’s office, who already has my OB on the phone, and my OB is already pulling information for an operation the next morning. The option to let it happen naturally was too horrible to think about, and too dangerous. I held my breath and ducked my head walking through the waiting room, determined not to traumatize anyone else pregnant and waiting for their turn. I wept in the elevator. I wailed on the street. I managed to stuff it down to gulping sniffles to get in the car I called to pick me up. The driver turned and looked at me.

“You look tired!” he said brightly.

Fuck outta here.


I sat in the marble and glass lobby of Marley’s insanely fancy Manhattan office building. Security guards eyed me, but let me be. I wept on the velvet couch. People made a wide berth. I love this City.

I count down the minutes he has left to be happy, starting at 36. They tick away: nineteen, thirteen, seven, two. He’s late, and gets bonus minutes of happiness. I’m glad for him. At 5:03, it occurs to me I should have gone home instead, that his work colleagues would be right behind him, that we were in a crowded lobby full of offices and people leaving for the day, that this news would have been better delivered at home. But it feels too late to leave. He knows I’m there waiting for him. I stand up, then sit back down.

He’s my homing beacon, and I’ve turned towards him like always, but now I regret it, although he promises later that I did the right thing.

He comes around the corner, and I watch him searching my face from yards away. He sits and looks at me expectantly as New York City streams around us.

“No more minutes.” I think to myself, and then I begin to speak.


They give me a hospital bracelet.

This was not the hospital bracelet I wanted.

They give me a sonogram.

This was not the sonogram I wanted.

I change into a gown. We wait.

I slide my hands all around my round belly for the last time, and reach low, for where I had begun to feel them wiggle. I know the science, but poke around anyway – a vain hope for a miracle. I hadn’t expected to be showing so soon, and definitely didn’t expect to feel them flipping around already, but with twins, that’s what happens.

I want to be be awake, but the doctor overrules me. I grudgingly sign consent to be put under. I am put on a bed with my calves strapped into cupped supports above me. A nurse gathers my gown to cover “my vajay”, then straps in my legs and begins an IV. “I’ve never had anesthesia before. What if it doesn’t work?”

“It’ll work,” she says. “I’ve been here for ten years, and it’s never failed.”

“What’s it like?” I ask.

“A power nap.” she answers. “If you’re behind on sleep, you’ll be caught up!”

I turn side to side as best I can, trying to figure everything out from flat on my back. The sonogram lady rolls an ultrasound machine in, and tells me they need it to keep everything as safe as possible.

The anesthesiologist walks me me through what she’s doing. “You’ll feel it going up your arm right now, and then maybe taste it?”

“Yup,” I say, “It’s in my face.”

I don’t notice I’m under. In my dream I’m walking down a long hallway, not scared, but overwhelmingly lonely, and everything is grey.


I’m awake, and uncomfortable, and we’re going to keep it real: in the process of numbing my cervix, they also numbed my colon, trapping a piece of waste in it. I’m angry that this, of all things, is making me uncomfortable. They force me to eat something. I drink a small cup of warm apple juice, and eat one Ritz cracker. I try to poop, but can’t, so I give up, get dressed, and go home. Every bump on the ride home is brutal. I curl up on Marley, furious. I want to mourn, and it’s impossible. It’s another hour at home before the local anesthetic is worn off enough for me to go.

If you’re having a D&C, get an enema first.

I notice on my left arm they have injected me. There’s no bandaid, and no one tells me. A less observant person wouldn’t have seen it.

This is upsetting. Did they not think I’d notice? Days later at a followup, I’m told it was likely an injection to cause my uterus to contract. I feel betrayed this information wasn’t told to me. I hate not knowing. I hate that I never saw them. I hate everything about this.


In the days after, we all but sew ourselves together, living on takeout, crying, sprawling across our bed. The lady downstairs asks what she can do, and I have just the task for her: next month I have a speaking engagement that I ordered a maternity dress for. I ask her to take it away for Marley to deal with later so I don’t have to see it. She brings us food, too. Nicki delivers “a package” and it’s her, standing on my stoop with cheese, and chocolates, and gin. A fruit basket arrives, and some treats from close friends.

We begin to think we will pull through, and plan a two-person memorial service for that weekend. We toast their lives after with pho, and bubble tea.

I make a therapy appointment.

We begin to dream about the future again.

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Keely and the Scarf

My friend Keely and I share a birthday, and I adore her. On Monday, we were browsing a bookstore when she spotted a scarf abandoned on a display, and, a bit later, a lady without one.

“Did you lose your scarf?” she asked the lady. “I think think it’s just over there.”

She pointed.

The lady rushed over, then came back to where we were checking out at the register and said, “Oh my goodness. You have no idea how grateful I am! Thank you!” She left, tucking it around her neck.

I asked, “Did you see her lose the scarf? I don’t understand how you knew it was hers.” (The bookstore was a bit crowded.)

Keely said, “No, I just sensed she was missing it.” She shrugged and me and the cashier kind of just marveled at her.

Isn’t that extraordinary? I love that Keely is my friend.

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