I just want to check your left ovary.
She says to me.
Her stick pushes and darts and my discomfort stays alight.
Her screen says so much to her. Blood here. Vessels there.
To me it says.
I knew it yesterday.
I’ve know it for days.
This is a far cry from the sex I know.
I’m not allowed to have it for 6 weeks.
But that stick is akin to a sarcastic joke made to burn.
She keeps going.
Left right, in, out. Centre. Back.
She’s doing her job.
Getting all the information.
Getting it down to 15 slides.
That I have miscarried.
That there is no life in my womb.
Just a teaspoon of blood.
I know this.
Wondering why I’m letting her do her job.
When I need.