FOR NEARLY FIVE HOURS I ALTER-nate between lying in a fetal position on our bathroom floor and curling up against the wall, shivering uncontrollably one moment and burning up the next.
I vomit three times on the floor. I rock back and forth in tears, repeating out loud, to myself, to God, to my husband and my dog on the other side of the door, to please, please make this stop. The pain is so blinding that I think I’m hallucinating.
It goes on so long, I don’t have the energy to scream, at what feels like every single bone in my body crumbling, my body breaking apart, collapsing into itself. Between each new wave of pain that comes, I try to focus on the broken grout between the floor tiles.
I pass out twice. I am terrified that I will die.
No one should have to fear they may die because of a miscarriage. And yet, for women like me in the United States, in Texas, that fear is very real.
The day before—Labor Day—we had checked into the ER after I began to bleed at work. At nine weeks pregnant, I feared the worst
