Summers of my youth were filled with sunny, sticky hot days, swimming parties, bike rides, and friends. Houston weather, relentlessly suppressing, choked your lungs with moisture. Us kids would ride around, ignoring the heat, to each other’s houses like mormons on mission. We would bike everywhere, arriving sweaty, sticky, and breathless ready to play and repeat the entire process.
This summer, as an adult, I’m able to re-live that experience. Or, at least in my own way, reminisce about it.
One of my best friends lives 3.6 miles away. I’ve always been fortunate to have friends near, but this is especially helpful when shit goes down for a dear friend. It’s nice to be able to be close, to have the option of hopping on my bike on my lunch break and literally riding to my friend’s house in 15 minutes or so, just like I did as a child.
Even if those are a hard, hilly, hot, sweaty, sticky fifteen minutes. (This is where I say, “That’s what she said.”) (And you all laugh.)
*Wobly 55 second clip of the process. minus the part where I stopped to fix my pedal or where I walked my bike up a huge-ass hill. Dudes. It’s a fucking big hill, don’t judge.
I wanted to get my friend something that says, “I’m sorry your body is an asshole and didn’t grow your baby correctly. Fucking babies. Always making their own decisions, anywho. Well, FUCK THE BABIES. Stupid fucking uterus,” but do you know how hard that is to find at Target?
There are cards for dead pets and not for dead embryos. What. The. Hell.
I happen to know, from experience, the only thing that really helps during a miscarriage is some kleenex, chocolate, and alcohol. And maybe a lovely smutty magazine or two.
So that’s what I got. The miscarriage basket.
I made my own card, though, because Hallmark is well behind the times of “Kick Mother Nature in the crotch and spit on the ground” cards. Seriously, there’s a market for this.
Perhaps I’ll start one.