“Miracle of Blood” by Ellie Hudson

Issue 18 / Summer 2019 / Abortion Ban Protest Special Issue


When I was fifteen,
I had a miscarriage.
I was probably only 7 weeks in.
My boyfriend raped me hard enough
to bust the condom.
I saw and learned a lot about the world.
I felt trapped when I saw the pregnancy test.
I went to a good Catholic school, had religious parents,
convinced myself that I deserved to have my life ruined.
My body was underweight
but he poisoned my drink just to be sure.
I was afraid of what people would think of me for this.
I started bleeding the day before Valentine ’s Day
and the fever broke in time for me to go to school.
He threatened me for not wanting to go to the dance.
I just remember bleeding clots like wicker men
and did not realize
how lucky I was to still be alive.

When I was twenty-nine,
I had a miscarriage.
It was supposed to be 14 weeks.
They estimated that the viable pregnancy
had stopped around 12.
It would be another week, and an ER abortion,
before I passed the remains.
I saw and learned a lot about myself.
I ugly-cried most days.
I read about people going through this
for various and sundry reasons.
Bodies would just reject babies
in spite of you being young and healthy.
There was so much blood.
Bleeding buckets,
clots like fishnets.
I was Vitamin D deficient,
bordering on anemic.
I did not want to be alive for that entire week.

When I was thirty-one,
I had a miscarriage.
It was at 10 weeks.
I was supposed to have my first doctor’s appointment
in two days.
Everything passed on its own at home, gently.
I saw and learned a lot about my friends.
“You still ugly-cry about the previous miscarriage, and now this too?”
I read about people going through this again and again;
some so many times they lost count.
There was no way I could do that
no matter how badly I wanted a baby.
I worked on
letting go.
I emptied myself of my dreams.
I picked up a ukulele.
I saw a therapist.
I already had one child. I didn’t need another.
I did not need to live in constant grief every day.

When I was thirty-three
I had a baby.
We had stopped trying.
Every single day I was pregnant, I braced myself
to lose him.
I started bleeding at nine weeks.
It was old blood from implantation.
I ugly-cried at the ultrasound confirming viability.
I read that people liked to call a baby born after miscarriage
a “rainbow baby.”
They said it was because it was like a rainbow after a storm;
something beautiful after something awful.
I don’t remember a storm.
I just remember the blood.
Blood and clots and busted eggs for years.

It isn’t a rainbow. It is buckets of blood.
I do not need that kind of miracle again.


Ellie Hudson has a bachelor’s in psychology from Meredith College. She lives in Kentucky with her best friend/husband and two wonderful sons. She has no social media, but she does have a ukulele. She has been previously published or is forthcoming in The Rising Phoenix Review, Dying Dahlia Review, Selcouth Station, and MUTHA Magazine.

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