The Misery of My Miscarriage

First Person

The Misery of My Miscarriage

Illustration: Akshita Monga

D

ay 1, 1.10 am. On the pot, numb and nervous.
Calm down. Aim. Pee. Leave the rest to Allah. He’ll do what’s best. He always does.

Allah is my go-to guy except when I commit sins that render me high or hammered. And yet when all cures fail to reverse the effect of Jäger shots downed the previous night, it’s him I turn to. Minutes away from taking my first pregnancy test, I’m praying to him. Having missed my period by a week – something that’s not unusual – my husband and I are eager to weed out the possibility so that we can smoke what’s been rolled, ready and waiting. It’s not like we never want babies, but we’d like to plan our two down to our savings and their zodiac signs.

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