Day Forty-Nine

Day forty-nine.

It starts like my last forty-eight days. A guard trails her baton down the wall of doors, shouting “Rise and Shine” like it’s some sunny, happy morning and she’s about to serve me blueberry pancakes and hot coffee. My sleeping set of black sweatpants and sweatshirt is switched for my day set of black sweatpants and a black t-shirt, a small comfort in this overcrowded Colorado fortress.

When they opened up the Feminine Rehabilitation Center, there were no uniforms, and doors weren’t locked overnight. Imagine that, we used to have color among the grey and still the freedom to move about. But, that was before my time.

Thankfully, the toilet isn’t clogged this morning. A small token of gratitude that keeps me going. Fifty mornings ago, I would have put on makeup, deodorant, and, hell, even shaved my legs. Fifty mornings ago, I would have made my husband and myself a coffee and blueberry pancakes. Fifty mornings ago, I would have gone for a morning stroll before the rest of the city woke up.

But, fifty mornings ago, my body turned against me and here I am.

Miscarrying used to be accepted and normal. One in four pregnancies were met with condolences, bereavement time for the parents, and sometimes even the earth was turned over with a carved stone on top. There were tears, of course, but they were tears of great sadness for what might have been. Not tears of fear.

Now, twenty years later, miscarrying is an act of your own body turning against you. It means you have broken the law and now you must be rehabilitated. I remember when the laws in Texas started to change. Abortion in the first or second trimester was considered legal by the Supreme Court. A law later, abortion was only legal in the first trimester. Another law later, abortion was only legal in the first eight weeks of the first trimester (not counting rape and incest). Another law later, abortion was only legal in the first two weeks of the first trimester (not counting rape and incest). Finally, abortion at any time, in any circumstance, was no longer legal.

States like Colorado couldn’t believe that Texas started to value the would-be could-be life of a couple of cells, over the real life of the mother. And yet, state by state, they all swayed towards Texas’ laws, with our President eventually announcing that miscarrying was illegal. He argued that if a woman miscarries, then her body commits the offense of aborting the child, and because she is in control of her body, then she must be in control of the miscarry.

Anyways, the day my body turned against me, George made me my daily green smoothie with a side of vitamins and left it on my nightstand right before he left for work. He always thought of me and the baby first, oftentimes leaving little notes that said “I love you”, “Have a great day” or even updates on the friendly robin that had made our front door her new home to nest.

We had always talked about having children. It was an all-consuming conversation for people of all ages. Will they try for children? Has she been tested? What happens if...you know? We had talked about every scenario, except for the last one.

I took the tests. I was on high-end birth control. I exercised regularly and ate moderately. And when we did become pregnant, I drank the green juice, I religiously took the vitamins, and again, I took all the tests.

I did everything right. We had no reason to discuss that question because that question wasn’t a question for us.

Until it was.

And by then, of course, it was too late. I had committed a crime and the hospital was forced to call it in. They gave us one last minute to mourn the life that never was, the relationship that would forever be changed. One minute to silently ask the question we never did.

After my body turned against me, they whisked me straight to the Center. Still dripping blood between my legs, sore breasts leaking milk on my bra, I showed up to the Center in a complete daze, not even sure if what I went through was real.

My first roommate, Katie, an auburn curly hair girl from Georgia had been at the Center for over a year when I arrived. She came from a wealthy family who had invested in Bitcoin early on. Like me, she also had a husband and her tests all came back negative for miscarrying. Unlike me, her family had the wealth to fight to get her out of the Center.

I arrived at the Center towards the end of her trial when her spirits were up, her hair was glossy and her smile flashed everywhere. Katie always wore a gold heart-shaped locket to the trial, something her lawyer instructed her to wear. When I asked her the importance of it, she said the people who recognized it would know what to do.

I never found out the exact details (though, if you’re reading this you can probably Google “Katie Keller Trial” to find out), but the day Katie came back from her final day at court her cheeks were streaked with dried mascara that turned grey, her face completely ghosted out and the locket nowhere to be seen. I had never seen someone with shell shock before, but I imagined the expression on her face was close.

The first night she came back from the Room, I saw that face again. She trembled slightly getting into bed. When I asked her about the Room, she turned away from me and held her knees together, back throbbing with each sob that silently engulfed her. This went on for almost three weeks, each visit taking a little something away from Katie. Some nights she had to sit down gently. Other nights I saw the black, blue, and yellow marks on her skin.

I never needed to ask her what went on in The Room again. There are some things a woman just knows.

Katie took a pregnancy test at the end of the third week. I had quickly learned the barter system at the Center so I helped her get a Fast Response pregnancy test, which cost more than she could afford. For the two minutes we had to wait, we sat side by side on the cold concrete floor holding hands and looking straight ahead, both anxious for what would happen next. When she saw she was pregnant, relief flooded through her veins and she fell sobbing into my arms. Still a bit sore from the stillbirth, I cradled her like she was my baby sister, stroking her hair and rubbing her back.

Realization of what was to come next came to her quickly and the tears started again.

Before I was in the Center, the propaganda told you this was a place of healing for almost-mothers, that it was a place women could get their bodies back on track to be a fully contributing female of society. It wasn’t until after I came to the Center I started to understand the extent of what a “contributing female” meant. The only way for a woman to get out of here was to give up her next newborn.

That’s the fact that’s missing from the public. If the public knew the only way to get out of the Center was to give up your next child, then questions about what happens to that child would start being asked.

If giving up your next newborn was a ticket out of the Center, the biological mother wouldn’t take care of them, right? At the same time, if a woman was unable to have a child then they would already be in the Center, right? Teenage pregnancies were also a crime, and adoption is essentially impossible. If a family were to admit they adopted a child from the Center, then they’d have to admit the woman is not a contributing female of society and she would be sent straight to the Center.

No one knows what happens to the babies, but I can guess.

It’s been almost a month, and I haven’t seen Katie again. She was sent to a separate ward that houses pregnant women until they give birth. There are rumors that the women there are fully fed, sleep on comfortable mattresses, and have their own showers. Of course, there are also rumors of a strict exercise regimen, mandatory vitamins, and more nightly visitors.

No one knows what happens to them either, but I can guess.

I’m quickly approaching eight weeks postpartum, which is when I have to decide on a life inside or out. Inside means, a life without my family, walks in nature, and no freedom. Outside means, a life gave up, my body no longer my own, and social shame.

I’m not sure how you’re supposed to survive either.

Charlie, my new roommate, moved in yesterday. I remembered my first week, my body and mind completely broken. Instead of talking, I handed her tissues, an extra orange, and gave her space to weep. When she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, I thought I saw a glimpse of a heart-shaped locket tied into her thick, blonde hair. I can’t be sure, but it looked like the exact locket Katie wore during her trial.

“Day Forty-Nine '' is one of the hundreds of diary entries from an unknown author. They were discovered buried behind a loose concrete block at the Female Rehabilitation Center in Colorado during its excavation. The Center operated for forty-four years until it was forcibly closed by the Golden Heart Party. While the author of “Day Forty-Nine” is still unknown, her entries have helped historians piece together America’s darkest days.