If there were a single piece of art that sums up how I am feeling, it might be Henry Ford Hospital by Frida Kahlo:
On July 4th, 1932, Frida suffered a miscarriage in the Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. In this disturbing work, Kahlo paints herself lying on her back in a hospital bed after a miscarriage. The figure in the painting is unclothed, the sheets beneath her are bloody, and a large tear falls from her left eye. The bed and its sad inhabitant float in an abstract space circled by six images relating to the miscarriage. All of the images are tied to blood-red filaments that she holds against her stomach as if they were umbilical cords. The main image is a perfectly formed male fetus, little “Dieguito”, she had longed to have. The orchid was a gift from Diego. “When I painted it I had the idea of a sexual thing mixed with the sentimental” Frida said. The snail she said, alludes to the slow paced miscarriage. The salmon pink plaster female torso she said was her “idea of explaining the insides of a woman”. The cruel looking machine she invented “to explain the mechanical part of the whole business”. Finally, in the lower right corner is her fractured pelvis that made it impossible for her to have children. – quoted from FridaKahloFans.com.
I don’t know which of Frida Kahlo’s three miscarriages inspired this painting, but this image of her, lying bleeding on the bed, is how I feel. I even feel like I cry bloody tears. I started crying in the shower today and had to sit down, forehead leaning on my folded arms across my knees. Looking over my belly that seems flatter than it has been since childhood — a baked bean nestling in firm chubbiness — I expected to see blood, even though my bleeding stopped more than two weeks ago. I pictured the gushing to the visual soundtrack of silently seeing in slow motion the devastating ultrasound, the aching horror that slowly unfolded, creeping quietly beneath my skin, deep in my body.
For now, there is not much more to write. I am sick of myself. Sick of this miscarrousel (yes, I just made up that word) that I’m stuck on. I want to get off, sit quietly in a corner and sing my no baby blues ’til I’m done.