I Was in a Coma and No One Will Tell Me What Happened squib

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This is a story of memory and the loss of it, of terror and some joy, and of something that happened that was supposedly so awful that they gave me memory blockers to ensure I forgot it. Thus, only my loved ones who lived through it remembered—and none of them wanted to talk about it. Not with me, not with each other. But if they didn’t, then how could I process this thing—this thing that had happened to me, but I couldn’t remember happening to me? And if I couldn’t process it, how would I heal and make sense of it?

I am a writer. So, the answer for me is, I write.

So let me first tell you what I do know, what I do remember: The day after giving birth to a perfect, gorgeous son, I’m in the shower, when I notice I look even more pregnant than I did before giving birth. I tap my belly. It’s hard. When I show my doctor, he brushes away my concern—this physical proof in my belly—as though I imagined it. “You had a c-section,” he reminds me. “It might just be a little blood clot.” The word “little” reassures me. He tells me we’re going to clear it up, that I’ll be home with my baby before I know it.

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