Eventually, I would look at my stomach for another reason. Not to contemplate its size because of my BDD (or Body Dysmorphic Disorder, as a plain-faced therapist would later tell me) but because of something more important. A child, or a baby, or a mass of cells. Something that didn’t make it into the safe spot of life. We spent hardly any time together before the clotting started. Then just as fast as it came, it was gone. In disbelief, I watched the toilet water stained and swirling unsure of what to do with my shame. Eight weeks and I was just another body again. My hand must have hovered over the lever on the toilet for minutes before I could convince myself to let go.