I miscarried in three acts.

The first was the bad appointment: the somber technician; the clinical, straightforward news—not enough growth for eight weeks and, worse, no heartbeat. She was so sorry; the doctor would be in touch.

The second act was the D&C, short for “dilation and curettage”: the paperwork, the kind and efficient nurses, the IV and the sterile room—all stainless steel and bright lights, solid stirrups, and tissue-paper gowns—and the scraping from my uterus of what was supposed to have been my baby.

The third act was another D&C: the same as the previous time, but now even less dignified, somehow, because shouldn’t it be enough to miscarry once? There’s extra tissue, they said; sometimes this happens.

I had not ordered the upgraded version, the miscarriage with a side of miscarriage.