At the concert Saturday night, the friendly oboist leaned over and said,
"Hey, didn't we play in [so and so] orchestra together at Christmas last year?"
"Um, hmm. We sure did." (please don't be interested, be totally uninterested.)
"How's the baby?" she asked with a wide smile.
"He died in February," I replied, probably a little too quickly.
The emotions crossed her face that I was so used to seeing--an inquisitive smile, turned to confusion, then embarrassment, then concern.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"
"Well, it was kind of a birth accident. He lived for four days, though." (No one knows what a placental abruption is, so I say "birth accident", which I think is better than "miscarriage"--my former OB's suggestion.)
I babbled some more, like I do when I'm asked this question. I think I ended with, "Yeah, I was really pregnant at Christmas last year, so..."
She said, "I think that I'm going to cry." I've spent the last 10 months making weird smooshy faces to push back tears. Go ahead. I'll probably join you.
Somehow the subject was quickly and mercifully changed and we spent the rest of the time before the concert laughing our asses off at a music professor we both knew who would talk about orgasams in class. A guy that you would never want to picture having sex.
I was laughing, but my heart was pounding and I felt like I was going to puke for the rest of the evening.