I went to the doctor’s office and got an ultrasound.
“The good news is that there’s no heartbeat,” she said. “There’s placenta, but no fetus. Your body is trying to naturally expel the products of conception.”
I remember thinking, Thank God. I was intensely, selfishly grateful for every minute I had held Amiir in my arms, but to prevent his suffering, I would have been willing to suffer anything—including the heartbreak I was suffering now. I sat in the car sobbing, trying to find the strength to go inside and tell my husband what I had to tell him. When I was finally able to face him, we stood in my office. I told him what the doctor had told me, but the words weren’t even necessary. The reality of another crushing loss hung in the air between us. It was impossible to read the expression on his face.
“Are you—”
“I need to get back to the studio.” And he walked toward the door.
I went down to stay with Mama for a few days, and she was concerned when the bleeding didn’t stop. I’d done the research on miscarriages and hoped it wouldn’t be an issue, but after several days, it seemed to be getting worse, not better. I was trying to go out on tour with my husband as much as I could, but I was miserable and still bleeding. As soon as we got home, I went to the doctor.
“She says I need a D&C,” I told my husband. “Dilation and curettage. It removes the lining of the uterus so you don’t hemorrhage.”
“Nature will take its course if you let it.”
“But nature isn’t always—”
“Either we have faith or we don’t. Larry is always saying—”
“Larry has a child! He should thank God for that and stay out of other people’s business.”
It came out sharper than I meant it to. This isn’t how I’d seen the conversation going. I looked at my husband, searching for something that felt like the protective stance that used to make me feel safe and sure of the world. There was only that same off-putting certitude that had troubled me about Larry—along with a solid refusal to place my physical well-being over his own self-righteousness.
“I’m not going to risk my future fertility for something I don’t even believe in,” I told him. “I’m going to do what the doctor says. I’m going to the hospital.”
He looked at me, and there was a flash of… something. Concern. Grief. Or maybe just fear. He said, “Do you want Tina to come to the hospital with you?”
“No, I want you!”
“I don’t believe in what you’re doing.”
“I have to do this. I could bleed to death. Maybe God is taking care of me by sending me a doctor.”
He called his limo driver to take me to the hospital. A compromise, I guess. The D&C was done, and a biopsy of the tissue they removed showed XX chromosomes.
“It’s called a partial molar pregnancy,” my OB explained. “The egg is fertilized and implants itself, but it doesn’t develop for one reason or another. It can be genetic or inadequate nutrition.”
“Like a vegan diet?”
“I can’t say without genetic testing. You and your husband would need to be tested. That’s really the only way to know what’s going on with you.”
“Would it work if I did the testing myself?”
“To some extent,” she said. “If you test positive for certain genetic issues, that could be the answer, whether he’s positive or negative. If you’re negative… do the math.”
I knew my husband was not going to participate in the testing, but I needed to know. I tried not to feel like a traitor as they drew the blood for it. Fine. Whatever, I told myself. I’m just a birthday-loving pagan. Nothin’ wrong with that. I said nothing about it when the test results came back. There was no abnormality in my DNA. I didn’t see any need for him to know that at the time. I figured I’d let him play and let myself heal, and then we could go somewhere private and talk about our options. I counted my Vicodin every morning and tried to keep an eye on it at night. I tried to get back on track, tried to keep up. I sat in a public restroom at a stadium in Fargo or some such place, feeling like my body was being turned inside out, but I was determined to keep going until I couldn’t.
One day, he surprised me with a trip to Versace. He wanted to buy me a gorgeous gown to wear to some upcoming event, but this thing cost more than my first car. I went back the next day and returned it. I didn’t tell him. It was a sweet gesture, and I didn’t want him to think I didn’t appreciate it.
In the spring of 1998, my husband asked me to direct a music video for a song called “The One.” The lyrics he’d written for me described both the man he didn’t want to be—
a man who’ll treat you like anything but a queen
I ain’t the one
—and the man he did want to be—
treat your every step… like you’re walkin’ on holy ground
I am the one