My Miscarriage Behind Bars Showed Me the Truth of the “Justice” System

I had a relationship with four white walls. They were holding me back from freedom. I was 15 years old and 17 weeks pregnant. I was about to learn about the injustice and indignity that the “justice” system could make a person endure.

My father, my closest family member, came to visit every week. There was only one thing to talk about, which was my pregnancy. We had talked for hours about what to do and how to handle this. I was still a child, and my father and I knew both our lives would change moving forward. We were making the decision together. That felt right. Before this, we didn’t get along much, but we were able to put all our differences aside to talk about life and what it would look like and what my options were.

Was I to keep the baby or not? We tried to understand each other. We both cared about the situation, and we loved each other. We were ready to create a strong front for whatever challenges lay ahead.

Within days, these conversations would not matter.

It was about 2 am. There were five guards standing by the officer’s desk. I remember banging on my door. I needed to go to the bathroom. They looked at me and ignored me. I kept on banging; eventually, they let me out after 10 minutes — they’re legally required to. When you’re in your cell, they usually wait the longest they possibly can.

I was finally allowed to go to the bathroom. I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and sat down. My back hurt. I opened my eyes, and as I finished using the bathroom, all I saw was blood. Blood was on my thighs and on my underwear. My heart dropped. I had been spotting blood earlier in the week. I’d found out I had a blood clotting disorder. I had gone down to medical, and they had told me if I lost a tablespoon or more of blood, I should be worried. This was way more than a tablespoon.

I left the restroom, walked directly up to the officers, and proceeded to tell them I needed medical attention. I was having a miscarriage.

They all looked at me and at each other. The man who was the leading officer at the jail told me the medical staff was gone. I was directed to go back to bed. I had no option; I was led back to my cell.

It took me a while to fall back asleep. I counted the bricks just like I did any other night when I couldn’t sleep. I became enraged.

They didn’t care. They didn’t have to care. They went home to their families at the end of every shift. They forgot about work and continued on with their lives.

I was human. I was still a kid. I was a scared kid who wanted her dad.

The next day, it was time for hygiene and school. I had to do my hygiene just like I did every morning, and I was instructed to go to school. I begged and pleaded and told them, “No, I can’t go to school. I’m having a miscarriage.”

I’m not sure any of the officers really had any understanding of the magnitude of the situation. A 15-year-old who had a blood-clotting disorder was having a miscarriage at 17 weeks pregnant. I was taken down to solitary confinement, and they gave me a small basket full of tampons and pads. I changed my clothes; they gave me a plain mattress with no sheets or blankets in case I bled through.

I remember bleeding so much that I became worried I might bleed out. There was only one guard who really cared. While she was on shift, I got blankets and sheets. My cell door was left open so she could talk to me. It was the officers who did not understand what I was going through. I was in horrible pain. The pain was debilitating. I remember lying on the bed in a fetal position, holding my legs to my chest, and begging the universe to make it stop.

I felt like I was trying to breathe while being held under water.

I wanted my dad.

There was a male guard on duty. He showed compassion for few people. I knew the moment I saw him that I didn’t stand a chance. I knew he would not care.

I had bled through my clothing, which didn’t take much; it happened almost every half hour. I knocked on the window. That was what I was supposed to do if I needed help. He saw me, but he didn’t respond for a few minutes. He just watched me stand in the window.

I yelled out, “I need to go to the bathroom. I have bled through my clothes. I have clots dripping down my legs,” and he ignored me.

I kept shouting out, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He walked toward the cell. I thought he was coming to let me out of the cell to use the restroom. I was wrong.

There was a magnet on the door that they had used to cover the window when inmates were changing in the cell. He grabbed the magnet and put it over my window.

I was there for at least an hour and a half, waiting for someone to come, waiting for someone to help. I was in pain. I was a mess when he came and finally opened the door. My pants were drenched in blood.

He told me to go to the bathroom. He tossed me some pants and told me to go clean up. I was sent back to my cell when I was done; the magnet remained on the window, and the door closed behind me.

I missed my dad.

I was only a child.

I lost my baby.

Yes, I was incarcerated, but I was still human.

Incarceration did not recognize me as a being who could feel pain, who could feel loss.

I write this to reclaim my humanity.