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Half black bitch Meghan miscarried
- Thread starter steffychun
- Start date
Doctors sabotage?
Attention seeker
Self sabo
Who on earth describes a miscarriage as " as he tried to hold the shattered pieces of mine?"
Foetus can shatter meh?
Foetus can shatter meh?
Fucking a runaway prince
There goes my dream of marrying s prostitute.Women who fucked too much with multiple partners have a higher chance of miscarriage. Even if they managed to give birth to a baby, the baby might be unhealthy or retarded, often autistic.
miscarriage was her 1st part of the story . . . .
the 2nd part was . . . . but it was not harry's
maybe the last juicy part will be . . . . the culprit was . . . . .
the 2nd part was . . . . but it was not harry's
maybe the last juicy part will be . . . . the culprit was . . . . .
https://www.nytimes.com/2020/11/25/opinion/meghan-markle-miscarriage.html
It was a July morning that began as ordinarily as any other day: Make breakfast. Feed the dogs. [You feed the dogs before your baby you bitch?!] Take vitamins. Find that missing sock. Pick up the rogue crayon that rolled under the table. Throw my hair in a ponytail before getting my son from his crib. [What a horrible start]
After changing his diaper,[as a Duchess, you are supposed to call it a nappy you slut] I felt a sharp cramp. I dropped to the floor with him in my arms, humming a lullaby [you sing while miscarrying your foetus?! Must be fake] to keep us both calm, the cheerful tune a stark contrast to my sense that something was not right.
I knew, as I clutched my firstborn child, that I was losing my second. [Why not lose both?]
Hours later, I lay in a hospital bed, holding my husband’s hand. I felt the clamminess of his palm and kissed his knuckles, wet from both our tears. Staring at the cold white walls, my eyes glazed over. I tried to imagine how we’d heal. [That is so not what a miscarried wife should write.]
I recalled a moment last year when Harry and I were finishing up a long tour in South Africa. I was exhausted. I was breastfeeding our infant son, and I was trying to keep a brave face in the very public eye. [Huh? How is this relevant?]
“Are you OK?” a journalist asked me. I answered him honestly, not knowing that what I said would resonate with so many — new moms and older ones, and anyone who had, in their own way, been silently suffering. [I thought you hate journalists and you answered the question?] My off-the-cuff reply seemed to give people permission to speak their truth. But it wasn’t responding honestly that helped me most, it was the question itself.
“Thank you for asking,” I said. “Not many people have asked if I’m OK.” [Why the fucking caps?]
Sitting in a hospital bed, watching my husband’s heart break as he tried to hold the shattered pieces of mine, I realized that the only way to begin to heal is to first ask, “Are you OK?” [Stupid line]
Are we? This year has brought so many of us to our breaking points. Loss and pain have plagued every one of us in 2020, in moments both fraught and debilitating. We’ve heard all the stories: A woman starts her day, as normal as any other, but then receives a call that she’s lost her elderly mother to Covid-19. A man wakes feeling fine, maybe a little sluggish, but nothing out of the ordinary. He tests positive for the coronavirus and within weeks, he — like hundreds of thousands of others — has died. [ATTENTION SEEKER]
It was a July morning that began as ordinarily as any other day: Make breakfast. Feed the dogs. [You feed the dogs before your baby you bitch?!] Take vitamins. Find that missing sock. Pick up the rogue crayon that rolled under the table. Throw my hair in a ponytail before getting my son from his crib. [What a horrible start]
After changing his diaper,[as a Duchess, you are supposed to call it a nappy you slut] I felt a sharp cramp. I dropped to the floor with him in my arms, humming a lullaby [you sing while miscarrying your foetus?! Must be fake] to keep us both calm, the cheerful tune a stark contrast to my sense that something was not right.
I knew, as I clutched my firstborn child, that I was losing my second. [Why not lose both?]
Hours later, I lay in a hospital bed, holding my husband’s hand. I felt the clamminess of his palm and kissed his knuckles, wet from both our tears. Staring at the cold white walls, my eyes glazed over. I tried to imagine how we’d heal. [That is so not what a miscarried wife should write.]
I recalled a moment last year when Harry and I were finishing up a long tour in South Africa. I was exhausted. I was breastfeeding our infant son, and I was trying to keep a brave face in the very public eye. [Huh? How is this relevant?]
“Are you OK?” a journalist asked me. I answered him honestly, not knowing that what I said would resonate with so many — new moms and older ones, and anyone who had, in their own way, been silently suffering. [I thought you hate journalists and you answered the question?] My off-the-cuff reply seemed to give people permission to speak their truth. But it wasn’t responding honestly that helped me most, it was the question itself.
“Thank you for asking,” I said. “Not many people have asked if I’m OK.” [Why the fucking caps?]
Sitting in a hospital bed, watching my husband’s heart break as he tried to hold the shattered pieces of mine, I realized that the only way to begin to heal is to first ask, “Are you OK?” [Stupid line]
Are we? This year has brought so many of us to our breaking points. Loss and pain have plagued every one of us in 2020, in moments both fraught and debilitating. We’ve heard all the stories: A woman starts her day, as normal as any other, but then receives a call that she’s lost her elderly mother to Covid-19. A man wakes feeling fine, maybe a little sluggish, but nothing out of the ordinary. He tests positive for the coronavirus and within weeks, he — like hundreds of thousands of others — has died. [ATTENTION SEEKER]
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