This morning I fielded a phone call from my obstetrician’s office while in the staff lounge of my dentist’s office because when you get a response to your plea to know what to do when you’re six weeks pregnant and bleeding, you interrupt anything to get some answers.

The bleeding had stopped. No, I didn’t know what had caused it and yes, I was happy to go give more blood via venipuncture if it could give me answers. I returned to the dentist chair and a very understanding hygienist, whose daughter had just gone through the same thing, and reclined for the hour-long dental treatment.

And I have to say that while lying there with instruments gouging my gums, making those chilling scraping noises along my old fillings; while lying there with the early hints of morning sickness exaggerating every smell in that office; and with questions streaming through my mind about the life I may or may not be supporting within my body, the burden of the unknown mixed with the discomfort I felt was nothing compared to what I feel watching America tearing itself apart with anger and blame in this presidential election.

When my husband gave me a blessing this morning (a religion-based, informal, and personal way to access the power of God) I hadn’t considered how his words of peace and comfort would be needed beyond the worry of the moment.

There is room in my body for life, and there is room in my heart for love, and I will find a way to support anyone I can who now feels officially marginalized and labeled “other” in our butchered country.

And in the meantime, I will keep trying to believe that I am not now one of those people.

*Formerly titled “Torture,” but I like to use lyrics from songs I like, where possible, so I traded this one in.