Tears streamed down my cheeks, as I clenched an empty coffee mug and sat cross-legged in bed, overcome by a familiar grief. My 10-month-old was asleep in her crib. My husband was sitting nearby. Nothing seemed amiss on this particular evening in February. But, the images wouldn’t leave.
Of myself curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, waiting for the bleeding to begin. Of framed photos of beautiful embryos no longer living in my womb. Of a pair of baby shoes sitting on my bathroom sink, once again NOT destined to be worn by a rambunctious toddler.
I can’t predict when the memories will surface, but surface they do, causing me to catch my breath and mess up my makeup every time.