Two AM finds me broken, the way it always has and always will. Next to me, my husband breathes deeply and easily and I find solace in the rhythm of his slumber. My own breathing is shallow and strained. I hate how the panic starts even before I wake. I don’t stand a chance.

My grief is buried beneath the shadows in my eyes. I try to conceal my damaged heart from the good people of this town, to spare them from the sorrow and rage I carry every fucking day. I speak of it to no one and they ignore me anyway. I’ve come to terms with this. Besides my loving husband, I am alone.

It’s ten days past ovulation and I know I failed again this month and there’ll be no reason to test. I know the bleeding will start in the next three days and I will be brittle and hard for awhile until the depression sets in. I’ll call my psychiatrist and we’ll adjust my medication again. And again, it won’t help because how could it fight off these demons?

After my termination for medical reasons, I tried for fourteen months to achieve another pregnancy. Every month ended with me staring at a negative home pregnancy test. You’ll get pregnant again, they told me. Molly’s diagnosis was a fluke. They only had false hope to offer, I know that now. 

My next two pregnancies were miscarriages. I had testing done on the last and they found another chromosomal defect (trisomy 4). I don’t think that in the past two and a half years I’ve produced a single chromosomally normal egg. Sigh. C’est la vie. I’ll soldier on despite, keep fighting until it destroys me. Then, with my partner by my side, I’ll pick up the pieces. Without my tenacity, there would be nothing left.


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