I keep my eyes closed, my face hidden behind the dark curtain of my hair. It’s a warm day, so my scalp is tickled by droplets of sweat. My belly has become soft and rounded and my hands are showing signs of age. I don’t recognize this body since it has betrayed me so many times. I’m thirteen days past ovulation and just waiting for my period to start.
I’m becoming increasingly worried that there is something wrong in my head. I don’t feel any better than I did two years ago when I knew I was losing Molly. I still shake with the anger of missing her; the nightmares keep coming, as well. There is no one here to help me through my days anymore, my friends having dispersed when it became apparent that I was beyond human aid. I pray a lot, but it doesn’t seem to help.
I saw my therapist earlier. She’s a kind woman, but I teared up during our session because I don’t think she has any idea what to do for me. She listens, which is more than anyone else does, but I get the sense that she is baffled by my reaction to recurrent pregnancy loss. I tell her I feel traumatized, damaged, that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to feel better again. She has no suggestions. I don’t know where to go from here. She’s supposed to be the best in this town.