“Tell us what to do, where to go, who to see.it doesn’t matter. It’s such an ugly color.īen gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze, waking me from my drunken-like stupor. Feeling Ben’s strong arm wrap around my shoulders stops the manic rocking, but even his warm embrace can’t help me get rid of this helplessness threatening to take over. I’m still so very cold, so very dead inside. I know I should be paying more attention because she’s explaining to me why I’m not woman enough, why I can’t keep a baby in my body long enough to be able to hold it in my arms, but all I want to do is shake off the cold blanket of numbness that enfolds me. With my arms tightly wrapped around my stomach, I rock back and forth as I try to listen to what she’s saying, her words drifting in and out of my consciousness. “It’s better known as habitual abortion…recurrent pregnancy loss… RPL…three or more pregnancies that end in misca…”
Pajaree’s beautiful dark eyes, listening to her prognosis in her pragmatic, yet friendly voice, I can’t help wondering where the magic has gone? Is real life contaminating our fairy tale romance with all its ugliness? Drowning in a sea of sorrow and pain as waves of regret keep pulling me down where an undertow of resentment won’t let me break free.Īs I stare blankly into Dr.
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