I’ve been reading obsessively these past few days. Of stories that scare and inspire me equally. Hope and loss, faith and death, fertility and infertility. Where am I here, in this spectrum?
I read these blogs of lives I know not and cry and hope for them and know instantly that I fit. That I belong, yet that I don’t, for I have lost but one baby, and haven’t waded through years of babymaking efforts (fruit borne or in vain).
I have lost a baby. A baby mine in my heart only, for I carried him inside me for two months and loved as I could.
Yet told few.
Yet cried much.
Hopeful, scared and wanting.
An answer? A baby? A return to to the innocent happy woman I was before my world came crashing down around me?
Sure. Why not. Give them all to me I say, let me not have to walk this path.
Yet, I sleep with my husband and dream sad things. Bad things. Of lost babies and paths not taken.
Of fruit died on the vine.