I clutched my secret close to my chest and reminded myself day after day to keep it hidden.
Just a little bit longer.
Just until I was sure it wouldn’t be snatched away the moment I revealed it. My husband was the only other person that knew. Turns out it didn’t matter if we kept it to ourselves.
I kept it a secret and it was still stolen from me.
I knew it the moment I saw the first drops of blood.
My husband knew exactly what I meant when I walked down the basement steps, met his eyes, and said, “I’m bleeding.”
Our secret no longer needed to be kept.
It would never get to be revealed.
There would be no excitement.
No fawning over sonograms.
JQ asked me the other day if we should tell G-tot our secret. I shook my head no, “not yet”. If…IF…if things went wrong, I couldn’t bear to have to explain that to him. Not again. I couldn’t dangle the prospect of a sibling in front of him and then snatch it away. He doesn’t deserve that—not now. Not ever.
But then, neither do we.
And yet…once again…it is my reality.
Once again I would find myself fighting off the pain and wiping away the endless flow of tears as the blood poured out of me.
Then just before dinner on Halloween I would feel it leave my body. This time I wouldn’t call my husband into the bathroom. This time I would just stare into the toilet myself.
Say may goodbyes alone.
And flush my dreams of another child away.