Today, as I sat having my blood drawn for the millionth time, the phlebotomist asked me why my doctor sends me in for lab work every three days. I explained my doctor's caution by telling her of my normally short luteal phase and the resulting low progesterone levels that have ended three of the six pregnancies I've had. Before I finished speaking, familiarity shadowed her face.
"I lost a baby once -- at sixteen weeks," she said. "I was in maternity clothes and everything."
There she stood in her middle age, in her workplace, drawing blood from my arm, and she couldn't find her way back from the past.
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1 comment:
There should be a word for this feeling that I am feeling after reading this, but there is not.
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