On the floor in front of me, a fraying carpet strand held my gaze. “Don’t look up,” I whispered through gritted teeth. Pushing against the cold metal chair, I leaned forward and buried my nose in an outdated People magazine. The lower I hunched, the less pain I absorbed from this torture chamber known as the waiting room.
When I was struggling to get pregnant, I dreaded going to the gynecologist. The moment I set foot in the office, I got smacked in the face with glaring signs of what I didn’t have: moms patting their growing bellies, babies cooing or crying, sonograms whooshing with sounds of life. Even the clock in the exam room ticked incessant reminders that I was half-past due for motherhood.
I didn’t want to wait. Not here. Not for a baby. All I could think of was how much better life would be when this was over. When I could cradle my child. When I could sprint through the door and sob in the car.
I wanted out.
Read full article at Revive Our Hearts.
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