Published by Today’s Parent, February 2020
I remember the moment it happened one year ago.
I was washing dinner dishes in my window-surrounded kitchen, embraced by the dark cave that is the Canadian winter in the dead of January, when I felt the gush.
I tiptoed to the bathroom, trying not to disturb something I knew I had no control over, pulled down my pants, and confirmed it—bright red blood.
My head dropped into my hands and despair clutched my body.
At that point, my husband and I had been doing in-vitro fertilization (IVF) for almost two years. Little Embryo Number Eight, currently clinging to life inside of me, was our last one.