Vial after vial of blood drawn for testing.
The blood that sent me to the emergency room to find out the pregnancy wasn’t viable.
Blood draw after blood draw until the ectopic pregnancy was “resolved.”
The monthly disappointment of seeing blood yet again.
Another trip to the ER to learn that this time the blood was from implantation.
Checking for blood during every trip to the bathroom for nine months.
The blood splattered across the delivery room, the doctor, and me from the quick delivery.
The bloody scalpel as they repaired my tear.
Blood for weeks after getting an IUD because I just can’t chance another loss.
Blood coming from my nipples after breastfeeding challenges.
Blood coming from my son’s mouth after he consumed it from my nipples.
So much blood.
The blood turns to scabs and the scabs to scars.
We expect our battles to be bloody, but this battle has left me with scars that are not visible.
My son is my blood, not because of biology and genetics (although that is technically true), but because of the depth of the bond we share. He is the salve to my wounds that cannot fully heal. He is my miracle, my rainbow, my unicorn.
My son carries in his blood the memories and legacy of the older sibling who never came to be. It’s a lot for such a little guy to take on.
I know we have more blood in our future, the skinned knees and bloody noses of childhood. A childhood I am delighted to witness. He was born of my blood and he carries my history.