Perils of a postpartum pediatrician

During my first pregnancy, I frequently dreamt of my baby. I couldn’t remember the details of facial features or hair color, but I always knew that I was going to have a girl.

Three years passed after Claire was born, two more heartbeats were identified and then lost somewhere deep within my abdomen. On two occasions, I watched blood seep from my body and stain my clothing, realizing that I didn’t know if it was my blood or my baby’s. I watched our blood ripple into concentric circles as it dripped into the toilet.

I clung to the fact that I had a healthy beautiful toddler. I rocked her to sleep each night and sang to her long past the time when her body grew slack in my arms, and her breathing became slow and regular. “So sleep tight baby, unfurrow your brow and know I love you. We’re alright for now, we’re alright for now.”

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