Most days I laid in bed and suffered, convinced that either I had some kind of cancer eating me from the inside out that no doctor could find, or that they were right and there was nothing wrong with me and the pain was an invention of my twisted mind.
With the Sheriff’s officer looking over my shoulder, I phoned, and heard someone say “coroner’s office” on the other end. I could barely speak. A voice informed me that my son was dead, that he had been shot four times by his school roommate during an argument about dishes.
My first miscarriage would rip the rug out from under me, alienating me from my own body, and startling me with a grief I never imagined possible The second robbed me of my faith in God’s hand on the universe.