Several readers have commented they would’ve liked more back story about my infertility, specifically my miscarriages. A few have asked if I also kept a journal when I was first pregnant, and why I didn’t include some of those entries in Stretch Marks.
A mighty dangerous question for a writer. I hold you responsible, dear inquisitive readers, for hours of procrastination in the guise of research. Within easy reach, I found the raggedy journal on the bottom shelf leaning against one of its many predecessors, a composition book. It’s the third one from the left. A wallflower among sassy colored fabric and shiny binder rings. In 1990 the cover was vibrant Florentine paper, now its faded much like the memories it holds. Until curiosity seduced me away from my deadlines.
I came across this April 25, 1990 entry, written in English and Spanish, and marveled at the idealistic woman I used to be, expecting pregnancy and motherhood to just happen as I marched on with my life. Even after my Ob/Gyn confirmed that at three months, our first baby, who we nicknamed “Beak” no longer had a heartbeat, I remained optimistic.