Stopping for a brief moment, she takes some toilet paper and blots her eyes and blows her soggy nose. It is pointless because within an instant she can hear her tear drops hitting the tile floor, next to her feet. Cradling her stomach and putting her hand over her mouth, she sobs. For how long is anyone's guess. I need to get it together she tells herself. It could be worse. Then she remembers...

In a flash she is back on Christmas Eve. The morning sunrise breaking through her bathroom window. The test is a beacon of positivity and hope. She yells out to her loving husband; she is...was...finally pregnant. Telling her whole family after the doctor's visit confirmation. The joy, the nerves, the longing. She is willing to deliver a baby even though her genetic illness will make it nearly impossible and agonizingly awful. But pain is something Sarah is used too. She'll do anything to have this baby.

Then in another flash she remembers how thatended. Just six days later, New Year's Day. Screaming half naked while bloodand clots flowed out from her and into the toilet. But it wasn't just blood;was it? It was her baby. For days she sat on that toilet wiping up blood fromher center to her thighs. Changing pad after pad. Shower after shower. Sobbingat the reality. Sobbing at the cramping and agony as her baby's life was over.Her baby that is now in the toilet. Just like the other two. Sarah remembershow she couldn't bring herself to flush. How she couldn't stop the shaking inher hands, the screaming, the deep bellows that ripped out of her gut throughher chest. Another baby gone.