The doctors’ appointments have slowed. I no longer need to see my urologist. I no longer need to see my obstetrician. I no longer need to go to maternal-fetal medicine. I never got to meet the Fellow who was supposed to be on our case, and I never will. I’ve canceled my IV appointments. I’ve removed the ultrasound and OB appointments from my calendar.

I can’t really comprehend how a body can heal from things of this magnitude. I was cut down the middle, pulled apart to deliver my sons, lost an entire organ, and had another repaired. Now, seven weeks later, my doctor has said what I don’t want to hear–my body is ready for life to continue, even when I am not. My physical existence is far more resilient than my spiritual one.

I wanted to stay broken.

I’ve wanted to stay as broken as when my boys were here. But this body betrayed me. Now, my body shows that time has passed. It tells me that I’m not at the hospital. I’m not craning over Elijah’s isolette, not trying to peek at Benny through the blue light and plastic coverings. I’m not with them, and they are not with me. That I am here and they are there. That instead of a fresh wound, I have a healed scar. Instead of IV bruises, I have clear hands. Instead of a round belly, I have stretched, loose skin. Instead of babies in my arms, I have emptiness in my soul.

My body holds all the evidence I want buried. It tells the story harshly–only divulging facts and figures. It doesn’t tell of the strength in Elijah’s tiny grip. It doesn’t tell of Benny’s forceful kicks. And I hate it for that.

It says, “You were pregnant.” It says, “Your babies are gone.” It says, “You’ll never carry a child again.”

And now, it says, “It’s over.”

But it’s not. It never will be.