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Friday, October 3 (11:30 p.m.)

I am back from the hospital. Evan brought me this morning. I still feel weak. And heartbroken. I know my body will gather strength – immune system back up, hair will thicken and legs will be able to walk without shaking anymore. Even the heart is back to beating regularly now. The melancholy comes from knowing it is beating by itself now. For itself.

The three days away felt like eons. Driving back to the house through the groves of maple trees, I was sure that they should still be spilling their yellows, oranges, reds all across that blue sky.

(Red is all I see... I can’t close my eyes without seeing the trickles of it down my thighs, the pools collecting between the bathroom floor’s ceramic tiles. Blue is all I feel. I can’t sleep, can’t think and can’t open my eyes in the morning without crying...)

But they’re not red, yellow and orange. The leaves left on the trees are brown, weakly clinging to their boughs. The branches are like skeletal arms, legs; like oak bones shaking their last papery bits of skin off. All the other leaves lay crumpled on the ground, withered and dried. Dead.

How can three days change so much?

Thursday, November 8 (2:00 a.m.)

I’ve been seeing a therapist. The hospital set me up with one before I was released, and while resentful at first at the idea, I am grateful now. Evan has been quite the dear, understanding and suppressing his own sadness for the sake of dealing with mine. But there’s only so much he can do, as this grief is certainly shared. It is a godsend to be able to talk to someone who doesn’t feel this crush of rage, pity or apathy. Her office comforts me. Quiet, warm. The umber walls seem to almost hug me, the rug soft under my feet, the couch sinking and velvety. Her office has become a second house. And the house, with its white walls, empty nursery, chilled floors, has become the place I need to escape from.

I asked what she thought about trying to get pregnant again. She asked me what I thought about trying to get pregnant again. I don’t think it could possibly make me feel worse.

So Evan and I are going to try.

Friday, February 8 (12:00 p.m.)

Three months and nothing yet. It was so easy the first time. It’s as though my body is guarding itself from getting hurt again.

And this house is impossible to keep warm! Alberta is fine in the summer, but I can’t handle these winters. I look out my kitchen window, frosted over with lacings of ice, and can barely see the mountains on the horizon, stalwart and imposing, like a grey wall keeping me trapped in this province. If I go to the living room window, all I see is land, covered in snow, an icy crust lining the top. I don’t dare step a foot outside. The wind gnaws at my skin, settles into my joints. The whiteness of it all blinds me. In every direction, I am trapped.

Saturday, March 1 (1:30 a.m.)

Four months of trying. Nothing.
Evan hates his job. Money’s tight, so he can’t quit. We’re struggling.
The wind is colder. We don’t dare venture outside. But even if we did, where would we go?
I stay inside. It’s cold inside, too, but at least I can do something. Outside, it’s just empty and white.

Friday, April 2 (4:00 p.m.)

Five months. My body temperature never seems right. And the bedroom is always chilly.
The aspen trees outside are spindly and bare, grey.

Sunday, May 23 (12:00 p.m.)

We’ve decided to move! It was a last-minute decision and now, last-minute packing. The house is a mess right now, filled with boxes, packing paper. Dust scatters everywhere as I pick vases off nightstands, picture frames off tables, the silver out of the curio. The house actually looks like it is getting fuller as I pack things away.

We are leaving the desolate farmlands of Alberta, the foreboding Rockies mountain range, the snow of Northern Canada, for something just as beautiful, but warmer. Different. Something alive! Evan and I have bought a little place right off the beach in Costa Rica, on the coast of Quepos. It was a deal we could not refuse. We’ll be leaving in a month.

Still no baby. But I can feel things shifting, moving. Waking up. I can feel the sun growing warm on my face.

Monday, June 28 (8:30 a.m.)

Our new home is perfect! It feels right to call this “home,” not “the house.” Finally.

Spent the day outside working on the new fruit garden. We have a mango tree right at our front door, the fruit heavy, hanging full and juicy from every branch. The backyard hosts two banana trees, each hand of bananas glowing yellow from between the leaves. Palm trees border the gate, coconuts fall onto our lawn with heavy thuds when the wind starts up in the evenings. I’m busy planting hibiscus trees, and they will bloom orange and pink all year round.

I can hear the ocean moving while I sleep, washing up onto shore and then back into the sea. I can smell salt and brine in the air. Parrots squawk all afternoon. There is life all around us.

The sun is the most magnificent part. It bursts out of the clouds every morning and floods our bedroom in a bath of yellow. It shines through my eyelids and its rays stretch across my belly.

The pregnancy doesn’t show yet, but the sun seems to know that the baby is in there.