The restaurant was crowded as we waited for our table. The nine of us move towards a small room of the main restaurant at the Olive Garden. We are surrounded by the sounds of Italy and the wonderful aroma of Italian foods. And then it happened.
I should have known. I was there with a group of women from Church celebrating another year of Sunday School passing. Life was good. I was accepting our infertility fine. I looked forward to this evening for weeks. Until the lady beside me reaches into her purse and out comes the dreaded birth announcement. For the next twenty minutes, the picture is rotated around the table and everyone talks about their children and grandchildren.
In a room fill of people, I am alone. The wounds that I thought were healing seaped open again. I could feel the hot tears in my eyes and the tightness in my throat. I wanted to run, but I stayed. We were only served our drinks. Two and half hours later, about a half-a-dozen sentences from me, I was weaving myself out of the crowded restaurant where my first tears and grasps of breathe came in the parking lot under the cloud of the evening darkness.
I am not healed. My journey continues....