Six hundred and three. No, that is not the cups of coffee I consume each year (though close) or the items on my poor husband’s “honey do” list. It’s the number of injections to my stomach and hips that stood in the way of me becoming what I always wanted to be—a mother.
Had I known it would “happen” after all of it? The pain and emotional turmoil wouldn’t have been so bad, of course. However, nearly 500 needles pierced my skin before I ever even received a positive pregnancy test….
