It seems like I can’t write about anything else, until I finish (or even just start) writing about this.
This, this thing that happened, or didn’t happen. Months ago. On Mother’s Day, at 12 weeks pregnant, I miscarried a baby that would have been due today.
It seems like a long time ago now. I remember crying a lot. After a few weeks, I could talk to people and tell them about what happened, without tears. I don’t think about it every day. Although, the constant stream of new babies and pregnant bellies around me have been a regular reminder. I can’t look at Facebook without feeling sad and angry and jealous and guilty for feeling sad and angry and jealous.
Most of the time, it doesn’t hurt any more. I don’t always remember. This month has been a bit tougher. What might have been feels very sharp, right now. Today.
The David didn’t remember about today, about the due date, and I don’t think he’s sad for the lost baby anymore. But he does feel sad, in a more general way, when he considers the possibility that we may end up not being parents at all. It is a strange pill to swallow—imagining what a whole life looks like without a family.
It seems like a real possibility, at 37-years-old, but not a certainty. The not-knowing is hard.
I’d like to think that tomorrow, I’ll have crossed a line in the sand. I lived through the due date. A switch will be flipped and it just won’t be sad. But I’m afraid that it will continue to be unless there’s a new baby. Which makes the not-knowing even scarier.
I hope we get through it, whatever it is. Seems like we probably will. The days keep passing. And while it doesn’t heal all wounds, time does take the edge off.
margaret edith 