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.