My Due Date

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That little heart penciled on my calendar seems to be all I have left of my second pregnancy. The milestone apps stating his/her size in fruit have stopped long ago. Isaac’s hand-me-down crib still sits in the corner of his room, waiting. Even the fuzzy purple socks from our D&E procedure are boxed up and shoved into a dark corner in storage.

I put those socks away after the procedure, hoping it would help me forget those 19 weeks of pregnancy with my second child. Knowing they were the only tangible thing I owned from the entire experience, I hoped that boxing them up would somehow push me to heal quicker, be stronger. Something.

I remember holding them in my hands and contemplating throwing them out (out of sight, out of mind, right?). I sat in the dark hallway alone, sobbing and wishing I could somehow trade that stupid pair of socks for my baby. I decided to keep them, thinking that one day I might actually forget the entire experience and need something to remind me of that pregnancy and that baby.

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Now I know.

That not a single day passes where I don’t think about that baby.

That the void doesn’t cease when you try to fill it with other busy-ness.

That the grief of losing someone you never met is stronger than I could have imagined.

 

And also,

That the sadness does lift.

That there are helpers and angels all around, if you just look for them.

And that living the experience shapes who I am – and who I want to be – in this world.

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In the months since our miscarriage, I have felt so many intense emotions, from heartbreak to surrender. I think about what it was exactly that allowed me to go 17 weeks into a pregnancy and then miscarry. I replay the mistakes I made and feel sheer guilt for taking that pregnancy for granted. I ask myself countless times if that miscarriage was a sign that I am not meant to have any more children. I doubt my ability to create any other healthy, happy babies.

Friday, 2/5/16 was my technical “due date” for the baby I lost back in September, but if that baby were to have come a week early like our Isaac did, he/she would probably be here by now. I find myself wondering what that baby would have been like. Whether it would have been a girl or a boy, and who they would have looked like. When I take Isaac to the park, I imagine what it would feel like to be snuggling a newborn as well.

As I close in on the official ‘end’ to my second pregnancy, I remind myself of the fragility and miraculous nature of life. While I am heartbroken that it ended the way it did, I thank my lucky stars that I was chosen to carry that baby for as long as I did. I honor his/her spirit, and I hope to continue healing with time.