August 26, 2013

It's finally here: my would-have-been due date. If not for the miscarriage, I would have been 40 weeks pregnant today, if the baby hadn't already arrived.

Strangely, this date hasn't been as upsetting as I'd thought it might be. It's just another day in limbo, and I'm used to that. Yes, I'm thinking about the baby with love. I do that every day. What I don't do is spend much time dreaming about the details of what might have been. Years of infertility have trained me not to get too attached to dreams.

Yes, after 8 or 10 weeks of pregnancy, when I started needing to map out future medical appointments on the calendar, I was bold enough to note all 40 weeks. But I did it in pencil. Wow. It didn't occur to me until today how telling and sad that really is. My due date was never marked with a celebration of circles, exclamation points, and smiles, just a businesslike "40" with a mental asterisk and footnote saying, "if I should really be so lucky after all..."

Nope. 

Daydreams of motherhood require some details. I could fantasize about everything that might have been ... but the truth is that I have no real details about the life who was so briefly here, really here. All I have of him or her are questions. And the only way I can honor him or her is to hold the questions in my heart and just let them be.

Questions and love. Today and every day.