Another Day Over, Another Year Spent

I did it. Another date on the calendar that jumps out, raps its fingers around my heart, squeezing tight. Another year that I’ve made it through. Sans another baby.

Did I mention that Jimmy’s due date was April 28, 2004? Did I mention that, because God has a tart sense of irony, I miscarried Little One exactly one year later, on April 28, 2005? Even though we knew there was no heartbeat, it was still the day that the hope of another child left my body. Since then, nothing. I could do handstands, balance on one foot, poke my stomach every night injecting whatever my RE told me to, driving like a maniac in the AM to have an ultrasound wand stuck up my hoo-hah and needles stuck in my arms (often by inexperienced vampires), and still no pregnancy, no double lines on the EPT, no nothing.

I made it through the day. The first year, two and a half months after we buried our son, I was in Virginia at my brother’s then-house. That was NOT a good day. I started my day crying silently upstairs in the guestroom, and ended the day early, anxious to sleep and let my aching heart rest.

The next year, I was in an emergency room with the ass of an OB/GYN partner telling me he didn’t want to do a D&C. I should have insisted. Two months later, I had one anyway, and told my OB/GYN that that particular partner had done more damage to my psyche than losing another child, on top of wasting three of my valuable remaining months of fertility.

Last year, I worked. Granted, I was out of sorts all day. Then I went home, poured a large glass of wine, drank it, and went to bed early, just to give myself the escape of sleep.

This year? This year I was roaming around Walt Disney World’s Disney/MGM-Studios with DH, DS #1 & DS#2, and a family of three that came along for the vacation. Did I have time to remember? Yes, every time I looked into the eyes of every 3-yo that bumped into my leg and heard the cries of every 2-yo mid-meltdown. But it was okay. I had a great time, and watching the kids enjoy themselves was the topper.

The cold-water-in-the-face, the slap of a reality check, came on the plane ride home when DS#1 asked if I was sad. Let me preface this by saying that I am not a great flyer, and had a throcking too-little-sleep headache to boot. Two little kids were directly across the aisle, and, while well-behaved, their screeches of delight over a game of peek-a-boo were like hammer blasts between my eyes.

He was sitting next to me, my sensitive son, worrying about me. I asked why he asked. He said, “Because every time you look at a baby, you look sad.” I told him that I had a headache, and that I was okay. Not a total lie, but I also don’t want him to worry about me. My boys have been through too much. That breaks my heart. They shouldn’t have to know at their ages that babies die before they’re born.

And I am okay. The pain isn’t fresh. It can still be surprisingly biting, and aches on occasion, but it’s not the constant piercing make-you-want-to-scream-at-the-unfairness pain.

I finally am okay. For now. Check back, and I’ll let you know how well I deal with the yard sale prep over the next month. I’ll be saying goodbye to the clothes and crib and bassinet and strollers, to the potential of having another baby wear the same clothes and sleep in the same crib as the boys. This will be interesting.