by The Wannabe Mom
When I found out we were pregnant this summer I numbered each week of my calendar—from four weeks to 40 weeks. It was my own little countdown to baby.
I remember thinking if we could just get to 26 weeks—a viable pregnancy–we’d be good.
We made it to week six.
This week I saw the “26” I’d written on this past Sunday. For the first time in a long time I closed my eyes and I let myself go there.
I had to excuse myself from my desk and take my pity-party to the restroom where I cried quietly, alone in the middle stall.
I’m not a woman who dwells on her miscarried babies. It happened. It was awful. I moved on.
But this week—and this past weekend–I dwelled. I thought about what could have been. And it stung.
. . .
I didn’t take the sonogram picture from our first sonogram. The nurse offered it to us and I told her I didn’t want it. I remember thinking—who in their right mind wants a sonogram picture of their dead baby?
I wish I had that picture. Just typing that brings me to tears.
Mother’s guilt, I suppose.
. . .
There is a red maternity dress hanging in my closet right now. I ordered it way back in week 5.
I knew better, but I did it anyway. I thought it would be perfect to wear to my company Christmas party.
After the miscarriage, I packaged it up to send back and even wrote “miscarriage” on the reason-for-return line.
I didn’t have the heart to send it though.
My Christmas party happened to be this past weekend. That dress hanging in my closet brought me to my knees Saturday night.
Sad tears. Angry tears. Tears that scared my husband as he walked into the room to check on me.
I told him I was disappointed I couldn’t wear that dress. Sad. Angry.
It was more than that though. I cried to him that we should have a baby kicking up a storm in my belly. We should know if it’s a boy or a girl by now.
We should have grandparents bursting at the seams with happiness and excitemen in anticipation of their first grandbaby.
Our Christmas gifts should be nursery furniture and strollers. A Boppy and carseats. Bottles and breast-pumps.
He sat down on my closet floor next to me and held my hand.
Then he did what he does so well: He made it all better.
He told me he didn’t really want a breast-pump for Christmas. He has his heart set on a new Nike Golf driver.
We both laughed and he wiped my tears.
. . .
There.
I feel better now. I know I need to mourn a little more. To feel it. To let it sting and taste those salty tears.
I’m learning it’s good to go there. I can still be fine and say I’ve moved on–even with a few setbacks here and there. It turns out–I’m only human.
We’re starting our IVF cycle next week. I’m hopeful.
I can only imagine how much I’ll appreciate an IVF pregnancy— each week up to and past 26 weeks.
If the procedure works, I’m going to frame-up every last sonogram picture of our baby. If the procedure works–we’ll hit our 26th week on the 4th of July.
Twenty-six weeks and the 4th of July–I can’t think of any better occasion to rock the hell out of a little red maternity dress.