When my loss was still new, the milestones of my failed pregnancy came fast and hard. I had not only marked the dates on my calendar for when each trimester started and when we expected to find out the baby’s sex, I had also burned those dates into my brain. So, even though I deleted them from my calendar, I would never forget. When those milestones came, I was a wreck. I was angry and sad all over again. Any progress I had made dealing with my grief was erased. Eventually, it got better. But there are still 2 big milestones that I will never forget. One is tomorrow, November 20, my estimated due date. I know babies are rarely ever born on their due dates, and it’s likely mine would not have been the exception. But it’s the only date I have to mark when my baby would have been born. I should have a one year old child. I should be planning her birthday party, picking out an adorable outfit for photographs, and baking the cake she would eat with her hands while we all laughed and took pictures. We wouldn’t have a large party, just immediate family. She wouldn’t even understand what was going on, but we would document each moment with hundreds of photographs.
When these milestones arrive, I feel like I’ve lost my baby all over again. I feel empty, angry, bitter, and sad. I can’t stop myself from daydreaming about our should-be life. I feel like I’m trapped in a parallel universe that only exists in my mind. Being there makes me so sad, but I can’t stay away. Every mother I know has said at some point, “I can’t imagine my life without my kids,” but I wonder if they have ever tried. Do they ever let their minds go there? Do they ever really try to imagine what life would be like if they were unable to have kids? I don’t think they do. I don’t think I would. Maybe I would consider it for a moment, but I would make myself shake it off, because it would be too awful to imagine. I wish I could stop daydreaming about what would have been (what should have been). I don’t think it’s good for me.