Yesterday was my due date. My third due date. My last due date.
My doctor, who had been cautious about giving out dates, was so sure about this one. She offered up the date without hesitation. She was genuinely surprised when things went wrong this time.
I was feeling proud of myself, even a little smug, for getting through the day without tears. I was even able to console a friend through her own grief without losing my beans.
I told myself, “It’s ok that you’re not upset. It’s just a day, just a number. People rarely even have their babies on their actual due date.”
So why did I wake up so sad today?
I’m sad because this was the last due date. From now on, it’s anniversaries of due dates. (March 10, June 26, January 18). I fear the possibility of adding more dates to that list.
My life riddled with painful arbitrary dates and numbers.
I’ve been pregnant for two years and I don’t have any children.
These dates should have brought me great joy. My life was supposed to change after these dates and it hasn’t. My heart and my house still feel empty.