Somewhere in the middle of summer, my body and my mind both started feeling reasonably recovered from the whole miscarriage ordeal. And then it hit me that I didn't remember my due date. When was I due? (Which is really, How pregnant am I supposed to be right now?) It was suddenly dreadfully important that I know.
So I would never forget again.
I remembered the date of my last period easily: Christmas Eve, 2010. (I probably conceived on my birthday.) The online due date calculator spat out Friday, September 30, 2011. I promptly marked the date on the calendar.
And now it's here.
Last night I wrote a thank-you note to someone who helped me on my way—though of course I wrote it more for myself than for her. Afterwards, I told Rob, "I honestly don't care any more. I don't care if I ever get pregnant again."
He was a bit shocked. But it's the truth. (Until I change my mind.)
I had some ideas about how I would feel today, but I tried not to have any expectations. I decided to wear the same shirt, camisole, and shoes I was wearing that Sunday in the Emergency Room when the teenager they just made an OB sent me home to miscarry. I would have worn the skirt also, but jeans seemed better for my work day at Westley's preschool. Besides, doing head-to-toe "miscarriage chic" on your due date feels somehow backward. But I suppose I dressed to feel sad.
I definitely feel sad. It's not the slow, paralyzing sadness that I'm used to with depression. It's sharper, more likely to cause impatience and look like anger. I guess because anger feels empowered. Depression is more feeble.