I'm five days away from Tiny's due date. The family bassinet isn't set up. I haven't read Mary Allison picture books about becoming a big sister. I still have an innie, can still zip up my jeans and tie my own shoes. May 24th will come and go and I won't be any closer to meeting my baby.
I missed Dot's 12-week ultrasound by three days. The automated phone service from my midwife's office called to remind me. I abruptly stopped looking for matching clothes for my kids, erased my imaginations of Christmas Eve with four stockings to stuff, and buried my maternity clothes as far as I could in tubs under my winter wardrobe. Dot's 20-week ultrasound was scheduled on Mary Allison's second birthday-- I missed that one, too. I'm only a couple weeks away from my third trimester but I'm not any closer to meeting this baby either.
But somehow the calendar keeps moving forward. I crossed off lots of due dates at work, passed my yearly evaluation, survived a Mother's Day that didn't seem worth keeping, and celebrated friends' birthdays, anniversaries and baby showers. Our annual trip to Maryland is only a week away, and we even have a closing date on an adorable house penciled-in on the calendar at the end of this month. I still haven't figured out how the calendar keeps going when my timeline is at a jarring, deafening halt.
I don't like to leave words untied, without a conclusion, but miscarriage and infertility feel a little bit like that. Untied. Unfair. Unfinished.
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