Not So Due

 Today was supposed to be my due date. Oh, how those words hurt so profoundly. 

WAS. 

Past tense, now a date that has just become another calendar day holding no meaning for anyone other than those of us who still feel the loss of my miscarriage. 

December was supposed to look oh so different. I had Pinterest boards of inspiration for Christmas-themed newborn photography, amazon carts of Christmas sleepers, fuzzy warm blankets, hats, and socks. Wish list full of baby "toys." All of which now just sit untouched, unused, and no longer needed. 

Idealistically I was supposed to be holding my first son in my arms, welcoming him into the world. We should be spending our days rocking in our chair near the tree as the wood cracked in the fireplace. I should be spending my evening preparing dinner for my family as my husband and son snuggled together on the couch after a long day of work. However, there aren't any cute Christmas outfits. No fuzzy socks, warm blankets, or fireside snuggles. I don't have any Baby's first Christmas" ornaments to hang on my tree; all I have are the two ornaments my husband and I bought to honor him after his death, a little blue porcelain shoe, and a frosted acrylic circle with angle wings, baby feet, and his name. 

I was supposed to be celebrating life, not morning death. This isn't fair. I'm sad, and I'm angry. I wish I could say my life is full of silent nights, but I remain unsettled and full of many emotions. I'm 15 weeks pregnant with my 2nd son, and while I feel beyond blessed and full of excitement, this pregnancy has been far from easy. I've been extremely sick physically, and the constant fear and anxiety of something being wrong is a daily battle I must suppress. The stress, anxiety, and joy don't dissipate from my grief for losing my first son. His younger brother did not simply replace him. I was not given "another chance" to have a son. I was robbed of the opportunity to have my first, a chance I wanted so badly. This season of the year was supposed to look different than it does, and while I'm trying to hold joy for what it is, there is still so much sorrow for what it is not, and the two have to co-exist as one. There isn't another option. 

Realistically even though society tells us this is one of the happiest times of the year, I'm depressed. I usually love Christmas; I'm one of those people that start decorating right after Halloween and have it finished by Thanksgiving. "Christmas is a season; Thanksgiving is a day." Not this year. I'm not ready. I have no desire to decorate. I don't feel "the holiday magic" I sat on the couch this past weekend and watched as my husband put up our 12-foot tree and decorated it by himself. I grumbled as he asked me where I wanted to put my nutcrackers (I have such a large collection because they are one of my favorite holiday things and bring me so much joy, but again there is no joy in them this year.) I haven't done Christmas shopping. I haven't made a list. I don't want to move my daughter's elf on the shelf. 

I just want to sit, sleep, and be sad. For How long, though? How long can I allow myself to stay in this place before I have to put on my big girl pants and rejoin the reality of the world around me? How long is it appropriate to grieve the death of my son, these significant anniversaries, and the reminder of a life I will never have? I will always wonder who Jesse would have been. I will always want to know what life with him would have looked like. I'll never not wonder or stop thinking of him as I look at my other children. From the moment Jesse existed, there was so much love for him. There still is. It is held deep in my heart. 

No matter how much love existed, it couldn't save him. I try to find comfort in knowing God had a bigger plan for him and his life. For my life as his earthly mom. He didn't make me Jesse's mom just for nothing. What is that plan? I'm still unsure, yet I'll continue searching for opportunities to share our journey and experience. To share our stories. I try to find comfort in my peers, yet as helpful as some try to be, it's just not. People always try to say profound things to be helpful, and I try to remain neutral when they say things that hurt and feel dismissive, like: 

"God got you pregnant again,"

 "You'll get to hold your son in heaven." 

"At least you have this baby boy now." 

"He's safe in heaven." 

"But at least you are pregnant now!" 

And so many other heartfelt, sincere, well-meaning words of encouragement and love. Sometimes I wish someone other than my therapist would stop trying to make me 'feel better' and just agree and accept that it sucks. Those words all fall to my feet. Like everything else, leaving a path of shattered glass, I now have to walk over to get to the other side. 

Each step is so painful. 

Endless possibilities of what could've been, and my heart hurts. It has this vast void of empty space. I'm tired of reminding people that It can't be filled with another baby or another chance. It can't be filled with words of hope and encouragement. It just has to remain empty, raw, and unfulfilled. And in that space when it occupies the foreground on days like today. 

It. Has. To. Hurt. 

And that's okay. 

It's how I navigate that hurt that matters. 

There is one thing that can fill that space, one I long so deeply for, one thing I will never have in this lifetime. And that one thing is Jesse Chase. 

Happy Due date, my sweet son. 

Oh, how my heart longs for you to be here.