Tomorrow was supposed to be different.
Tomorrow, I should have felt the tinge of annoyance because my baby woke up too early because it didn’t know it was my special day. Tomorrow, Danny should have made me pancakes even though he prefers waffles.
Tomorrow would have been a series of dreams fulfilled, it would have been my life; even though it would probably be less than picture perfect, it would have been my reality instead of something that should of been.
When someone you know and love dies, your life changes, and it is the change that fuels your grief. But when it’s a fetus that has died, or a baby, or whatever you want to call it, your life doesn’t change, and that’s the strange part — because it was supposed to. Your belly was supposed to grow, but it doesn’t. Your breasts were supposed to get more tender, but they return to their normal size. Your office was supposed to be turned into a nursery, and you resented that, but now the plans for a crib and a changing table are gone and nothing at all needs to change. The sadness is in how things stay the same.
But tomorrow I have the perfect excuse to avoid the gaze of others at church wondering why we have been married for seven years with “nothing” to show for it. Tomorrow, I will hope that my struggle makes it easier for somebody else, to make them not feel alone. Tomorrow I will surround myself with the things that draw me closer to feeling peace. Tomorrow I will continue hoping that if not next year, please God, maybe next.
Tomorrow, I will bike through the pain, because I have already had my heart broken, and nothing can break me more than that.