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The End of August

I used to love September. The shift from sultry summer to crisp autumn was a welcome one. I enjoyed the back to school vibe. I marveled at the brightly colored leaves drifting from the trees, and savored the sounds of apple orchards and pumpkin farms. Heck, I even got married in September.

It was Anna who obliterated my adoration of autumn. She was due in November—11/11 to be exact—although she ultimately arrived on 10/10. I’d learned in June that she carried a fatal chromosome defect, and by the time we reached September, she’d already outlived her life expectancy by two months.

That September was a month of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was filled to the gills with excess amniotic fluid and having contractions almost constantly. I knew that the end was near. I lived under a steady drumbeat of impending doom that none of the pleasures of autumn—not even the first pumpkin spice latte and slice of caramel apple pie—could mute.

Every September since has resurrected the anticipatory grief of that period of my life. The end of August leaves me with a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat. I go through the familiar motions of settling back into school, setting up my classroom and greeting my new little friends, but I carry a parcel of sadness within my soul—a lingering longing for the daughter I was denied.

Incompatible with Life: A story of hope
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