Skip to main content

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
Labels:

Popular posts from this blog

Training for Life

Two years ago a postcard advertising a personal trainer certification program arrived in my mailbox. It wasn’t a particularly noteworthy event, except that instead of throwing it immediately into the recycling bin, I held onto it. And began to do a little research into exactly what the certification process would entail. I couldn’t imagine how I would use said credential, yet the idea of adding personal trainer to my resume nagged at me like an itchy bug bite. I mentioned it to my sister…who promptly agreed to enroll in the program with me. After several months of discomfiting study that filled us both with fears of inadequacy, we completed the coursework. All that remained was the certification exam. My sister went first, early in the morning, and I followed suit on the same day, albeit after lunch. We both passed with flying colors. A few months later we attended our first “Fit Fest,” a weekend of workshops meant to build our skills and knowledge. We were at a distinct d...
Read more

Valentine's Day

It's Valentine's Day. My husband is working today, not that we would have had plans to do anything special. It is, for us, just another weekend, simple and ordinary. Both of us are more pragmatic than romantic in nature. The one time I sent Scott a bouquet, he sold it to a co-worker who'd just had a blow-out with his girlfriend and needed a make-up gift. He did take me out to dinner with the proceeds of the sale, but the writing was on the wall. We would not be a couple who showered each other with sentimental tokens of love. My career path into the kindergarten classroom has ensured a steady stream of gifts and goodies, so I haven't missed out. Every year I am inundated with boxes of chocolates and valentines filled with sweet expressions of the undying affection of my five- and six-year-old friends. I rather enjoy this innocent side of the holiday. Racy lingerie and dirty talk are not my forte. Hand-scrawled hearts and messages of unconditional love and accept...
Read more

The Curse of Expectation

I had a disappointment last week. I’d submitted my book to an indie writing contest and the winners were to be notified by Thursday. I didn’t get the notification. It’s not that I expected to win. Wait, scratch that. My disappointment indicates that indeed, on some level, I did expect some kind of recognition. Maybe I wasn’t expecting to take the grand prize, but I was hoping for at least an honorable mention. Acknowledging that was the first step in being able to let it go. Once I recognized my expectations as a cry for validation, I saw them clearly as a self-imposed burden of proof meant to silence the inner critic who keeps raising doubts about my writing talents. My disappointment wasn’t about the quality of my work—it was about my need to prove myself. What I am learning—slowly, painfully, and inevitably the hard way—is that disappointment is an inside job, rooted in my expectation of how the events in my life are supposed to turn out. I keep slapping my preconceived...
Read more