Six Days Late

I am six days late.

All day long, while I rush around from meeting to meeting, shuttle my daughter to preschool, wait for my mother at her doctor’s appointment, make dinner with my husband, this is all I can think about. I am six days late.

I have no idea what this means. All of the tests are negative. I have been hyperaware of changes in my body for so long that I no longer trust any of my own instincts.

Last month I was so sure. Everything smelled terrible. Coffee lost its allure. I collapsed into bed every night by 8:30, exhausted in a way that I just *knew* could only be that first trimester haze descending on me. I caught a glimpse of my breasts in the mirror after showering one night and literally laughed out loud at their swollen, discolored, bumpy nipples. This is me pregnant, I thought, smiling fondly at my reflection as I remembered what this felt like last time, the idiosyncrasies of a pregnant body, the strength and power I felt as my belly grew.

I was wrong, though. At lunchtime on a Tuesday, in the third bathroom stall on the right in the women’s restroom at the food court at the college where I work, I started bleeding. I waited there, doubled over with grief, for my entire lunch break.

And then I spent the afternoon berating myself. Grief? Grief over what? There was no baby lost. There had never been a shadow of the hoped for double pink line that month. There was no reason to think we had managed to get pregnant, no logical reason.

There is no baby, I told myself. That is all. There just is no baby this time. You need to trust in God’s timing, and wait.

I sulked for a day. And then began another cycle of testing, temping, charting, scheduling sex like some kind of deranged marital secretary. I did everything I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And then I waited.

Danielle Griggs
Danielle Griggs
Guest post written by Danielle Griggs. Danielle is writes from the boonies of central Massachusetts, where she lives with two small cats, one small daughter, and one patient, unusual husband. By day she helps nonprofits and educational institutions tell their stories as a freelance writer at Creative Content, and by night she tells her own at The Junk Drawer.

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