This Saturday, I will be 26 weeks along. The last time I was 26 weeks pregnant (to the day), my husband dropped dead.
Oddly enough, for all the anxiety I had about becoming pregnant, it’s been relatively normal and hasn’t caused me too much grief. Until I hit the half way mark. Ever since, my brain audibly tells me with each passing Saturday, “only so many more weeks until you’re 26 weeks.” I am keenly aware that its coming up and I’ve sat awake a few times now with tears remembering.
Perhaps it will pass like my grief milestones did, where the anticipation is more painful than the day itself. Perhaps I will spend the entire day making sure Steve doesn’t drop dead on me. Perhaps I will be a little neurotic and even just spend the day grieving an experience I never imagined I’d be going through again. Perhaps I can fill the day with enough distractions to help me forget. Ok, we all know that wont happen.
I fear that if this milestone can bring me this much anxiety, than the anticipation for birth may just send me over the edge. The two moments nothing in this world can reconcile with my heart: the day my love died and the day I had his baby without him. Only love could have made me volunteer to face the potential for déjà vu.
It’s a good thing love conquers death.