19 weeks and (still) counting

It has been 19 weeks since my miscarriage, and I do not understand how that much time has gone by. At least the first four weeks are lost in a haze of partial amnesia. I remember a few distinct events, but most of that time is a blur of sleeping, overeating, and watching both seasons of "Dead Like Me" on DVD over and over again. It was a time of feeling very fragile, as if a single harsh word could cause me to break down.

In that 19 weeks, a friend had a baby, and another girlfriend discovered she was pregnant; a friend's marriage almost ended, and a cousin got married; I overused semi-colons, and I slowly, painfully, began coming back to life. For all that I've been bitching about Supervisor Karol, I have to admit that I'm almost grateful for her. No more than two weeks ago, I was wondering if I'd permanently lost my fire, that certain spark that garnered me nicknames like Diva and Scrappy in certain circles over the years. Between clomid and Karol, though, I woke up. With a vengeance, true, but I'll forgive myself for going over the top just as long as I'm no longer in that funk, that boring neutral-beige haze of indifference that was coloring everything in my life.

Lately I find myself paying a lot of attention to time. Thinking about how long I've been trying to conceive, how long friends have been married, how long since the miracle who is my goddaughter was born. But I know the root of it all is the pregnancy-that-was. I still can't help but think how far along I would be on such & such day. Or about how, at this point, I would have an even bigger belly, bulging out with a baby, feeling kicking feet and poking elbows and mystery bits. Just last night, I had the passing thought, "If I hadn't miscarried, but went into premature labor now, my baby would have a pretty good chance at 30 weeks."

I really think it'll get a little better once my due date passes. Once I can get past the end of July, and stop counting the weeks of my non-existent pregnancy, perhaps I can let things go a little more. Of course, it doesn't help that my mom now has a surgery planned for my due date; it just gives me another reason to remember that date, another reason to stress out as the date approaches. The last time my mom had surgery, she nearly died. As in, me standing by her bedside and being pushed out of the way while alarms went off and people rushed in to work on her; leaning against a wall and watching as my mother struggled for her life, fought for something as basic as a breath.

Hell, is it August yet?