Trapped with a Missing Date
By: Christy Bonstell
Tags: Grief, Pregnancy Loss, Coronavirus, Grief And Loss, Pregnancy

March 26

I’m sitting in a chair, continuously rocked by the news of how many are dying; balancing a steady diet of articles touting American exceptionalism and listicles written by preppers in places like Meridian, Idaho. I am contemplating turning my yard into a wheat field. I am wondering how much chickens cost. I am watching my son “e-learn,” which is really a well-choreographed dance of me knowing he is simply watching hours of gamer content, but quickly toggling back to Khan Academy when I walk by. I don’t understand either platform and am thankful he is simply sneaky and not outwardly defiant. Small victories on rough days. Good hair at a funeral. An odd type of gratitude, but gratitude all the same.

These days have all been hard. Each cancelation another punch, each “in these unique times” e-mail somehow both creating discomfort and numbing it. My home is a shelter and I am thankful for it. I have spent my jobless hours creating a linen nest to climb into at night. Scrolling through review after review of marshmallow-colored sheets. Wondering how much was too much when you are currently unemployed but it’s not clear if you are actually unemployed or just not working this week. I reasoned I was helping the economy. Stimulus was coming — surely it was for creamy boho duvets and downy (but not real down) inserts. I let the packages sit on my porch for several days before opening. I dressed the bed carefully, with the kind of love you can only summon when you have what appears to be, all of the time that exists. Then, anxiety ridden, I fell asleep every night on my couch watching Thor’s hammer at work against, what felt like, a similar enemy to the one we currently faced. The bed remains lovely and virginal.

More than anything. I worked hard to try and keep the days from moving forward. Because I knew, in short time, we would arrive here.

March 26th.

The date was chosen specifically. My husband’s birthday is the 25th, mine the 27th. Our son’s, the 28th, our anniversary the 29th. All different months and all by accident, but still. A nice little pattern with a missing piece. It’s funny how numbers have a way of pointing out that something doesn’t line up exactly — that there is really one way it should go and whatever it is, you’re not going there yet. Words don’t do that. I prefer words.

On the day before my 42nd birthday (yes, also a “26th” if you’re keeping track), I had a weird feeling. My period is like clockwork, and something in my body felt…off. So, being near a Target and having a strong preference for additional data at all times, I stopped in and grabbed a pregnancy test. I was so sure it would be a test I would fail — as I had for the last three years — so I took it quickly in the bathroom, where it immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

Now, I was in a Target bathroom. It was a nice bathroom by these standards. Single stall recently cleaned. As great a place as any, I reasoned, to numbly put the stick in my purse, wash my hands and contemplate the bizarre nature of this information. It felt like baking a cake, taking a bite and knowing something didn’t go the way you’d supposed it would. It’s only later when you look in the cabinet you realize that you switched sugar for salt.

I was 42. My son was 12. How would this work now? Was everything starting over? For reasons still unclear to me, I called my mother before I called my husband.

“I’m pregnant,” I said.

“No way,” she said.

“Way,” I said.

I am certain we said more words, but I don’t remember them. I do remember her also trying to figure out why I called her first. She encouraged me to call my husband. I did not.

Instead, I got a smoothie and tried to parse out what was what. I tried to remember if smoothies were one of the things pregnant women couldn’t have but I couldn’t, so I dumped it in a nearby trash can. Then I walked home, dazed and scared and thrilled and terrified.

Eventually, I did tell my husband. While we both struggled with our ages, we were also thrilled at what seemed to be a miracle. The next couple months went like my first, and only other, pregnancy. I slept constantly. I cried too much. I kept up my exercise routine of hiking and yoga and running. I had no morning sickness, which I was thankful for, but which also meant I piled on weight like an autumn grizzly.

There were doctor’s appointments. The implications again and again that my being 42 meant that something must be horrifically wrong with my unborn son. My doc suggested testing. I’m one of those people who tends to trust doctors,so I said, sure, why not, it’s 2019 and we live in the future. I researched the test. It involved them doing what seemed like pretty archaic things to achieve some pretty advanced results. They said the risks were low. Caused problems every 1 in 100. The guy who’d been chosen to do mine was THE person to see — basically created the test, best in the biz. How very lucky for us.

One in 100. Numbers again. Always causing problems.

Because, you see, someone has to be the one. And I,him, we got the honors. I’ll spare you the gory details. I’ll also spare myself.

I set to work healing. I knew the odds of getting pregnant again (I have not) and knew I was mourning not only my son, but also likely my last shot. It was hard work. I’d been close to death when I was four years old, but not since, and such close proximity to the afterlife reminded me to be kinder to this skin-case I carry the parts of me in.

But my brain, had already made plans. It knew how pregnant I would be at what point in our lives. Each month, despite my protests, it marked milestones that didn’t exist. Crossed off list items that no longer needed crossing. It was written in my bones and on my heart, and it would not leave me alone.

March 26th was during my sixth-grader’s Spring Break.

So I made plans, big plans, National Parks-sized plans, to be deep in the woods on March 26th. To be a world away from a dreamt-about nursery and home that I love, but that also held the memories of the worst night of my life. I had painted my walls and hung new art. I had scrubbed my bathroom until my hands bled. I had created a cocoon for myself that I refused to get into — not quite ready to become something new, still hoping for what might have been.

Then Corona started creeping in. One case. Seven cases. Three cases in Chicago. It got closer. The numbers got higher.

Numbers, man. Such, little numerical assholes.

Each day, it got a little harder to breathe as I realized I’d be stuck, entombed, in the one place I had begged not to be.

I started to see the woods slipping away. And finally, they did.

And it came. There was a deluge of articles about women struggling to deliver. About babies being delivered early, partners not being allowed at appointments, moms getting sick. And still I found myself not grateful, but jealous, while also wishing the best for those expecting. It wasn’t my best day.

But it also wasn’t my worst. I allowed myself space (as much space as one can find in a 998-square foot home with three people and three dogs) and I breathed, because I was starting to see that doing so freely was a gift. And at midnight, as I lay on my couch watching Thanos strangle and mame and destroy, I counted my blessings.

I’m alive. It didn’t seem like I would be a couple of months ago, but I am. My beautiful 12-year-old is happy and healthy, and the internet will never tire of giving him DanTDM. My spouse is kind and good. My home is a refuge from the terror of this world. I live in a country with Target. And Target has very, very clean bathrooms.

I guess not all numbers are bad.