17 May 2020

On Sunday morning we went for a private reassurance scan. We should have been 11 weeks. It should have been the happiest moment of our lives so far. But there was no heartbeat.

No heartbeat.

The baby died at 9 weeks.

I’ve had no bleeding. No pain. No sign whatsoever that anything was wrong. No warning that this ball of cells and life and magic that I already loved so fiercely had stopped growing. Had stopped existing. I hadn’t felt anything.

They scheduled me for surgery immediately. The sac had kept on growing. It didn’t know either. It soldiered on, nourishing and nurturing, trying to grow this thing which would never open its eyes.

I almost don’t want them to take it out of me. It looked so comfortable and snuggled up. It wants to stay safe inside me. I had planned this home – the three of us, dancing, bath times, hiccups. But it won’t get to see the things we would make. And the only home it will ever know is my body.

Last time all I could see was an empty sac. This time it looked like a real person. I’m so glad we both got to see it. It was so small and tiny. But it was real. It was a real thing, a real tiny human that we had made. I just wish that I could meet it. I want to brush its hair and push it on a swing and blow its snotty nose.

But instead I’m sat in a too-warm waiting room, the tight socks and rough gown all too familiar.

And it’s the not knowing. The not knowing what it was that stopped that little beating heart. Why did my body stop building you?

Will it build another?

I know that our love is meant to be shared. So we’ll try again. And hope.


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