I’d originally planned for this post to be something very different. But yet, here I am, writing something I never thought I would have to, feeling something I never thought I would feel. Now, I look back on this day with such bittersweet feelings.
The day these photos were taken was one of the happiest days of my life; I was with my husband, my young boy, and I had a new life growing inside me. A life that I had ached for for months, a life that I knew I would pour everything I had into nurturing.
We’d decided to escape the grasp of London and visit somewhere that’s been on our hit list for some time now, the spectacular Arundel Castle in West Sussex.
The morning cloud slowly retired, giving way to a blanket of light, which poured over us as we wandered further into the castle grounds.
I was so overjoyed to be pregnant again, I felt so ready for it; I was consumed by love for this person I was entwined with, who I was yet to meet.
I’d already thought about names, what it was going to feel like to hold them for the first time, what they would look like, how Grayson would react when he first met them. I imagined all the things that I was so sure were going to happen, I even imagined the moments we’d have that I could never predict.
For the two weeks that I was a mum to two babies, I was the happiest I’ve ever been.
The following day.
I had woken up in the early hours of the morning with crippling cramps, and I just knew in my heart that it was all ending, that this tiny life I had inside me was slipping away, and with it all the incredible moments we should have had together, but would now never happen.
I’ll never forget looking down and seeing that first shine of bright red blood, and being consumed by a profound sadness, the sort of sadness that becomes you, and in turn you become it.
Alone in my bathroom, I said a rather undignified goodbye to the part of me I would never know. The universe had decided that now wasn’t the right time.
I lay on our balcony that afternoon with waves of sharp pain reminding me what I wanted only to forget. That evening, as the bleeding and pains continued, I sobbed hot, heavy tears into my husband’s arms, the kind of sobbing where your whole body shakes, and you don’t know if you will ever stop. I felt empty, because part of me was now gone.
I took myself to the doctor, and the pregnancy test came back negative. Hearing those words from a professional opened the gates to even more uncontrollable tears, this time on the shoulder of a very empathetic doctor. The doctor referred me to the hospital that same day.
My husband sat on the ridged hospital chairs and waited for the results of various tests and after an internal scan I was told for the final time that I had suffered a complete miscarriage.
Again the tears streamed down my face, but now the sadness had begun to manifest into something else; anger, anger at my own body for rejecting my child.
Our Vespa ride home was silent, our city didn’t look the same, it didn’t feel the same. We tend to project our vision of the world back at ourselves, which is why when you’re in a dark place it feels like the world echoes that darkness.
I’ve already experienced the pain of grief when my Mother passed away six years ago, so I recognise the pattern of feelings I am currently going through. I’m re-visiting lots of them; I feel like I’m peeling off a plaster and looking back at the wounds that I’ve already tried to heal. Shock, disbelief, self-blame, frustration, anger, sadness, emptiness. In a very strange way it’s comforting to know that I have done this all before, as I know I can come out of the other side a stronger person. In other ways, though, the grief is dressed vastly differently, making it sometimes unrecognisable.
I’ll never actually know this little person I’m saying goodbye to; I’ll never see their face, never feel them growing inside me. I’m now grieving for the weight of the child I will never feel in my arms, for the brother or sister that Grayson will never play with, for all the inconsequential yet priceless moments that the universe will never unravel.
I’m grieving for someone I will never know and have never met, but someone I loved so intensely; and there is something very confusing about that. The pain of only being able to carry your child for a short amount of time is such an overwhelmingly strong one, and my heart aches horribly. Losing my baby has truly knocked the wind out of me, and I still can’t believe it’s all over.
I’m trying to focus one day at a time, on the future. At the moment that is hard, as it’s all still so raw; I wake up in the morning and there are a blissful few seconds where I feel normal, then I’ll remember, and the ache in my heart returns and I’ll sit quietly next to the loss.
I believe that there is somewhere so peaceful that we go to when we pass, some place that our tiny human brains cannot even begin to comprehend. Somewhere out there, beyond our vast universe, the life I briefly created will be at peace, along with my mum.
Goodbye, my little one, I will always be your mummy; just know how loved you were, and that I’ll love you every single day, forever, more than you’ll ever know.
See you again someday x