There's that instant of utterly enveloping panic and horror when the reality of George's death hits me yet again. For the four hundredth time. My baby is gone. My heart skips a beat, my stomach flips and I gasp for breath. I hate that moment. It's coming less and less even now, but I hate it.
I spoke to a lady from occupational therapy today. She made me cry. She was so lovely. She asked how far along I'd been and then asked our baby's name. She asked George's name. She lost a baby after 10 weeks of pregnancy and she understood. Another member of the dead baby club. I could have hugged her and if we hadn't been talking on the phone I probably would have. I'm going back to work in January. I think.
Then I talked to my Mum, and cried some more. She and my Dad lost a baby early in pregnancy a year before my older brother was born. Her memories are coming back and I think she's mourning her lost little one alongside her grandson because 43 years ago the doctor told her to stop crying and get on with things. They'd been trying for 8 years and she'd had surgery and treatments she can't remember. Attitudes have changed so much, but not quite enough, not yet.
Then I met my friend for coffee. The one who isn't afraid to speak his name and isn't uncomfortable when I cry. Love her to bits.
Today is another crying day and that's ok.
(and shhh, don't get too excited but it's also a not-bleeding-although-still-cramping-a-bit day)