From that very first day, when the test showed yes, I felt you. Not in the physical sense; but deep inside my heart. The thought that I had growing, that special little someone. Someone who I was already so proud of. I wanted to shout out my news from the rooftops of every high place I could find. When the sickness came i knew that it wouldn’t matter once you were here.
I found myself wondering if you were a boy or a girl; though deep down I knew that it wouldn’t matter. I’d spend hours day-dreaming of all the things we would do. Our trips to the park; and to the zoo. I would teach you to read, to write, to draw. We would laugh and sing. We’d bake cookies and cakes, and would end up with flour on our faces. We sit and watch Disney videos together, and I’d marvel as you’d sing along. I was so proud. You were happy, and playful, with lots of friends around you. On your first day of school, you would arrive immaculately dressed. Your teachers sang your praise about everything you could do.
I’d think about your birthday parties, with balloons and cakes, surround by our family and friends all with arms filled with presents just for you. I’d watch you grow up, wondering what sort of a teenager you’d grow up to be. I knew that I’d be the type of Mom who came to every match and concert, no matter what the sport or instrument you played; although I secretly hoped you too would play the flute as I had done. I’d proudly announce to everyone around that you were my child. When it came to you taking your exams, I wasn’t worried as I knew you would get great results. You’d go to college and pass your ‘A’ levels with flying colours, gaining a place at whichever University you wanted. I’d be there to watch you Graduate with top honours, filming it for all to see, then at night when you were away, I’d be able to sit and watch all of these special moments
I knew that I would always have competition though. You would be busy fighting off admirers, who were enchanted by you, not just that you were beautiful, but you were a pleasure to be around. I could dream of your wedding day. I wasn’t going to be the Mom-in-law from hell, like my family before me. During the speeches, you’d raise a glass and proclaim to all present that you had the best Mom in the world. I would be your sister and best friend too. One day you would tell me that you were pregnant, and that I was going to be a Nanna. i couldn’t wait.I knew deep in my heart that my grandchildren were going to be special too. That I would love them as no other could.
But like most of my dreams, something goes wrong. I awoke one morning with pains in my stomach. Forcing myself to remain positive, I chanted to myself that it was just food poisoning, or needing the loo. I walk slowly to the toilet, but I am bleeding. “Stop worrying” I tell myself. “Pregnant women bleed all the time”. I reach for the phone and dial the number the midwife has given me. I know what they will say, and they confirm my thoughts. On reaching the hospital, I am shown into a room away from the other expectant mothers. The nurse gets me to lay down and starts prodding at you. She tries to hear your heartbeat, but perhaps it is too faint to hear. I’m given a jug of water and told to drink it all. They tell me that this will make it easier to see you on the scan. The lady operating the scanner turns the monitor away so that I cant see what she can, then tells me to return to where I was. So I sit and wait for the original nurse to return.
An eternity passes. The nurse returns and starts to speak to me. I know she is speaking as I can see her lips moving, but the only words I hear are “I’m sorry”. My world ends. The next day goes by as a blur. A hospital ward; An operating theatre; Hospital ward then home. As the day goes on, my memory catches up. You, my baby had gone. That morning I had awoken with pain, was you leaving me and saying you were going. I wish I had been more alert then perhaps I could have said “Goodbye”. Did I do something wrong? Am I to blame? Would things have been different if I had done this? Or that?
The hospital removed all trace of you. They wrenched you from my body. What if they had made a mistake? Perhaps you hadn’t died. But it was too late now. I was left alone. Like pumpkin at Halloween. Hollow! That is the only way I could describe it. I wanted to go too. I cut my wrists, but was too much of a coward to cut deep enough. I took tablets. Nothing happened. People told me “life goes on”. “You can try again”. Inside I was screaming that I didn’t want to. But the words didn’t come out. They didn’t understand that my perfect little one had gone. You had died, and left me on my own. Grief didn’t come into it. When a person dies, you have a funeral to help come to terms with the death. But I didn’t have a coffin to mourn over; no grave to place flowers on when I needed to. I don’t have your face to remember; no tiny hand or foot to remind me. I don’t even know what happened to your body. You weren’t deemed important enough to anyone else. If you had of been four more weeks along, they would have classed you as a baby. I didn’t have the luxury. To everyone else You were a non-entity. No-one else was grieving.
For days after, the sun rose on the morning, and set at night. I’d sit on my bed, the curtains closed, wishing that the normal things that were going on around me would stop. I was angry that the world continued. Most people when grieving stop eating, but that didn’t happen to me. I ate constantly. Anything to take my mind off what had happened. I realised that you cant eat and cry at the same time.
Friends, well the few that I had; especially those with children avoided me over the next few months. I felt as though I was contagious. That they thought that if I went near their children, something bad would happen to them.
After what seemed an age, things began to return to ‘normal’, well kind of. Adverts on the TV that had anything to do with babies set me off crying. Seeing Mothercare when out shopping was difficult to cope with too. But somehow I eventually managed to move on. I had more pregnancies, but each ended as yours had. My body was betraying me. I had ten pregnancies and had just about given up, when I was blessed with a daughter. Laura is her name. The only trouble was, by now, the Mom I dreamed about, was gone. I had two more miscarriages then gave birth to another daughter, Georgia. But somehow i never felt complete. I was told that perhaps I couldn’t carry boys. That broke my heart. I tried to be happy and enjoy my family of girls. Don’T get me wrong. I love my daughters. But something inside didn’t feel right. I was diagnosed with manic depression and placed on medication. Things got a little easier.
Then one day I realised I was late again. The tests showed I was pregnant again. It was ten years since I lost you. The pregnancy wasn’t an easy one. I thought I was going to lose this one time and again, yet somehow against the odds, I managed to carry to term. In fact I was 16 days past my due date when I went into labour. It was quick. The midwife told me to stop pushing as there was a problem; the baby’s cord was wrapped twice around its neck. I had flashbacks of all the pregnancies that had failed. I pushed again. Thanks to the midwife’s quick actions; she managed to un-loop the cord at the last minute. She spoke to me but I thought I was imagining it. I can’t have heard her right. She told me I had a son. I didn’t believe her and had to check for myself. It was true. I had a son. I named him Harry. My own little Harry Houdini. He had managed to escape many times throughout the pregnancy.
I coped better after this birth, more so than after the girls were born. I breastfed him for perhaps longer than I should. He was almost 3 when I stopped. But he was a beautiful healthy son, and I for the first time in a long time felt some sense of contentment. The memories of all the children I lost never leaves me. I believe that someday I will get to meet you all. You have to remember too, that you did also have an older sister. Zoe, who is now almost 19. Though things didn’t go to plan there either. Zoe had a twin, who didn’t develop and had ‘died’ quite early on. I didn’t know I was carrying her until after I had given birth to Zoe. I don’t know if it was a girl or a boy, but I named her anyhow. She was Kirsty. And I didn’t get to see her either.
But this letter is to tell you all; all my miscarried angels, that although I never got to meet any of you, those moments that we shared when I was carrying you inside of me, were special to me. Perhaps only to me, but that doesn’t matter. When I finally leave this earth I know that we will be reunited and then perhaps I can be the Mom I dreamt I was going to be. Surrounded by all my little angels I will at long last be whole. I will never forget any of you.