There was a time where I was pregnant, and then I wasn’t. Just. Like. That.
We’d been trying for you for three months. Three agonising months, because once you decide you’re ready, you don’t want to wait.
I found out I was pregnant in the same week I was chosen to present a sports bulletin on a popular football TV show.
It was something a friend said seemed “too good to be true.” A baby, and a career.
Those words came to haunt me.
You see, even though it was early days, I had already imagined who you were little one. I had pictured life with you. Memories that were yet to happen. You were real to me.
The pregnancy began with doubt and worry. I worried that maybe I couldn’t handle a new job and being pregnant. Or that my new employer might be less than thrilled about the situation. On top of that, I’d been spotting on and off since those double lines appeared on the home pregnancy test. But I still held on. To you. With everything.
Then one day, the day I was told “it was too good to be true” , I knew I was losing you.
It started with cramps. I was at work and I kept leaping to the toilet to check my underwear, breathing a sigh of relief when they were clear.
Holding out hope. Keeping everything crossed.
But as I typed up my bulletin and went live on the radio, reading the news to thousands of people, I was losing you.
I knew. And in between bulletins I sobbed under my desk. And nobody knew.
And you were gone. And so were the hopes and dreams and memories yet to be made.
I called my husband and he consoled me, telling me that it would be ok. And I went home and cried some more.
Because you were gone. Too good to be true.
Part of me felt silly for mourning your short little life. But a loss is a loss.
Had you gone on to thrive, your big brother Angus would never have been, conceived just three months later, and that is something I take peace from.
But, little one, just know, you were loved, and wanted. And missed.