I don’t think of you often, but when I do my hand caresses my tummy where you lived for such a short time before leaving this world behind.
I remember you on the day you should have been born and on the day you died and sometimes I hear a whisper in the wind and you squeeze the part of my heart that belongs to you, my baby I never got to meet.
We are still a family of five; if I hadn’t lost you I would have never had my Libby-Sue and life without my baby girl is simply not worth living.
But I remember,
I remember the joy of seeing the second blue line, I remember dreaming of a new born laying in my arms soon after Christmas. I remember choosing names, Sophie-Sue for a girl, Sue always for your beautiful Great Aunt who died the day before you did.
I remember the sadness on the sonographers face when she told me you had left and I remember the surprise when I moved to the ward to see I was not alone in my pain and hurt.
We waited in turn, six women in total, called as if on a register in turn to have our children removed from our bellies. Your Dad could only come so far and he waited as the hospital doors swung shut on his agonised face as I took the last steps with you as a physical part of me alone.
The coldness of the mask shocked me and the tears fell and a stranger squeezed my hand. I was told to breath and then I wouldn’t feel anything. The numbness possessed me and for a short time everything was gone. I awoke and an emptiness came over me and still my eyes wept.
I have never known a hurt like a silent miscarriage.
But I don’t think of you often now, but I still remember.
I still love what we lost.