The 5th of October was supposed to be the day we could shout our news from the rooftops. The day we were allowed to openly express how much our hearts were bursting with love at this new little being who was about to change our lives.
Our 12 week scan instead, showed our baby’s heart had stopped beating at 8 weeks.
I think I can honestly say, I felt my heart shatter at the sound of those words. My screams felt silent as I clasped onto Lewis begging him to wake me up.
We’d had a ‘missed miscarriage’ commonly known as a ‘silent miscarriage’.
Well, I for one refuse to be silent about it.
I always wondered why the first 12 weeks are treated like a secret, why when you’re feeling at your most vulnerable and out of sorts you’re supposed to pretend everything is normal? We decided from the beginning that we weren’t going to keep quiet. In fact, Lewis told the neighbours before we got a chance to tell our parents!
We got to see your little heart beating at just 7 weeks. Your little flipper hands melted our hearts and made us feel on top of the world – a memory we will forever cherish.
The excitement we both felt was too much to contain and we both agreed that if anything was to happen then we would need all the support we could get anyway, so why not share the highs with the lows?
The love and support we have felt from our family, friends and colleagues has been overwhelming, in a time of darkness they have been there for us making sure we don’t get lost. We shared our joy and now we share our sorrow- something I don’t think could have been done if we hadn’t been open about our happiness to begin with.
Our world will never be the same again, we will never forget what was going to be. But that’s not to say that our future has to be overshadowed by this tragedy.
I’m a firm believer that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And my goodness me little baby have you made us stronger. You gave us so much love we thought our hearts would burst. You also taught us how to pick up the pieces after our hearts had been broken. You taught us how to handle the physical side of miscarriage, the contractions, the endless hot water bottle run, the colossal amount of clary sage oil we rubbed to quicken the process. The realisation when contractions disappeared that our worst nightmare of having surgery to get you out was coming true.
You see, you just didn’t want to leave. My body didn’t want to give you up. I like to think there was just too much love in there.
Not only had I lost you, I was unable to lose you properly.
I had moments of feeling like a failure, I had failed to keep you alive and now I was failing to let you go.
But you taught me that, just like any labour, things don’t always go the way you want to. Sometimes you have to give into the fear and face them with love instead.
I love my body for wanting you so much it didn’t want to let go. I opted for a local anaesthetic so that I could experience you leaving me. The thought of waking up from a general to having you gone was too much for me. I was scared my body wouldn’t know you had gone, I was afraid I would pretend you were still there and forever hold on.
We spent the 50 minutes in surgery holding each other (along with possibly the best NHS nurse we could have ever wished for), laughing and crying through the most surreal moment of our lives.
We are so thankful for the love you brought us little one, and for the courage you brought us.
Never in a million years did i think I would have had the strength to cope with something like this. But you showed us just how strong we are, you showed us that life is there to be lived and nothing is to be taken for granted. Thanks to you we feel incredibly lucky to have the most amazing people around us.
You will always be in our hearts Mini Mushk. Never ever forgotten. Sleep tight.
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