Taking a step back, I smiled, admiring the clean, freshly painted white walls. The nursery was coming along beautifully.
‘Perfect,’ my husband Rob agreed, folding tiny white sleepsuits into the drawers.
It was August 2009 and we were preparing for our first baby.
I’d met Rob in my 20s, and we’d spoken about kids from day one.
So, after getting married in March 2009, we started trying for a baby on our honeymoon.
Weeks later, we were ecstatic when a test came out positive.
‘We’re so lucky,’ I told Rob.
It was all coming together.
Before long, the 20-week scan was upon us.
But the sonographer said the baby looked small.
‘It’s quite common,’ she explained to us.
Only, something didn’t feel right.
As a nurse myself, I’d learned to listen when my body was telling me something was wrong.
‘I can’t feel the baby moving,’ I told Rob.
I tried to push my worries to the back of my mind – and at 23 weeks, we went in for a follow-up scan.
‘I’m sorry, but there’s no heartbeat,’ the sonographer said to us, sympathetically.
The doctor came in and explained that I needed a pill to tell my body that it was no longer pregnant.
Then, three days later, I’d give birth to a baby we’d never get to take home.
It felt so surreal. Rob was too sad to talk.
I went into autopilot, ringing family and friends.
We sat in despair, grieving for our first baby.
And then, in September 2009, I went into hospital to give birth. Labour took three days.
I don’t know how I managed to do it.
But my heavy grief outweighed the physical pain I was feeling.
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