I met with the other Mamas this weekend. It was really good. I travelled down on the train with one lady and we chattered all the way to London. It was so nice to be able to talk openly with someone without having to apologise for getting upset, or with the other person steering the conversation away from dead babies.
We shared tears. We shared fears. I tried to soothe hers as she is pregnant again and frightened. We talked about how you are unable now to tell other pregnant ladies "It'll be alright". No matter how bad I feel I just cannot bring myself to, in effect, lie to them. How can I know it'll be alright? Yes it's the right and polite thing to say, but I'm sorry I have statistically had 3 'not alright' pregnancies so I feel like a fraud if I smile sweetly and paint a beautiful, rose coloured picture of being pregnant. Pregnancy to me now seems like you are holding your future baby in your arms and bungee jumping off the Severn bridge with only an elastic band to hold you up. There's a million chances you will hit the ground with a sickening thud or there is a remote chance you'll bounce and get that happy ending.
We met with the other Mamas in the hotel. After a little awkwardness we were soon chatting away, each eager to make the most of this opportunity to talk about our lost little ones. Every story different but with the same sad ending. And what seemed to crop up a lot, a LOT was the sheer inconsistency of advice given by the medical profession. You would think that it might help if they were all singing off the same hymn sheet. Instead it seems to be a postcode lottery, even a generation lottery - some of the older Consultants seem to be very much of the 'suck it and see' approach whereas the recent graduates of med school are following the textbook to the letter - god help you if your pregnancy deviates from that textbook.
Bit of a joke.
I am thinking of packing the nursery away. I left it all out after losing Lucy as I was sure I would be pregnant again quickly. As time ticks on with no positive test it seems a sadder place to me. I think I may just pack it all away for another time, whenever that may be. The empty cot makes me feel sad, the whole room does.
I feel I am running out of things to say about Lucy. I have talked about her endlessly but I will only ever have those nine months and those few precious hours to talk about. I was so surprised she was warm when she came out. I guess I imagined she would be dead and therefore cold. It was strange how warm and pink she was. Her skin was very soft, I stroked her cheek and nose endlessly. I wish I had opened her eyelids to see hers eyes, I never did it because it just didn't seem right to disturb her somehow but I wonder what they looked like. She had very, very long legs. And huge feet! Just like her Dad. She would have had his sticky out ears too. I remember thinking how she would have grown her hair to cover them, and then I cried because her hair would never grow and she would never be teased at school about her ears because she would never go to school. She wasn't meant for this earth.
I once read that babies that pass are Old Souls that have been here many times before. They have learnt all their life lessons and will now get to join God in Heaven as an Angel, but the last lesson they have to pass onto their chosen earth Mother. I guess this comforts me a little as I can't fathom the point of a little life sent here and taken before her beautiful eyes had even a chance to see the light of the Sun.