It was a hard day for us, Peanut. I went out to face the world for the first time, which was extra hard because I felt the worst I’ve physically felt this whole time.

I started having contractions, even though I wasn’t sure that was what they were. It hurt my womb and my back, and made me feel like vomiting. I’m glad it only lasted a couple of hours because I wasn’t coping with it very well.

I tried to breathe through it, and I thought that I could be stronger if I thought I could have a happier ending, but I’ve been mourning you for days and although I sleep a lot I’m always tired. And I haven’t eaten much, because it feels wrong to carry on with life as before when you’re not here. Eating was something I did for you.

I had a coffee today, now that I’m allowed. I thought I’d enjoy it. I didn’t. It made me feel empty.

I felt empty a lot today. I didn’t cry till after we were home from the doctor’s. I wish I had wanted to cry but I just felt drained and flat. So tired and so old. I came home and watched TV. The woman on TV had a syndrome that caused her to miscarry. I turned off the TV. So then I started cleaning. I washed, I put away, I threw away, I dusted, I rearranged, I pruned. I was getting tired but wanted to clean the shower.

I was squatting in the shower cleaning the glass, when I shifted my weight to the other side and saw you lying on the tiles. At first I didn’t know what you were. I picked you up and held you in my palm and saw it was your yolk sac. Intact, and seemingly perfect, lying there in my palm.

I howled, and I scared your Dad so bad. He thought I’d done something drastic to myself. He understood when he saw you cupped there in my hand.

I had to scream. I couldn’t believe that you had just slipped straight out of me and I hadn’t felt a thing. Jake got down on his knees in the shower to hold me. I didn’t want to let you go. I just held you, collapsed there in the bottom of the shower for a long time. It was true shock and absolute horror.

I didn’t realise it would happen like that. I didn’t think I’d know the moment when I truly lost you. I’d read about miscarriage. Back when I thought it would never happen to me. But my scan in the Emergency Department put you at only 3mm, smaller than you were at our 6 week scan. So I honestly didn’t think you’d be visible.

I had been tormented with every soaked pad that I threw in the bin, wondering if you were there, and how I could cope with the idea of throwing my baby out with the garbage.

It was so sad, and truly horrible, but in the end I think it was for the best. It wasn’t the way I’d imagined, but I got to hold you. I got to see that you were real and that you were really gone. Its something your Dad needed to see too.

While I held you, he found a little box, and we wrapped you up safe. I wrapped the box in your little mouse suit, and together with one of the two pregnancy tests I did, folded it all up in a lovely soft blanket- your first gift.

We placed you in a quiet corner of the garden and we cried for you. We told you that we loved you and missed you and that you could never be forgotten or replaced. All the things I have told you here.

It was the first time your Dad was able to cry for you and I was grateful for the chance for us to grieve together. It was something I had needed. For myself and for you too. I only feel still that you deserve more than to have just the two of us, standing in the dark, mourning you. But we are the two who love you best and soon we will go out and choose you a marker.

I spoke to my mum and cried down the phone to her. She and your aunt Bonnie are going to try to come tomorrow.

For now, I need sleep.

I love you.

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