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The Empty Space

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No No No, I scream. I’m paralysed with disappointment, two lines have faded to one. Yesterday, the empty space that stares back at me held a thick, darkened blue pregnant line. I had tenderly whispered downwards how I couldn’t wait to hold you in my arms and feel the beautiful physical weight of you on my chest. My heart splinters into a million pieces as I place my hands on the sink and sob.

Three minutes ago,  I placed the lid on the (oh so familiar) pregnancy test and prayed to all the Gods that you were alive. I’d tell myself not to, but I

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couldn’t help testing with a fevered addiction when I was going through IVF.  I’d promise myself I would wait until day 10, after the embryo transfer before I watched my hands shake with adrenalin as my morning wee hit the white stick.  Three minutes seems like an eternity, all hopes pinned on the beautiful sight of 2 clear crisp lines.

For a brief time, you and I are still one, inside of me, until mother nature tells us that we must part.  I don’t want you to leave me yet, we still have a few days left where weakened hormones will trick my

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body into thinking your seed heart still beats. I have a precious few days before I see the red ribbon of blood fall between my legs. I will still awake with that glorious nauseous feeling and for that split second, before my morning dreams slip away I’ll think you’re alive;  my last edge of hope still flickering with the rising sun.

You and me have defied the odds; my final frozen hope. Five failed IVF attempts and there you were, strong and vibrant; surviving. Already, you were facing the challenges that life would throw at you. They tell you

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not to raise your hope as they gently, yet painfully prise your legs apart. They tell you to breathe and relax with a bladder so full that urine leaks down your legs as they painfully tap for the vein that is weary from numerous fertility shots. For some reason, I knew you were going to survive all of that and nestle in my artificially thickened womb that day. I sobbed as I saw you on the clinic’s screen, four perfect cells, utterly stripped-down, life really is a miracle.

But our chapter together all though started, was not to be finished and my

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womb is now an empty space. The first part of the chapter written after you, held no words, just an ocean of tears.  However, flickers of light appeared in the form of my supportive friends.  They took my son to nursery, they let me cry when the permanent lump in my throat couldn’t be suppressed. They topped up my glass with prosecco and would re-count hilarious tales of our nights out.  Slowly, my weak smiles turned to laughter and I will be eternally grateful for my friends’ unwavering support.

The

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charity https://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk were also amazing, they listened compassionately to me in the dark days and months that followed. If you’re sitting alone grieving the loss of your baby, pick up the phone to a friend or the above charity.  Talking about it can’t fill the physical empty space, but it can make you feel less alone.

Thinking of all the mums who’ve experienced a loss, look after yourselves. x

 

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- 15 Oct 19

No No No, I scream. I’m paralysed with disappointment, two lines have faded to one. Yesterday, the empty space that stares back at me held a thick, darkened blue pregnant line. I had tenderly whispered downwards how I couldn’t wait to hold you in my arms and feel the beautiful physical weight of you on my chest. My heart splinters into a million pieces as I place my hands on the sink and sob.

Three minutes ago,  I placed the lid on the (oh so familiar) pregnancy test and prayed to all the Gods that you were alive. I’d tell myself not to, but I couldn’t help testing with a fevered addiction when I was going through IVF.  I’d promise myself I would wait until day 10, after the embryo transfer before I watched my hands shake with adrenalin as my morning wee hit the white stick.  Three minutes seems like an eternity, all hopes pinned on the beautiful sight of 2 clear crisp lines.

For a brief time, you and I are still one, inside of me, until mother nature tells us that we must part.  I don’t want you to leave me yet, we still have a few days left where weakened hormones will trick my body into thinking your seed heart still beats. I have a precious few days before I see the red ribbon of blood fall between my legs. I will still awake with that glorious nauseous feeling and for that split second, before my morning dreams slip away I’ll think you’re alive;  my last edge of hope still flickering with the rising sun.

You and me have defied the odds; my final frozen hope. Five failed IVF attempts and there you were, strong and vibrant; surviving. Already, you were facing the challenges that life would throw at you. They tell you not to raise your hope as they gently, yet painfully prise your legs apart. They tell you to breathe and relax with a bladder so full that urine leaks down your legs as they painfully tap for the vein that is weary from numerous fertility shots. For some reason, I knew you were going to survive all of that and nestle in my artificially thickened womb that day. I sobbed as I saw you on the clinic’s screen, four perfect cells, utterly stripped-down, life really is a miracle.

But our chapter together all though started, was not to be finished and my womb is now an empty space. The first part of the chapter written after you, held no words, just an ocean of tears.  However, flickers of light appeared in the form of my supportive friends.  They took my son to nursery, they let me cry when the permanent lump in my throat couldn’t be suppressed. They topped up my glass with prosecco and would re-count hilarious tales of our nights out.  Slowly, my weak smiles turned to laughter and I will be eternally grateful for my friends’ unwavering support.

The charity https://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk were also amazing, they listened compassionately to me in the dark days and months that followed. If you’re sitting alone grieving the loss of your baby, pick up the phone to a friend or the above charity.  Talking about it can’t fill the physical empty space, but it can make you feel less alone.

Thinking of all the mums who’ve experienced a loss, look after yourselves. x

 

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Mum to Zachary; Idealist; belief in humanity; Graduate in Psychology; trainee Psychotherapist (specialising in woman's mental health), aspiring freelance writer with a passion in understanding what modern feminism means for mothers, and finally....... a Prosecco opener extraordinaire!

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