This week we suffered a miscarriage.
The early pregnancy signs were similar to the last time we miscarried. We were anxious and refused to allow ourselves to expect too much. To calm our minds, I cooked up a theory of dates that would mean there's no reason to worry. It was all explainable and sensible.
I was downstairs with Piglet when H called down, "I'm bleeding."
She rested the rest of the day in the hope that it was just a scare. But it got heavier.
We hadn't yet spoken to the GP or midwife. The first call was to book a scan to confirm everything had gone wrong.
The first time we miscarried—Blueberry—we were distraught in the hospital, trying to find somewhere private enough to hug in tears. After I called my Mam to tell her, I lay on the kitchen floor and bawled. When I rang work I could only manage to choke out that I couldn't come in. But this time, because we hadn't let ourselves open up fully to hope, it hasn't been possible to open up fully to grief.
I stilled cried when I had to tell Mam. And that's the only time I've cried. It feels easier and harder at the same time. Some of it must be because we already have Piglet. Sadness, but without the sharp edge of fear of, "What if we can't ever?" And some must be from the hard shell of fear that encased our hope. Our future child.
After the scan, H and I walked through a park, talking through the numbness we were feeling, trying to articulate and describe it so we could release it.
I'd thought that I'll end up with the same amount of sadness, spread out for longer without the release of the peak. But I can't avoid the callous belief that that's not true. I haven't wanted to admit it to myself and face my own judgment, but maybe this time I won't feel as much loss.
Importantly, H is OK and the scan has shown no lasting effects. Piglet will just have to wait a little longer for a sibling.