I woke up this morning to the news of Terry Pratchett’s death. I cried in bed. He was an incredible man, and his books have got me through some very dark times in my life.
Our scan today was more heartbreaking than reassuring. Our little one is there, alive, but far too small, and with a heartbeat slower than mine. The likelihood is that there is a significant problem with their development. We’ve been told to brace ourselves for a miscarriage over the next couple of weeks. Our first antenatal appointment is in a fortnight.
There’s still a small chance. It’s small but it’s there. The odds have been against Rose and I many times before. We’re horrified but we’re holding on.
So. I’m trying to get through to the pregnancy support line and ask more questions. We have a an appt with our doctor next week. I’m not sure how to manage my work commitments – I can’t bear to spend a day painting children’s faces if our baby has just died. I’ll figure something out.
We’re home. They escorted us out the back door so we didn’t have to go past all the cheerful people in the waiting room. They’ve done this before. Our gp chose that place because they’re nice to you when they have bad news. The doctor told us he tells around 2 women a week their babies have died. We sat in the car and cried until I could put all my feelings away and drive home. We bought milk and bread on the way. I’m sad and scared and hurting and numb.
I’ve bought Terry Pratchett books online. We’re being kind to each other, moving slowly. Some days are just sad.