I have been meaning to write this post for a while, but things kept getting in the way.
A few weeks after we lost the boys, I unexpectedly received post from the lovely Alison, aka Fat Dormouse. Inside the envelope was a card with a lovely message that made me cry and a beautiful zentangle.
It’s now hanging in the corridor, just outside our bedroom, where I can look at it every day and remember our tiny stars. Once again thank you so much Alison for thinking of us.
The kindness of fellow bloggers never fails to amaze me. From wonderful gestures like this to a simple email just to check in and see how I’m doing. It is all appreciated. I may have never met most of my long-term readers, but I consider each and every one of you a friend ❤ (My real-life friends have been fantastic too but the kindness of what are, essentially, “Internet strangers” is honestly overwhelming.)
Recently we had a meeting with the doctor at the fertility clinic and were able to put a plan in place. Basically we’ve agreed that, since it worked so well last time, I will try the same procedure again. Same hormonal injections followed by insemination. I’m not going to tell you exactly when we’ll be trying again – partly because I want to keep some things private. I don’t really need dozens of people waiting to hear the results of my pregnancy test! But also because I don’t know myself exactly when we’ll be able to try again. It all depends on how quickly my body gets back to normal after the loss. Since I was nearly 17 weeks along and there were two babies, its slightly different to a “normal”, early miscarriage. I do know I have to wait two cycles, so it definitely won’t be happening this year. Much as I would like to finally be able to hold a baby in my arms, I’m okay with that. After everything that’s happened this year, I’d be happy with an uneventful rest of 2018. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past three years, it’s patience. When baby-making doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to there is a lot of waiting involved. Waiting for the right time in your cycle to have certain tests, waiting to see whether it’s actually worked this time round, and waiting for the right time to start treatment. I’m used to waiting.
One of the worst things about having to start this process all over again – apart from the obvious fact that my boys deserve to still be here – is not knowing whether we will ever end up with a living, breathing baby that we can actually bring home with us. I was very lucky that I responded so well to the hormones and the IUI worked first time. That’s now what usually happens, and the doctor has already prepared me to not expect that again. We have two tries left and after that…. who knows. I am hopeful that things will work out for us, but it would be a lot easier if it was possible to look into the future and see that, if we just keep going, one day it will all have been worth it.
Yesterday we laid our boys to rest at the memorial for babies who were born too soon to be registered. They were cremated the day before – we asked for them to be laid in a single basket for the cremation, that way they’ll always be together. Then their ashes were placed in a heart-shaped wooden urn. We weren’t there for the cremation, but we saw the urn at the cemetery yesterday and it was beautiful.
The sun was shining brightly yesterday, a beautiful day to say goodbye. We read them Guess How Much I Love You – their first and last bedtime story – and told them we love them and we’ll come and visit them again. Hopefully at some point with their younger sibling. It was sad but nice. I’m glad we got to say goodbye and that we have a place where we know they are.
Afterwards, we walked into town and had a delicious hot chocolate at the chocolate café – much more fitting than raising a glass of something alcoholic, I think. We also lit the tea lights again in the evening.
“I miss you more than words can say A part of me has torn away A china heart will always break A fracture to a twisted face But things are gonna heal again Eyes once blind will see again I miss you more than words can say I miss you more than words Quickfade” ~ Feeder, Quickfade
🌟 Shine bright, tiny stars. We promise to never forget you. 🌟
It’s 1 November today. October is over and I feel like I can finally take a breath.
Today also happens to be the first Thursday of the month, and thus What’s New With You day with Kristen, so you should definitely check that out. I won’t be linking up – my regular readers know how my October was and those coming over just from the link up don’t need to be confronted with that – but I wanted to write something to mark the end of the absolute worst month of my entire life.
In October, we lost our baby boys. With them we lost our hopes and dreams, our joy about finally starting our family. All our plans for the future have had to be put on hold… we have no idea for how long.
In October, I also lost my grandma – an amazing woman who never stopped making everyone laugh, no matter what life threw at her. She raised nine children, lost her husband relatively early and still kept on going. If I can get through the hard times with even half as much strength as she did I’ll be doing okay.
While we’re on the subject of grandma’s, my other grandma had a pacemaker fitted about a week ago (eventually, after it was postponed twice!). The operation went well, thankfully, but really universe? Was it actually necessary to throw another thing at me in October?
In October I also learned that I can get through the absolute worst thing I could have imagined without falling apart. Whatever life throws at me, I can survive it. Of course I have cried, raged and felt numb at various times. I’ve gone through phases of being unable to believe this is actually happening to me. In the early days, I occasionally actually forgot I wasn’t still pregnant, then I would suddenly remember that it no longer mattered how I got out of bed or what kind of cheese I ate and the sadness would hit all over again. I feel like I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster for the past month. But I didn’t break down completely. Even at my lowest points, it never occurred to me to give up. It’s an ongoing process, my life will never, ever be the same, but I know I will get through this and whatever lies ahead.
In October, Jan and I grew even closer. We had already been through a lot over the past couple of years just trying to conceive our babies. We got through that together, and now we are getting through the loss of our babies together. I am genuinely so proud of how we handled this situation, and particularly of how Jan handled it. He dealt with all the practical aspects – keeping our families informed about what was happening, calling work for me when I couldn’t bring myself to say what had happened out loud, calling the hospital and the pathologist to find out what was happening. He held me when I cried, made me cups of tea and lit candles for both our boys and my grandma. And he also looked after me throughout my physical recovery – bringing me my antibiotics and breakfast in bed so I wouldn’t have to get up, making sure I ate enough even when I didn’t feel like it, doing a load of washing when I first came home from the hospital so all my maternity clothes were clean ready to be put away where I didn’t have to look at them. In the hospital we both talked a lot about our feelings (there wasn’t much else to do!) and I am now more convinced than ever that he is going to be a fantastic dad when the time comes for us to actually bring a baby home. Soon we will hopefully start the process of trying to conceive all over again, and there is nobody else I would rather go through it with.
In October, I also learned that people can be amazing. My friends, of course, have all been wonderful (they are my friends for a reason!), but I have also received lovely messages from the most unexpected people – from someone I knew at school and was convinced hated me back then to the colleague I would least have expected to reach out. I guess the old adage about finding out who your friends are is true. My entire extended family have also rallied round with messages of support. Every single one of my blogging friends (and I consider you all my friends) has been fantastic. Every kind word, every message of support, every e-mail and every text has meant the absolute world to me. Both people I love and people I barely even interacted with previously have reached out, told me their stories, helped me believe it really, truly will get better. Even through all the sadness, so many people out there have actually managed to make me smile.
Even though I am mostly okay on most days, I am glad to be saying goodbye to October, but along with the grief I will always remember the positives. It’s going to be a long winter this year, but with Jan, my friends and my family, I will come out the other side stronger than before. And I truly believe that one day we will actually get a baby to bring home and raise. I just hope we don’t have to go through any more heartbreak before we achieve that goal.
Tomorrow I would have been 20 weeks pregnant. I was looking forward to it – the halfway point in my pregnancy. It felt like a real milestone. My next ultrasound was already booked for Monday and it would have been the first time Jan got to see our babies moving inside me, having missed the 12-week ultrasound. We would probably have found out at that ultrasound that we were having boys and started talking seriously about names.
Now tomorrow will just be another day. I’m no longer pregnant. I have no ultrasound to look forward to. It feels weird. I’m not sad, exactly. More feeling a little lost. What do you do when a day that would have been significant no longer actually means anything?
Jan has a concert in Bern, the same one that I went to on Sunday, so he’ll be out until late, leaving me with no plans. I might take part in photo an hour just to give me something else to think about. I have a feeling it’s going to be an odd kind of day.
It’s only been three weeks (tomorrow) since we lost our babies, so it feels weird to say that, right now, I feel okay. I went to Jan’s concert on Saturday, had a conversation with someone who never knew I was pregnant and probably now will never know. This is my first full week back at work, and I’ve already returned to my former levels of busy-ness… it’s going to take me every last minute of my allocated hours to finish all the jobs that have been planned in for me. Everything has returned to normal, and surprisingly I’m fine with that.
The first few times I felt normal or even, briefly, happy, I immediately started feeling guilty. How can I possibly feel normal when my boys are gone before they ever even had a chance at life? But then something Hazel said really resonated with me: “Sometimes we can’t have any more sad“. As cliché as it sounds, I really was devastated when I lost my babies. The first day Jan was back at work, I sat at home on my own, wrote down the entire story in my diary, and literally sobbed. During those first ten-ish days, the grief felt raw and any little reminder of what we had lost was likely to set me off. But there’s only so long a person can go on like that.To continue with the clichés, at some point there are no more tears left to cry.
It may still only have been three weeks (although to me it often feels like longer), but I truly believe those initial days of letting myself cry, getting my thoughts out on paper and on my blog, responding to messages of support and being able to express exactly what I was feeling, have all helped me get over that initial period of deep grief. Of course I am still sad. Of course I am still constantly reminded of what I’ve lost. But for the moment I’m mostly doing okay. And I’m mostly okay with that.
My sick note ran out yesterday, so I started work again today. I could have had it extended, but now that I’m feeling so much better physically (although still not 100%) I didn’t think sitting on my own going over the same thoughts would do me any good, and the longer I waited to go back the harder it would be. I have Friday off for my follow-up hospital appointment, so this way I’m being eased into it gently.
Once I had responded to the messages of condolences my colleagues had sent to my work e-mail address, I settled back into work. It was strange to go back to the familiar pattern – although there wasn’t a great deal to do today. An internal translation for my colleague. A translation for a familiar customer. Some feedback to check and incorporate into our translation memory. While my life was being changed forever, the rest of the world kept on turning. The leaves turned from green to red, brown and gold. My proofreader finished the job that was due while I was in hospital. Another translator took on the one I hadn’t started yet.
Everything has changed, but in some ways everything has stayed the same. Maybe that’s a good thing?
This is going to be among the hardest posts I’ve ever written (this one was pretty difficult as well), but I hope also therapeutic. Writing my blog has always been a way for me to make sense of my thoughts and feelings and come to terms with what’s happening. And it feels important to me to write my boys’ story somewhere people can see it, knowing that it’s all they’ll ever have.
Please don’t feel you have to read this if it will be in any way triggering for you. I know it will bring back horrible memories for some people, and others may just not want to read something so sad. That’s okay. Also, for the squeamish, I won’t be going into gory detail but blood and fluids, as well as certain body parts, will be mentioned. Also, it will be long. Again, please don’t feel obliged to read this. I am writing it primarily for me and my sons, and also partially for any others who have experienced similar and may be feeling alone.
It all started on Sunday, 30 September. I woke up late to discover I was spotting slightly – just a little bit of pink, nothing really worrying, but having had no spotting throughout my entire pregnancy I was obviously worried. Jan was in France with one of his choirs so I was also home alone. I called the gynaecological emergency number at the women’s clinic and since I wasn’t in pain they told me I didn’t need to come in and should simply follow up with my gynaecologist the next day. I spent the rest of that day taking things as easy as possible. The pink eventually turned to brown (indicating old blood) and then disappeared but I decided I would still call my gynaecologist.
On the Monday, I started work early to try and get some extra hours in before I had to leave. The gynaecologist practice opened at 9 and I finally got through just after 10 – the phone was busy for ages. By that time the spotting was back – still pale pink with some brown. My uterus felt heavy but I still had no pain. They had just given away their last emergency ultrasound appointment and because I was having twins they preferred to send me elsewhere anyway so my midwife at the practice called the hospital on my behalf. She phoned back a few minutes later telling me to go straight to the gynaecological emergency area at the women’s clinic – they would do an ultrasound and make sure all was good. One bus ride and a lot of waiting later (there were more urgent cases before me) I was finally seen. The doctor took swabs, checked my cervix, did an ultrasound and could find no obvious reason for the spotting. He told me they would test the samples he had taken but it was probably just one of those things and nothing to worry about, so I went home and worked for the rest of the day.
On Tuesday I was originally supposed to have been in office, but I arranged to stay home as otherwise I couldn’t possibly have finished a job I was working on. I spotted on and off for most of the day, but I suspect that was at least partly from the examination on Monday. It had stopped by the evening and I went to bed relieved. The next day was a holiday in Germany and I decided I would spend the entire day relaxing in bed, only getting up for food (Jan was still in France at this point, but was due back on Wednesday afternoon). Instead, I woke up at midnight with horrible back pain – the doctor later told me this was probably when everything really started. I couldn’t get comfortable however I lay, so I got up, walked the corridor for a bit and drank some water. As soon as I had drunk a large glass of water the pain subsided and I was able to sleep. The next day I was up at 8 to check something for work, tired and failed to get back to sleep, then discovered at around 9:30 that I was spotting again. I decided to shower, try to eat and then call the hospital again. Because of the back pain, this time I was told to come straight in. By the time I got there I was also having intermittent tightening sensations in my uterus, some slightly painful. I was seen much faster this time – after maybe half an hour (I’m a bit hazy on some of the times though).
The doctor told me all the swabs from Monday had come back negative. They only one they didn’t have back was chlamydia but since I had been tested for that before by the very same hospital (routine during infertility testing) she knew I didn’t have it. She then said she wanted to do a transvaginal ultrasound because she suspected my cervix was short. She discovered that not only was it short, but also slightly open. It was definitely not open on the Monday, and she suspected that it had happened overnight, at the same time I had the backache. She could also see some yellowish “gunk” beyond the opening – inside my uterus – which led her to suspect infection. I was then told I was being admitted, that they hoped putting me on bed rest would stop me from dilating further, but if I actively started having contractions they couldn’t give me anything to stop them that early in my pregnancy. Somebody came by to take blood so they could confirm whether there really was an infection and the doctor then also did an abdominal ultrasound to look at the babies. Again, I’m hazy on time, but I think it was 12:30 (I now wish I had checked!). Both babies were doing fine, great heartbeats and I could see them moving around on the screen. That was the last time I would see them alive. I called Jan to tell him what was happening (he was now waiting for a train) and then settled down to wait.
I lay in the doctor’s office for what felt like forever waiting for the admission to be sorted. During that time I had no more pain or uterus tightening, but when the nurses showed up to take my upstairs I stood up and immediately felt a gush of liquid that leaked down my legs. The nurse had me pull down my pants and we saw clear liquid dripping out of me. I was given a pad and made to lie back down while they made more frantic phone calls. At this point I was terrified but trying to stay calm. Before we went up I got another, thicker, pad before being taken to the ward lying on the bed… no more standing for me! Once upstairs, the nurses gave the doctor my first pad for testing and I was moved over to the bed on the ward. The doctor came back a short time later and confirmed that the liquid was amniotic fluid and it was now even more likely that I would go into active labour. She told me that if I did start having contractions they would let me give birth by myself and explained what would happen if I needed an operation (curettage – the C in D&C) to remove any remaining tissue or parts of the placenta. An anaesthetist also came by to explain their role and get my consent for things, and a nurse then came to place an IV, at first just for saline. I was then also allowed to order lunch (I had eaten half a slice of toast all day). Shortly before 3 p.m. I had another ultrasound – because I was now leaking fluid the doctor wanted to check the babies’ heartbeats. The screen was turned slightly away and I couldn’t see anything, but they told me that both babies had strong heartbeats and were still moving around happily. Baby A’s sac had lost a lot of amniotic fluid but baby B’s sac was still intact. I was allowed to go to the loo (on what I can only describe as a potty chair!) and could still feel the amniotic fluid leaking out of me. I was also still spotting and it was more red than pink. By this point my only thought was please, please hang on until Jan gets here. I was having intermittent pains in my back and sides by this point, but not too bad and nothing I would describe as regular.
My lunch arrived and I managed to eat a little, but honestly not very much. I felt hungry before I got it but then had no appetite – the act of putting food in my mouth and chewing just felt like too much. I ate a little chicken breast and some rice and managed the whole pot of apple purée I’d chosen for dessert. The doctor also came back and said my blood test showed I definitely had an infection and I would be getting IV antibiotics. A different nurse (the original one had gone home due to a family emergency) brought the antibiotics at 4:30 p.m. and I asked for pain relief then as well. She took my temperature, which was 37.8°C (it had been 35.8°C when I arrived at the hospital so within just a few hours something had happened!) and gave me paracetamol. Jan was almost back in Basel by this time but still needed to stop off at home and pick up some things for both of us – the original nurse had told me I wouldn’t be getting a room mate and he could stay the night. Jan arrived at around 5:30 and at the same time I rang for more painkillers – this time I got Ibuprofen. A few minutes later, my dinner arrived. When I moved up in the bed to eat, I felt another larger gush of liquid and called the nurse to find that this time it wasn’t just fluid but also blood. She said it wasn’t too much though and I should still eat. Again, I only managed a few bites but did eat all of my apple purée. When the catering people came to take my plates, they offered to get me something else and I asked for more apple purée but I never actually got to eat it. While I was finishing the first pot I felt more liquid gushing out of me and this time it didn’t seem to be spotting. The nurse checked and then went to get the doctor because I was losing quite a bit of blood. The doctor came with more antibiotics – oral this time – examined me and did another ultrasound. She told us she suspected placental abruption and also said if one baby was coming but the other was still okay they wouldn’t induce labour with the second but would see about putting a stitch in my cervix. That brief hope was immediately dashed though – an ultrasound showed that only the placentas were still in my uterus. Both babies had already moved down to the birth canal. I asked whether we could find out what sex our babies were once they arrived and she said we could see them if we wanted. Jan wasn’t sure but left the decision to me, and I immediately knew that if we could see them then I definitely wanted to. The water I washed my antibiotics down with was the last thing I was allowed to eat or drink – as soon as the ultrasound was done I was made nil-by-mouth in anticipation of potential surgery.
The next few hours involved progressively worsening pain – mainly in my back, sometimes radiating round to the sides, and occasionally also in my uterus. Jan started timing the contractions (as I now know this was) at 6 minutes apart. Eventually I just felt back pain all the time and kept being given progressively stronger painkillers until morphine finally worked. Jan was there the entire time, holding my hand, stroking my hair and doing his best to distract me. I 100% could not have done it without him and will be forever grateful for his support. The doctor was in and out and at some point I was sure something was stuck in my vagina – the doctor could feel something but was unable to move it. Eventually I felt more awful pain in my back (although slightly dulled by the morphine) and told Jan I needed the doctor. Just then I also felt pressure between my legs, gave an involuntary push and felt something pop followed by a gush of liquid – Jan went outside and found the doctor just arriving, who came in and confirmed that baby A had arrived. She cut and clamped the cord and then picked our baby up so, so gently to be taken away and washed. A little later she came back and told us it was a boy. We had a son. The nurses washed him, wrapped him in a tiny blanket (sewn by a charity) and brought him in to us. He was so small but absolutely perfect – tiny little ears, hands, feet, even finger and toenails.
For the next couple of hours, not much happened. I thought the contractions were starting again, but they were very mild and quickly stopped. I wanted the loo and was brought a chamber pot(!) but couldn’t go while lying on my back. Eventually the doctor came back, did another vaginal exam, had me try to push and then went to speak to her boss She then came and told us that she was pretty sure everything was already basically out and that she thought it might help if I could sit up, so the nurse brought the potty chair and I was helped onto that. Everything went fast after that and I immediately passed the first placenta then gave birth to my second baby. The second placenta got slightly stuck, but with me pushing and the doctor giving a helping hand it also came out and I was put back into bed while the nurses took everything away. The doctor went out, then came back to tell us we had a second son. He was again brought to us in a tiny blanket and we were able to say hello. Both of our sons were then placed in a little basket, facing each other. We were allowed to keep them with us as long as we wanted, so I asked to have them in the room overnight so we could have at least one night as a family. Some may find that morbid but it was the right decision for me. The next day we had photos taken with them – our first and last family photos – before deciding to say goodbye. The nurses left us alone, we hugged, I cried in Jan’s arms and then told my baby boys that I loved them.
We decided to name our sons, choosing an A and a B name since they had always been known as baby A and baby B until that point. We picked names we both like but wouldn’t necessarily have used. If any long-term readers would like to know the names I am happy to share by e-mail (Jan prefers to keep them to a smaller circle – I haven’t shared them on Facebook because we don’t think every person I was at primary school with for a few months or who was indifferent to me in high school needs to know!).
A was born at 9:20 p.m. and B at 11:20 p.m on Wednesday, 3rd October 2018. I had been 16 weeks and 4 days pregnant.
I was taken down for surgery at around 1 or 1:30 in the morning – it turned out there was actually quite a bit of placenta left and it was good that they did it! Then I was taken back to the ward and we were left to sleep. I only managed a few hours and when I kept waking up I found it comforting to know that my sons were there, that I was being a parent to them for a little while at least even if they were already gone. Jan asked the doctor and it’s impossible to know exactly when they passed. All I know is that they were both fine at 3 p.m., but too fragile to live and breathe outside the womb. My babies didn’t die inside me… my sons would still be here if I hadn’t gone into labour. And if it had happened 5 weeks and a couple of days later, they would have had to be officially registered. They would have had birth and death certificates and have existed legally. All this makes the term “miscarriage” seem so inadequate, especially since looking around the Internet for late-term or second trimester miscarriages I mostly find stories of people who started spotting or had a routine ultrasound only to discover their babies had passed away a few days or weeks earlier. Obviously that is no less tragic and my heart goes out to every single person who has experienced a loss, no matter how it happened or at what stage. But of course the closer someone else’s situation comes to our own the less isolating it feels, so I am hoping other ladies who have experienced something similar will find comfort in knowing they’re not alone. Our babies were here. They existed and they were already so, so loved. I will hopefully have a living child at some point but I will always be mama to my first-born sons and I will never, ever forget them.
One final note… in German, babies lost during pregnancy or shortly after birth are known as “Sternenkinder” (star children) and the charity that provides the blankets is called “Staernechind” (star child in Swiss German). If our babies had lived, the blog pseudonyms I had planned in the event that we had two boys were Castor and Pollux, mythological twins and the two brightest stars in the constellation Gemini. So it seems appropriate to refer to them as our little stars (especially since neither of us is religious and we’re not really comfortable referring to them as having their “angel wings” We are not at all offended if other people do, it just doesn’t feel right for us.).
So, that’s my story. I cried for most of the time I was writing this, but I also feel a sense of peace at having got it out there.
On Wednesday, a week after losing our babies, I went back to the women’s clinic where I gave birth. I had been feeling dizzy for most of Tuesday and had a bad headache that night. When the headache was still there on Wednesday morning I decided to call my gynaecologist and was advised to go back to the hospital. After three people failed to take my blood, resulting in my lying there for hours waiting for an anaesthetist, another nurse finally managed and they discovered my haemoglobin was still low… specifically it was 10 grams per decilitre or 102 grams per litre (the nurse used one measurement and the doctor used a different one). It should be 12 or 120. Interestingly I also found out that on Thursday, before I was given IV iron, it had been down to 6… yet I actually felt worse this week than I did then. Maybe because in hospital I was pretty much just lying around whereas on Wednesday I was trying to actually do stuff.
While I was lying around at the clinic waiting to find out what was wrong with me, my mum was keeping me up to date with the other sad family news… within hours of losing my boys, I found out my maternal grandmother had pneumonia. By this Wednesday it was obvious she was going, and she finally passed at 10 p.m. that night, in her own home and surrounded by all 9 of her children – exactly what she had wanted and a fantastic achievement (trust me, getting the all together is hard). She’s been bedridden for years and had Alzheimer’s, among other issues, so in a way it’s a relief that she’s finally at peace, but she was an absolutely amazing woman and will be a huge miss for the family. If I can master the challenges life keeps throwing at me even half as well as she did I will be happy.
All in all, this has been an absolutely awful few weeks for my family (there have also been a couple of other health scares and things that are not mine to talk about here). Next Friday we will hopefully find out what exactly happened with my pregnancy and at some point we should also get out boys’ ashes back and be able to lay them to rest at the memorial for babies who were lost too soon to be officially registered. After that, we can truly start to heal and look to the future. I would just appreciate it if the universe could not throw anything else at us for a while. I think we’ve had enough!
(I’m aware that you can only see the photo in the previous post if you follow me on Instagram. That was the easiest way to get the news out there at the time. I plan to write a proper post explaining exactly what happened but I just can’t right now.)
The worst thing about this entire situation is that I’ve lost so much more than just our babies – and legally not even that. At almost 17 weeks, this is considered a late-term miscarriage. They don’t get to be registered or officially named. Legally, we are not and have never been parents. My baby boys will forever be no more than a footnote in my medical history. And yet they were here, they were real. I saw them. I told them I loved them. And now they’re gone.
But that’s not all I’ve lost.
We were, of course, looking forward to being parents… but also specifically to being twin parents. Two babies at once was obviously going to be a challenge, but I am convinced, also very rewarding. We had already started discussing twin prams, how to feed two at once, where they would sleep. Although we hadn’t bought anything yet, everything was finally starting to feel real. All those dreams, all those plans are also gone.
I had started daydreaming about life with our babies. Who would they take after? What colour eyes would they have? Would they be musical like Jan? Would they love books as much as I do? Now I will never know any of those things.
And beyond that… beyond just me. Yes, I’ve lost my babies… but I’ve also lost Jan’s sons. Our parents’ first grandchildren. They would have been nephews, great-grandsons… they would have been so loved and cherished. Now all that’s gone as well.
We will get through this. We won’t give up and we will have another baby. But we won’t have these babies. And that really hurts.