At the seven week scan – the scan I was excited for – the scan where I could see the developing fetus, turned out to break my heart.
The father missed the train (yet another late night on the booze), without asking drove my car and arrived late to the hospital. I missed my first appointment time. I was feeling stressed, I burst into tears and told him it was his fault. A nurse noticed and ushered me through to the scanning room.
The look on her face said it all, there was no hope – the fetus wasn’t developing properly and the heart beat was slow – it wasn’t going to last.
I think I screamed! My heart ripped in two and because I was again so mad at him – his arms were the last place I wanted to go for comfort. It took me awhile to realise he was devastated too – the tears came later.
Two days later my body felt different – I called the fetus Derek after my late half brother. I don’t know why it just felt fitting.
It took me four weeks until I was ready to let the hospital know what to do with the remains. Surgery was the best way for me but I still needed time to grieve and to consider a little burial ceremony – just me in attendance, but knowing I had somewhere to go as that may be the only child I have, was an important consideration.
I didn’t have a ceremony – I just moved on. But every so often I’m gripped by a terrible sadness and tears flow – as I really do think I’ve had my chance and I lost it.