Three words

For over three months, maybe more, I have longed to say three words - I am pregnant. But I wasn't. So I couldn't. I didn't imagine I'd ever get to say those words again.

For those months, which stretched ahead to me in what seemed like perpetual succession, I just had to roll my tongue around those words as if I were learning all over again how to write, tracing their outline with my pencil, afraid to press too hard lest the mark they make not quite look the way I'd intended it to; in case I didn't recognise what had come from my own mouth, or hand. I'd practice them silently so I'd be ready, just in case. I thought it wasn't likely, but I maintained a fading glimmer of hope. That tiny sliver of hope made it OK for me to wake up in the morning. It won't always be like this, was my mantra. It might not always be like this.

Now I am pregnant. I simply am. And yet those words are no easier to say. When I say them out loud or see them on the page they mock me. They embarrass me. They make me cower with guilt. And yet when I saw that test, two glorious pink lines, I could have collapsed with relief, with joy, with hope, and happiness. The feelings are all mixed up. But so are our lives. Nothing is where it should be, nothing is as we expected. So I accept this confusion without judgement. I allow the fear and the suffering. I embrace the warmth and the light. How I embrace the warmth and the light.

I have known about this pregnancy for two days. They have been the lightest two days in my living history. The complications are there - the connections that will be made with grief and uncertainty and stone cold fear. But they're a vague undercurrent right now. They are something separate. Let me have these days, I say silently to myself. Let me just have these few, precious, happy days, before this news becomes linked with what came before.

I am so happy. We are so happy. We are delighted, and grinning and hopeful.

But we are not healed. Please don't think that we are healed.

We have been given a second chance. But it is just a chance. These cells multiplying inside me will do their job without me, despite me. But they offer no guarantees. There are no guarantees. But there's a chance. And if a chance is all we've got, then a chance is what we'll take.

We won't talk of babies. Not now. Not yet. It is not our place to get carried away. That kind of enthusiasm is for the lucky majority. We are not them. But we are lucky still. We may be less lucky than most, but we are luckier than many others, for whom months of trying to conceive does not end in the result they long to see. I think of them, most of all, now.

We have love, and we have hope. We know those two things will get us through any challenges the coming months bring. It is not going to easy. It is going to be very, very hard. We will take this one day at a time. We will take the photos we did not take before. We will celebrate even the smallest milestones. We will try to experience this moment by perfect moment. And we'll pray to who ever will listen that those moments will last.

A special day for daddy

It's a special day for Max's daddy. It's Fathers Day. It's a hard day for a daddy who doesn't get to spend it with his son. Sometimes the daddies get forgotten in the ferocious din of grieving. Max's daddy doesn't cry easily, he doesn't really have any way in which he draws attention to himself, even when he needs it most. He's the most resilient, self-sufficient person I know. And that's the very reason how I know how much Max's absence hurts, because despite this, it is written all over his face, in a faraway stare or a furrowed brow. We like to think our hurts lie secretly hidden inside us, but of course they don't. A wound this size is there for all to see, especially those who love us, who know us so well as to be able to pick up on the slightest change in a tone of voice or a glance or a sigh.

My dearest, darling Leslie. I know.

What I also know is that you would be the best daddy in the world. You were to Max. You will be, I hope with all my heart, again. I'm so sorry you can't do any of the things you planned to with our little boy. It breaks my heart to think of that, even when I think it couldn't possibly be broken any more.  But I want you to know that you did everything you could with him, and for him. I will never forget looking over to you and seeing our baby in your arms straight after he was born. I was in shock. I was afraid to hold him, so you took him so gently from me and held him tight. You kept him safe, and warm, and loved. You made sure he was not alone for an instant. And you made sure that I was not alone for an instant, either, on that day, or on any day since.

Max knew you. If there's one thing I believe, it's that. He was comforted by your touch and by your voice and by your love.

You are no less a father today for Max's absence. This makes you more of a father to me. You loved our baby, and you had to let him go. That is the greatest, though most painful act of love imaginable.

Because Max can't be here, I honour you and everything you are to us, on his behalf. You are our safe harbour on a stormy day. You never falter. Rest, today, and let me take the helm. Max and I have you in our embrace. We love you so very, very, very much.

For all the dads who have lost children