It’s been over a month now since I started bleeding five and half weeks into my pregnancy. On Tuesday it will be a month since I looked at a pregnancy test announcing that my baby was no longer with us. Today despite drinking nothing stronger than a decaff coffee last night I feel hungover. Massively hungover.

My stomach is nauseous, my head is sore. My bones ache.

On my last three pregnancies this is exactly how I felt. This is when I knew I was pregnant. This would be the point where I would go out and buy another Clearblue pack of tests.

Only this time I am scared. The doctor told us to wait at least one cycle before trying. Have at least one period in case, “there is any residue left in the womb”. Residue, from my baby.

I might be wrong. It may be the start of my period.

And I am terrified that it isn’t, that it is another baby. And I might not get to keep it.

I am also so hopeful. In the bottom of my tummy, underneath all the nausea, underneath all the nerves, underneath all the worries, there is a tiny little spark left, of hope.

I can’t voice it out loud. I can’t say the words, even to my husband, for fear that I am wrong. For fear that by saying it I will somehow make it not happen.

And so it remains here, with the evidence of my last pregnancy, on my blog, unknown to the rest of my world.


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