It was on a Friday they told me you were dead.
And Daddy was away
And didn't know to come right away
And my friend gave me lilies
Because what was there to say?
For a week I carried you
Still, heavy, silent
A breathing tomb.
I birthed you on Good Friday morning
Held you in the hollow of my hand
Tiny, formed, delicate, alabaster -
David.
My baby
Who lived in my hope
But died in my body
Who lived in my heart
But never in my arms
They told us we could bury you
So we did
In our own soil
Paper shroud, shoebox coffin
Mommy's letter in a bottle.
I planted a lilac to remember you by.
Time passed
We moved away
I had to leave you and the letter and the lilac behind.
Still I am moving away
Leaving you and the letter and the lilac behind.
During a routine 16 week scan during my third pregnancy I was told the baby had no heartbeat. After considering my options I chose to let Nature take her course and miscarry naturally.
Because the pregnancy was still relatively un-advanced we also had a decision as what to do with the little body after I miscarried.
Almost 10 years later, on Mothers Day, I found myself reliving that time again - and realising again how little space I'd had to grieve this particular loss.
I think we don't talk enough about miscarriage and it's impact on so many women.
