Four seasons

It is March 1 here now. Summer is over (sniff). Around this time last year, just after we got home from Hawaii, Angus was conceived.

I have kept him alive for one whole year.

A week or so after he was made, I had an ultrasound. Not to see if he was there because at that stage, six whopping months in to TTC, I was convinced it would never happen, but to just check all was ok.

I was told in no uncertain terms by the radiologist that I wasn't pregnant, and soon I would bleed because my lining was so thick. I was confused, as I was still a good week or so away from my period by my calculations. She also said she saw "something" which looked like a polyp, and that I might need a procedure to remove it. She said that could have been the reason I wasn't falling pregnant. She said to wait until I got my period then come back for another scan. I was devastated.

But never got my period.

That polyp was Angus. She mistook my tiny embryo, beginning to implant in the thick lining of my womb, for a bloody polyp!

I called the woman back to let her know I didn't get my period and that I'd taken a positive pregnancy test, but she never returned my call. I left a message with her receptionist, to make sure she knew how wrong she got things (and how terrified she had left me as Dr Google was now telling me polyps could cause a miscarriage, if in fact there was a polyp/s). Needless to say I never went back there for any more ultrasounds.

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I haven't hit publish on a couple of my last posts, which is unlike me. The only unpublished posts I have in my folder are the last two I have written, but at this point, I see no point in posting them here. There is so much anger and sadness that festers inside me, and if I let myself and had the time, I could write about it all day, every day. What is the point though? There is nothing new to say. She's dead and I'm as heartbroken today as the day I found out she was dead.

But little Angus. My little Angus. The sweetest little boy you could ever know. I have kept him alive for one whole year. Four seasons. Nine months in my belly, now three here with my very own milk on the outside.

It is easy to hate your body after a stillbirth. The death of the most important person in your world takes place inside you. A place you had once believed to be the safest place on earth. My body allowed that small hole to appear in my membranes. My body let my amniotic fluid slowly drain away, so slowly I never noticed. My body never went in to full labour after I started leaking, which meant the hospital would be able to keep me in for monitoring. My body let those bacteria, commonly found in all healthy adults, creep up in to that sacred space she was growing, and quickly take her life. My body was her death bed. My body killed her.

But my body gave life to Angus. It kept Angus alive. And it continues to keep him alive.

And today I can't help but feel good about that, as he sleeps peacefully in the other room (which he is now all of a sudden finally getting better at!)

Today there was a change of seasons and I'm sensing there has been a change in me and how I'm feeling as well. And that can only be a good thing, because Angus doesn't need a sad and angry mummy all the time, even though part of me will always be that way.