I went back to work last week. I was partially dreading it because I didn't want to be jolly and sociable, and I was partially welcoming it because it would give my brain something else to think about. It ended up being pretty good on the most part, specifically for the latter reason. A few close friends gently welcomed me back and made me feel loved and supported. The others did the typical British male thing and completely avoided the issue, which was fine by me. I felt almost back to normal and even laughed a few times (some real belly laughs, too), but on Friday night I had a bit of a meltdown. It started with the pain of having to delete appointments like my NT scan, the 3D scan in California, and my due date from my Outlook calendar - I forgot they were in there until I went through it to do some project planning. There was lots of talk about babies, pregnancy, and birth because it was my friend's last day at the office before her maternity leave. Then finally, I opened up the envelope that's been sitting on my desk since Monday containing my hypnobirthing CDs that I'd ordered the week before. It all came crashing down that evening, but maybe that was a good thing. I wept in Paul's arms after having held everything back to a few watery-eyed moments the entire week. I felt better afterwards.
Early pregnancy is a very surreal concept; it was impossible for my brain to process the fact that there was a little human growing inside of me. Before you feel the first movements or have the first scan, it's all a bit abstract. So when I was told that I had miscarried, my brain didn't know what to do with that information. Even now I feel like I wasn't pregnant at all and it was all just a horrible dream. Does that make any sense?
So now, we try again. The nurse said that I will get a scan at 8 weeks next time, at which point if a heartbeat is seen, my chances of miscarrying go down to around 2%. Although miscarriages are very common, particularly in the first trimester, mine was quite rare because it was a "missed miscarriage" (i.e. the baby dies but you do not miscarry naturally until some weeks after, if at all). This only happens in around 1% of pregnancies. But enough with statistics.
I really want to remember this baby, so I have put my scan pictures, pregnancy tests, and the cards and a printout of the comments and emails sent to me in a box. We nicknamed this baby "squeak" because Jack was "pip"; this was the first thing that came to Paul's mind when I asked him what we should call the baby. So to remember Squeak, we are going to put a little mouse ornament in the garden. Christ, I'm making myself cry again.
I am better, but still in a bit of a daze. Time will heal this wound, along with the sound of Jack's giggles, the arms of my husband, and a furry black dog who likes to sit on my feet.