This time last year I was pregnant.

Planning.

How to you plan to celebrate a life that was never fully lived? How do I wake up on the 22nd of October and know it has been a year since he was safely inside of me? How do I go through that day.

Hell. How do I go through October. This time last year I was pregnant but didn’t yet know. Blissfully unaware and full of naive contentment. I was in love (still am) still newly engaged (less than 6 months before and planning a future. Everything seemed certain. I was giddy in September.

I felt that everything was set out perfectly, there would be A levels, university. We would move in together and have a tiny flat. Get married. Then we would work hard and get a better house, somewhere to be a home, sign up to adopt and wait until our family grew. Now, we are a family of three and yet one vital part is missing.

He should be 3 months and 6 days old. I am wracked with agony each day that brings us closer to a year. How. Just how. How is this real, I just want him back. I want to be naive again. Muddling along and mothering a living child.

I don’t know how to mother my son. There are so many damn parenting books out there but no instruction manual for grief.

I know I have come so far in this time but also I feel as if part of me will be forever left behind.

It doesn’t matter how many times I hug a stuffed dinosaur or Eggbert. It doesn’t matter how many times I tidy his things or kiss his little boot or try to draw him how I see him in my head. It doesn’t matter how much I write, how many outfits I make for my niece or how many times I hold her and wish I never had to let her go again. It doesn’t matter how many tears I cry or things I make or days that pass. Nothing fills that gap.

It will never be just a miscarriage to me. Never be just a pregnancy. There are no at leasts or it onlys for me.

Emmet is my Son and I am his Mother. I never got to see him in an ultrasound.

I was far enough along for him to have had a tiny heartbeat, but not to have had any other features that would mark him out.

He is my only child, my only experience of motherhood is loss but I am still a mother.

He is still my son. He is still loved.

I have never loved anyone or anything the way I love him. That love will never stop.

I don’t care if he is just a miscarriage to someone else. To me he is everything, he made me a mother.

I don’t think I will ever have another pregnancy, even though right now that is a lot of what occupies my mind. Maybe one day, if there is some medical guarantee of any future babies safety. But not now.

Now I say never again.

I imagine him always a strong little boy, running, climbing. Clapping his hands and tumbling about.

I don’t ever let myself imagine the alternative. I don’t often let myself imagine carefully monitoring every joint, fixing a dislocation or trying to ease pain. But I know every second I would have been on high alert, my mother did everything. Good strong shoes. Good food. Exersise. My outcome could be worse, but it won’t necessarily get better. Genes don’t care, they just do their thing. Mine think they are doing it right even though they aren’t.

In my head he is healthy and happy because I have never been proved wrong in those imaginings bar the actual presence of my son.

I hate how not inly does his loss kill me because I am without him, it kills me because I miss what i can never have, I was never unacepting of my bodies limitations in regards to living a full life until now. Now I miss not only him but every child I will never have. Every part of his absence is entwined with my own bodily failings.

It failed him, failed me.

Failed to give me what I want most. Him.

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