Today I’d be 29 weeks pregnant. Sometimes I feel my tummy, which is still relatively round, and I have these strange conflicting feelings of utter sadness at the remembrance that there’s nothing in there, and it isn’t big and round like it was before, and then irritation that it’s still a bit round, despite there being nothing in there. I got used to feeling my tummy and enjoying its roundness – ‘he’s growing’, I’d think, ‘good’. During the first couple of weeks after losing Freddie, I would have sworn that I could feel movement in there – that familiar flicker, as if small strings were pulling lightly from inside my abdomen. Perhaps I could – perhaps there’s argument for some sort of ‘phantom movements’, just like a phantom pregnancy. But then I would remember that there’s nothing in there. Sometimes it’s those very factual, correct thoughts that are the most punishing.
Today I am aware that I have not even begun to deal with what has happened to me.
Last night as I lay my head on Sam’s chest, the sound of his heart beating stirred an immediate and overwhelming memory of listening to Freddie. The fact that Freddie looked as if he would have grown to look very much like Sam – long, broad, blonde, beautiful – was sort of, inextricably intertwined with the real sound of Sam’s heart, and the memory of Freddie’s, as if there was this quite real connection between Sam, as Freddie’s father, which we were reminded of so painfully by the very clear resemblance between the two, and his baby son -even without him here – and having never experienced any more together than the short time after Freddie was born.
This morning my eyes are very puffy.