LetterstoLaila

Friday  February 2024  Friday will always be the day I stopped growing you. It was the day I signed a consent form to stop my pregnancy and the day that the end of growing you officially began.    A week before that, it was the longest morning of my life. I was irritated and anxious, with my phone in my hand all morning, waiting for the call from Bristol. I couldn’t concentrate on your sister. I felt like a terrible mother: in worrying so much about you, I wasn’t paying any attention her. I waited all morning, feeling sick. I called the hospital, I emailed the consultant and I heard nothing until 2pm. Fortunately your daddy was home from work by then and that was the first time I had cried. The relief that we had an appointment mixed with the sadness that we had an appointment made it all so so real. And we had to wait 5 more days. 5 agonising days, not knowing what would happen to you, or to us. 5 days of thinking through scenarios and not knowing the answers. 5...

 Thursday February 2024 Thursday will always be the day that it all came crashing down around us. The appointment was at 12:30 and I had a lot to do that morning but nothing went to plan. I was anxious. Your sister was poorly. Preschool rang me and I spent time trying to make sure she was ok and organise a GP appointment for after our scan. I didn’t know how bad our own appointment would be and how much it would affect the rest of the day and the rest of our lives.    We sat in the waiting room, with the fish tank. I was replying to work emails on my phone, your daddy was replying to work emails on his laptop. We both kept ourselves busy. I was excited about seeing you again, getting another photo and having a specialist tell us that everything would be ok. I didn’t expect her to tell us that everything wasn’t ok and would doubtfully ever be. She spent a bit of time looking at your other organs before she looked at your heart and she gave nothing away. I laid there looki...

  Wednes day   February 2024  This will always be the day that should have been so wonderful. I was so excited that morning. I didn’t realise how wrong it could all go. I didn’t think about the possibility that there might ever be something wrong. It had all been so seamless with your big sister: we wrongly assumed it would all go the same way for you.    The sonographer was very jolly and made jokes about you being in cahoots with the other babies in the waiting room because all the babies she’d seen had been in difficult positions that morning. She looked at your heart, and decided to come back to it because your arm was in the way, apparently. She checked everything and listed all your perfectly measuring, perfectly formed body parts and organs. She came back to your heart and still couldn’t get a good view, so she asked me to go for a wee (to my relief) and see if you might turn around. I didn’t know that the next time I used that loo I would be in tear...

   Dear Laila,  A year ago today, I gave birth to you. So today is your birth day. A year ago today, we met you for the first time. But, it's not a day to celebrate because you came into this world with no signs of life. Our hearts were broken enough by then and knowing you arrived peacefully brought us some relief.   I have written you these letters; from Wednesday, the day of our first scan, and for the ten days that followed. They were the hardest ten days of our lives. I hope is that somehow, in some way, whereever you are, these letters will reach you. You'll know how very loved you were and how very sad we always will be to not have you here 💔