LetterstoLaila

  Monday   February 2024 Monday will always be the day I gave birth to you. It will be the day we met you. But we didn’t take you home with us and we never saw your smile.    You were brought to us, in a little basket, wrapped beautifully in two blankets: the one I finished early for you and one donated to the hospita l for babies like you. Giving birth to you was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Giving birth to your sister wasn’t easy, but giving birth to you hurt me so much more. You arrived at 3:30 in the morning. I was holding your daddy’s hand and being looked after by a lovely woman called Alison. She told me I was brave. Your daddy told me he was proud of me. It was so hard for me, knowing that I had to stop growing you. I didn’t feel brave or strong. I wish I could have kept you growing in me.    When we met you later that day, I’d had some sleep and a shower. I put on your daddy’s favourite dress. I wanted to look nice to meet ...

 Sunday February 2024 This is a really tough day for me. It will always be the day I went into hospital to give birth to you, but not to say hello.    Time went both slowly and fast that morning. We had a lazy morning, hanging out with your sister. Neither of us wanted the day to start: we both wanted to press pause. I wished I could stop time and make it not happen, but I couldn’t . There are so many powers we wish we had as parents: we can’t stop time, we can’t see the future, we can’t change the past. We can only deal with now and do the kindest thing we can to cause our children the least amount of pain possible.    Parts of that day will be tattooed into my mind for the rest of my life, yet parts are so fuzzy now, only a few weeks later. I remember trying to pack a bag and not knowing what I was packing for. It wasn’t like the labour I had last time: I didn’t need any clothes for a new baby. I didn’t know how long I would be in hospital for. I did...

 Saturday Saturday   February 2024 Nothing significant happened on this day. The first Saturday we were just in waiting mode. We were waiting to speak to the specialists in Bristol. We decided to try to have a “normal” weekend, whatever that meant. Your sister spent some time with Nana, and mummy and daddy tried to distract themselves with other things. We seemed to be in a suspended reality: nothing felt normal, but we weren’t ready to settle into something really being wrong. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach all weekend, yet every time you kicked me, I wondered if it was all just a strange dream. Nothing felt real.    The following Saturday, it very much felt real. We were still in a weird state of being: playing a different kind of waiting game. The day before, I had taken a pill to end my pregnancy. Today I was carrying you, knowing I would feel your kicks for the last time tonight.    Again, we tried to have a “normal” day. We tried to keep th...

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...