So this was the day that my heart broke into a million billion trillion pieces, at precisely 2.14pm in the afternoon.
Frankie’s heartbeat had stopped, and he was no longer alive inside me.
If there was any point in my life where I wanted to die, this was it. I so wished that I could die so that he could live, but since then I’ve realised that if I had died so that Frankie could live he would be without his Mummy, and that wouldn’t be good for him at all.
This is also the one day where everything just seemed like a huge blur. My husband and my parents were in tears, I felt numb and as if I wasn’t on this earth somehow, that it was all happening to someone else and not me.
The consultant explained that I would have to deliver Frankie naturally, and be induced to go into labour. She also said that I could have as much pain relief as I wanted such as morphine, pethadine, an epidural, whatever – as while they would usually be concerned about it affecting the baby, me being okay and comfortable was their primary concern now that he’d gone. I was asked to go to the delivery suite at the hospital, but that we would be put into a separate suite away from the main area in case I got upset about hearing babies being born. It all felt so horribly surreal, like I was researching all this for a book I was writing or something.
Once home I kept looking down at my bump willing Frankie to kick again, to prove to me that this was all a huge mistake, that he was just playing silly buggers by not moving and he was really alive.
But no matter how hard I wanted him to kick, he didn’t.
I had to face the fact, hard as it was, that he had definitely grown his angel wings and had left us.
