It’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day again. When I got home (late, irritable, desiring strongly to flick rubber-bands at my persnicketty boss) H had already lit our candle and placed it by the living-room window, so I could see it from the cold dark yard outside. I stood and watched it for a moment, and felt guilty, because my first thought was not one of mourning, or remembrance, or solidarity, or even wistfulness about nine-month-olds covered in mashed carrot. It was anger. I was bloody angry that it was now, what, 17? 18? months since the miscarriage, and I still wasn’t pregnant again, and this was all taking too fucking long. I am such a class act.
And then I took a deep breath and went inside. And found poor H having a thoughtful moment in contemplation of the candle-flame. Thank crikey for deep breaths. I don’t think a raging harpy would have been ideal company for him at that moment. So we held hands for a while.