I just thought.
One of my friends came round this afternoon. She is pregnant. She just had the appointment at which we found out our baby had died.
Everything is OK for her. And I'm glad. If one of us had to lose a baby, I'm glad it was me not her, for various reasons.
It hadn't really occurred to me that ...
... if I get pregnant again, I'll have that appointment. Again.
I'll have to get up onto that bed. And wait while the midwife tries to find the heartbeat.
And that thought is terrifying.
(I can't tell you how terrifying. The thought of it makes me cry.)
And it's not just that appointment. There will be others. There will be times of heartstopping fear.
But would doing it. Would actually getting back up onto that bed - doing the same thing once more, hoping for a different outcome (isn't that the definition of insanity?) - would that be brave?
By the time you're pregnant, it's too late. You can refuse scans, refuse tests, refuse to let the midwife listen for the heartbeat, but it's never going to change anything. Except, possibly, for the worse.
The bravest thing I can do is try to get pregnant again.
But is the most sensible thing that I could do not try?
Not face that risk that we get to a certain point, and it's all taken away from us again.
Not face that risk that we actually don't get pregnant again. That we would have to decide whether to start investigations for infertility, potentially start a hugely expensive, hugely stressful process of IVF without any guarantee of a happy ending. Or decide to give up. To start the potentially stressful, potentially unhappy road to adoption.
Or to accept our lives as child-free. That our lines will finish with us. That we will have to make do with nephews and nieces.
I have to try again. I can't explain that. But I have to.
And I can't help but fear that in starting to tread this path, we have just opened our hearts to heartbreak and pain, with not enough of a chance of a happy ending.