It can't be February.
It's still November. I'm still pregnant. Nothing is wrong. The baby is still squirming around, safe and well. I just can't can't feel it yet. I'm not supposed to feel it yet. It's a little too early. I'll have my next scan in December. We'll find out whether it's a boy or a girl. I don't want to but it's important to D.
Being back at work is really hard. Tuesday was OK. I didn't really do much. Saw my line manager, got logged in. Read and deleted most of my emails.
Wednesday was harder. I went to see a couple of my managers. Catch up with what I've missed. But it was really hard. Being out of the office I'm sitting in at the minute. Walking round the building. Unsure of who I might bump into. (I don't mind if people come in while I'm sitting at my desk. But I don't want to bump into them in corridors. Unsuspecting. I realise that makes no sense. I could expect to bump into people in corridors, not to have people come into the office. But my head works the other way round.)
The realisation that it is now February has been sneaking up on me all week. Don't get me wrong; of course I knew. Christmas happened already. D's birthday. I remember them. I was sick on Christmas Day. D drank way too much the night before his birthday, walked home in the snow.
But I didn't know. It's not February. It's November. My baby is still where it's supposed to be. Growing inside me. Moving around. Waiting to be born.
That thing in the scan room? That really happened?
Today was hardest. I snuck out of my office, called D. Told him it was hard. That it was February. It didn't come as a surprise to him. He's been at work all this time. It was a comfort, to know he was there. Listening, even when there are no words. Nothing to make it better.
My line manager looked at me funny in a meeting. Asked if I was OK. It was just a small meeting. Me and the other managers at my level, girls I get on with really well. She asked me to stay for a minute at the end. I cried, trying to explain how hard it is. Realising that it's February.
I went to see my doctor again today. I told her that I thought I'd started to process it. That I understood, now, that my baby had died. But apparently part of me didn't, not really. Part of me thought that the last three months (not even three months. another two weeks before it's three months) were just a particularly shitty dream.
Going back to work is like waking up and finding out that this shitty, shitty dream was true.
Clichés are clichés for a reason, I guess.