I have learned to cope with the pain, but that raw disbelief that you’re never coming home lingers. I will always feel incomplete without you at home with me.
This year the ‘bad Katie days’ no longer came unexpectedly. I no longer find myself crying myself to sleep thinking about what I could have done to save you. I have still have the bad days. A few weeks ago I saw the doctor who told me you were no longer with us, and later found myself crying that same carpark I returned to after your birth where I clutched your little purple teddy and wondered whether I would survive this.
This time I sat in my car and I cried, but I was able to pick myself up. Because the only reason I was there was because you gave me the strength to go on. You gave me back the meaning in my life.
A tribute to all the babies we’ve lost. (Post continues after video.)
Your sisters still speak about you often; every night they are in competition to see the first star of the night and yell ‘Katie’s awake!’ Every time the sky turns pink at night they start thanking you, a tradition that was started on your first ‘birthday’ when Aunty Simone told three-year-old Emily that you had turned the sky pink for her as we released your first birthday balloon. This was never the way I wanted you to be in our lives, but I still find comfort in the fact that your sisters love you and think of you just as much as I do.
Those who don’t understand the loss of a baby think that I should have ‘moved on’ by now and, in a sense, I have. No longer am I bedridden, unable to go to the shops in fear of seeing a pregnant woman or someone holding their baby.