#misCOURAGE story, 22/02/2017, by Deborah Lamb
I lost my daughter on October 5th 2005, her death and birth date.
I was 17 weeks pregnant with my fifth child, past the 'scary' stage and full of optimism and complacency. Even the midwife struggling to find a heartbeat didn't phase me, the scan I was immediately sent to excited me - an extra scan!
The 'there's no heartbeat' from the sonographer though, was a full body punch. In the stomach, face heart, brain, womb.
I screamed but didn't hear it. I was ushered, sobbing, through a room of expectant mothers to a pregnancy ward. I returned two days later to be induced, and screamed a lot then too. Not through pain, I deserved it, but I wouldn't let her go, leave my body.
I watched the clock a lot - beige on a beige wall - and was scared I'd remember that clock face more clearly than her face.
Ultimately, she tumbled out of me. I didn't know if I was allowed to look at her, touch her!
They took her away away, put on a bonnet and a blanket and told me she was a boy. I thought her hands were black through death, it was the ink from taking handprints. I looked at her face, not at her body, I didn't know if I was allowed.
I had photos of her next to a vase of flowers that was bigger than her in the pictures.
I left. No-one told told me my body would produce milk, to mock me. I hated my body then, it wasn't clever any more, it was stupid, a failure, like everything else in my life.
I've never like it ever since. I punish it with anorexia and bulimia and am at an artificially low weight. I have had two children since, my precious last has Down's Syndrome.
I do not wish to hear the words 'you're lucky to have six!' I know, but still wanted the lost seventh, number five in the order.
There was a post-mortem.
She was a girl.
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