One year and two days ago I was having the surgery that has shaped my life for the last year. The surgery to remove my dead baby, and the surgery that gave me Asherman’s Syndrome. I wish it hadn’t happened, and I still don’t understand why it did happen, but I can’t change it, no matter what I do.
A year ago, I was a bleeding, cramping, sobbing heap of, well, sogginess.
The weird thing is, on Friday, I had forgotten that it was the one year anniversary of our loss. I didn’t think of it at all. I only remembered today. My friend was visiting this weekend, and it was only after she had left that I remembered. I felt a little strange, and guilty that I had forgotten, but it’s OK, I think. We had a fabulous weekend, filled with food, wine, cocktails, brownies, and macaroons from Laduree, my absolute favourite. What a well-behaved house guest!
So much has happened in the past year, and so much has happened since we returned to the UK. Our lives are changing. I am suddenly starting to realise that I feel like myself again. Perhaps someday soon (when the house is built), we’ll have our very own slice of village life, with a pub to stumble to just down the road, a canal to walk the dog along, and green fields surrounding us. A primary school we can walk to when the need (hopefully) arises. Room to spare for a child we may try to adopt.
But I have hope. I have a future. I hope that future involves children (ours of whatever means), but if it doesn’t, there is still a future. A different one than we had pictured, but a future nonetheless. I am realising that I have more to offer than a malfunctioning reproductive system. It will never be easy, but it doesn’t mean that it is any less important or worthwhile.
It is true what they say, time does heal. Somewhat.
Welcome back, me.