Last night I dreamt that A died. No reason, as usual; no heartbeat. The doctors thought it best to wait and see if I went into labour on my own. I thought I could still feel her moving but they said no, that was impossible. The paralysis came back in a second, all the familiar thoughts locked it in place. My little girl gone, reduced to nothing. The still-growing age gap. The dread at trying again. The senseless comments. Some thought it was “obviously” “for the best”. Others couldn’t see why I was coping so badly given that, at 22 weeks, it was “just another miscarriage”.
A is fine. So why did I do this to myself? I am happy now. All the other stuff hasn’t gone away, nor do I want to hide it away. How could I anyway? But I am very adamant that I don’t want the past to ruin the future. The dream was so vivid, the feelings were so intense and so accurate. Why now?
I tell ya, this was one morning I was very glad to wake up.
The Internet says: For expectant mothers, dreams of miscarriages are common in the second trimester of pregnancy.
Now, if only I could find some stats for the live birth rate amongst expectant miscarriage dreamers!