Each day I feel so alone, so isolated. Although people's kindness strokes me in what are meant to be comforting whispers, nobody I speak to understands. Focus on this baby they tell me. Everything will be alright this time. You have to believe that.

I can't believe it. I can't.

History has shown me that's not the plan for me. I can't allow myself to feel the hope of the last pregnancy. The hope before the glass veil shattered. And the shards ripped me to pieces allowing happiness to drain from my bloody cuts. I can't be that person anymore. Even though I wish to be. I try to be. But I am not.

For weeks I've insisted to those questioning my mental health that I am not depressed - I'm grieving.

Well now, I'm both.

Grieving - Depressed - 30 weeks pregnant.

'Am I concerned about how the stress is affecting this baby?' they ask, like I haven't even considered it. Of course. Dumb question. I think about it all the time. I do all I can to reduce stress levels. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm making it worse.

Yesterday I spoke to two people. My partner and my counsellor. I guess I should be thankful I spoke to anyone but it doesn't alter the 'aloneness' of it all. The brokenness of it all.

How I wish there was a button that I could press and everything would be fixed.

Sometimes I wish I could sleep for the next 9 weeks - obliviously unaware. Oh how I've craved a soul to speak to who understands what I've experienced these last 7 months. Who understands the low level roller coaster journey. The initial yearning for the positive test. The spark of hope, then the weeks of dread every time you go to the toilet fearing what you might see - I still have it now. The sheer terror as you realise you could relive what broke you so utterly. The anger at another baby - why isn't it her? I don't want this baby. I want her. The guilt - oh the guilt.

The anxiety of early scan waiting rooms. The anomaly consultants. The tears of the person two in front of you as they learn their perfect baby isn't perfect at all and it brings it all back. The ache inside that makes you wail like an animal. The silent screaming.

The all clear.

The element of doubt. But what if they missed something? They can't see everything. It's too early. The waiting. The anxiety of telling people. The dreading of tiny kicks. The fear of attachment. The waiting.

The anomaly scan. The physical shakes and sickness to the pit of your stomach. Gone are the days where you are the excited parent to be staring at a window to the womb. Every pause. Every word micro analysed for some form of hesitation. The heaviness of the words that there's a slight inflammation on one kidney. The numbness.

The loss of that relief. That image of parents walking happily out of the hospital proudly looking at the scan of their 'healthy' developing baby. It's not yours. It's not yours. It's not you.

The return to the fetal medicine unit.

The crying on the fetal nurse's shoulder.

Not again. Not again.

The words of comfort. It is not fatal this time. The processing time it takes to actually hear those words. More tears.

The dates. The similarity. The point where one pregnancy overtakes the other. The anniversaries. The focus shifting between pregnancies. The dark days. The grieving mum days. The days when you simply wish it would all be over. The hope. The kindness of strangers. The lack of compassion from those who should know better. The silence.

The ante-natal classes. The anxiety of being asked to say if this is your first pregnancy. The longing to acknowledge your first born but not cause distress. The anger. The lack of caring if you do cause distress. Nothing can compare to MY distress. The selfishness. The guilt.

Then the waiting.
The waiting.
The waiting.

The I can't do this anymore. I'm too exhausted. Too alone. Too tired.

The anger at people's comments 'You're not alone.' 'Baby loss is more common than you think.' Does it make it any better to hear that? To think distant strangers feel this pain too. To think that anyone feels this pain.

The hospital baby/child loss service where it does. Where the people are real. Where for an hour, you are not alone.

Re-immersion in the real world. The days when you can cope. The days when you cannot. The disappointed voices when you cannot. The shouldn't you be pleased your pregnant. The focus on this baby on repeat. I can't. I can't. I can't. Why can't they see the terror in my eyes? I can't lose another. I wouldn't survive it.

Still 9 weeks to go. The fear that the anxiety will never go away. Even after a successful birth. Just like the realisation that this grief never gets better.

There is a grief that time doesn't heal.
Because it isolates.

So instead I find my own disjointed, 'inappropriate' way of coping.

Instead I speak your name to everyone who will listen. Because knowing someone else knows you existed, gives me the greatest comfort of all. It allows me to breathe. So I focus on you. Because by focusing on you, I am focusing on your sister.

Gabriella xxx

Oh Danielle, I'm so sorry. This is so so so hard. I felt everything you did during my rainbow pregnancy with my son. Everything. People can really be well meaning but stupid and more than a little clueless. I also found that I had to be an advocate for myself in ways that I hadn't expected. For example, I chewed out the nurses and doctors who asked me if this was my first. I said: you know, I'm hurt and surprised that you asked that question. I would be grateful if you could review my chart more carefully prior to seeing me. If that means writing previous still birth in huge letters in red on the top of my file, then you need to do that. I don't want to be asked that question. It makes me relive the trauma every time. You have to be more considerate. They were surprised. One idiot nurse told me it was in my file but in a code. I told her then she needs to learn the codes!!

I also had a really hard time being hopeful and believing that this time I'd get to bring a screaming baby home (he's asleep on me as I type)...I couldn't prepare until about 2-3 weeks before. It's just hard. Terribly hard. The other thing that helped was actually knowing that I wouldn't go to 39-40 weeks. Because of my history, they scheduled a csection at 37...I wanted that baby out.

Finally, it helped me to recognize all I was feeling and telling myself my grief, fear, anger at loss of innocence, apprehension, and periodic hope were all normal, hard but normal.

I remember your Gabriella. Sending you a big hug mama.

I'm 33 weeks with my rainbow and feel every word of this. Hugs.

Gabriella,

From your post I am guessing your child died of a fatal condition, and I am so sorry. I cannot speak to what it feels like to lose a baby to still birth, but I can speak to losing a child to a fatal condition. We are all so different. Even we cannot truly understand your unique pain, even those with the most similar stories. A lot of what you wrote I lived myself- the scans, the appointments, the questioning, so I do relate with your words so much, and yet I know we are worlds apart.

What you describe your pregnancy to be like now is what keeps me from trying for a rainbow. The scans, the anxiety, the people.

You are brave and what you wrote is beautiful. And maybe in your writing will be your solace, even for a little bit.

I don't think the anxiety goes away after the baby is born. It simply transfers. A sigh of relief that baby is ok. The weight of the reality that doesn't mean everything will always be okay. So it is with parenting. The responsibility for other people. The guilt. The shame. The ache for them to just be okay for all time. It is the heaviest feeling on earth.

I have no magic words for you. But thank you for sharing- it touched me deeply.

It is isolating to be even here, because nobody lives your story but you. It is beautifully and tragically yours to live. I wish you the best days ahead and peace and calm even if only in sleep.

Thank you ladies for your time in replying and apologies for my delay in replying; I've had my hands busy! Baby Maya was born via emergency c section at the end of August. She's taking me on a journey more tiring but more fulfilling than any other. We're still under consultants for her kidney but I'm learning to live with that worry. She certainly keeps me busy so I don't have time to focus on it. Bless you all and hoping you find strength and comfort in your every day lives. Lots of love xxxxx