I lost the baby. It’s kind of sounds like I forgot where I put it. But then if you say the baby died people are bound to look at you like you got no heart. There’s no winning I suppose. When I felt the first cramps I knew it was starting. It was the beginning of the end. Again. The life that had been growing within me for the last two months was finally accepting defeat. Again. Antiphospholipid Syndrome 3 – Baby 1. It had been warning me for a while and I had tried but perhaps I didn’t try hard enough. Who knows. The polite thing to say would be to reassure me there was nothing I could have done. But who knows. This doesnt live over me haunting me, but there will always be those quiet questions that creep in unexpected. After all I didn’t push the doctor to give me the meds I knew I needed. I settled for the advice contrary to what I knew was best and here we are. I took a double dose. Along with every other tablet I could think of that might help. It didn’t. Perhaps I should have been more persistent. That first cramp confirmed the doubts I’d been having for over two weeks though.
When you think of moving or living an expat life often one of the things that comes to mind is the things you inevitably loose along the way, the friends, the familiarity, the family living close by, and of course the material stuff that eventually gets lost, stolen, destroyed in storage or if you’re lucky you’ll be able to sell it for almost nothing. It can be a sad story. Eventually you start to get less interested in making true friends because saying goodbyes are never easy, you learn to choose price over quality because who needs a 10 year guarantee when you’re not sure if you’ll even see the first year out and mostly you learn to pack light. Granted, I’m still learning that but I’m getting better as we go along. You realize that those jeans you’ve been carrying around because they cost an arm and a leg but you’ve only worn actually once, just aren’t worth the space.