On Tuesday night I was tired and went to bed with my brain still switched on. I did the one thing I have pretty much managed to avoid since Rory died – as I lay in bed I started to think about how old he would have been at Christmas, this led me on to thinking about whether he’d be sitting up, would we have given him some carrots from Christmas dinner?, what toys would we have bought him? But then it snowballed and I started to wonder if he would have had the same colour eyes as Toby, would he have looked like Toby at the same age, would he be as cheeky, would we have had the same issues with feeding?, how big would Rory be? Would Toby have loved him? It went on and on and I was so sad, sad for what we lost, not just Rory, but all of his Christmases, his milestones, his future and ours as a family of 4. There will always be Rory dancing in the shadows of our minds, the baby that came but didn’t get to stay.
I had a rubbish day on Wednesday as a result and this led to me saying some unkind things to a loved one which made me feel guilty and horrible. Matt came home and we had a long talk and I cried and cried, big fat loud tears that needed to come out as I’ve been holding them in for weeks.
I realised that I do not remember our possible due dates from our failed IVFs and therefore don’t really know how old those babies would be now. To be honest, if I did work it out it would probably make my head pop. But I do know Rory’s due date and I can tell you how old he would be if he was born on 10th July (18 weeks). I’ll probably always be able to calculate his age in my head and July will always be a precious month, the month he should have been born.