Because of this silence, people don’t realise how traumatic it is – until it happens to them. I certainly didn’t
Last Friday, on a bright blue day, I took a train to south-west London. If you never go that way, and I generally don’t, I recommend it as a pleasant day trip: all those green spaces and cute patisseries and shops that only sell wraparound cashmere cardigans. I did not have time to linger, though, as I needed to get back to the office. But first I had to pick up a bag of ashes so small I could have put it in my jeans pocket.
Last month I had a miscarriage. I’d gone in for a scan that morning – another bright blue day – excitedly expecting to find out the gender of the baby. “Let’s see what we have,” the technician smiled. Unable to understand what I was looking at on the screen, I instead watched her face and I knew at once, as surely as you know the sound of a door slamming shut.
Related: 'There was no child, I told myself': life and marriage after miscarriage
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