I never even thought to ask if my husband could come and hold my hand. I just assumed he couldn't. Photograph: Getty
It’s been almost three years since my big brush with miscarriage.
The road away from miscarriage is hazy. One feels the shadow it casts for a long time. Subsequent pregnancies are experienced as possible or probable miscarriages until, eventually, as if by magic, they aren’t.
Equally, we are all knocking up against the miscarriages of others every day, often without knowing it.
I miscarried in 2022, a few months before my eldest turned two. She was a true Corona baby. The first day of my last period (the milestone from which a pregnancy’s gestation is measured) was January 1st, 2020, the dawn of the first year of Covid-19’s international impact.
She was born the night the second lockdown went into effect.
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