Last Friday, your father and I made our way to UCL Hospital for a talk-through with Dr Harding, the lovely doctor who was in charge of your care to walk through the autopsy report. The gist of the report is that you were doomed from the beginning, my little darling, which is just so hard to hear because really, how can something so perfectly formed, something so active and chatty in the womb just not be 'viable?'
Instead of leaving feeling more resolved, I am now flooded with questions and a bit of anger. Okay, maybe more than a bit of anger. I learned, for instance, that when you were born, you weren't breathing. This surprised and angered me because I had specifically asked the obstetrician as she handed you over to Dr Harding if you were breathing. She said (and I distinctly remember this, just before the haze of shock and blood loss swept in) 'Everything's fine.' There was a bit more snapping on my part, something along the lines of 'Are you f*@king kidding me? If everything were FINE we wouldn't be here!'
Sometimes, Fanglet, sometimes, I wonder if there isn't something about my nature that encourages people NOT to listen to me.
But none of that changes that fact that you're not here, even if you'll always be our little boy. And deep down, I don't blame anyone or anything. I just think that they could have been honest with me and they could've tried a little harder to find an epidural.