Dear Little Fang
I know things have been quiet. But it isn't because I have forgotten you, not at all. On the contrary, every moment of every day, I think about you. Lately, I also think about how you passed and the circulmstances leading up to getting to hold you for the first and last time more than is comfortable, more than I want. This is in part because in July, if all goes well, you'll have a sibling, a little kamquat-sized creature we call the Squid.
I spend a great deal of time at the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson wing of UCLH. In the last month I've been twice, with two more appointments scheduled for the end of December and an average of 5 a month through the pregnancy (more if needed). I have my own obstetrics team, my own midwife, my own team of shrinks (in addition to the shrink and psychologist I had to find for myself after I came home in March because, let's face it, aftercare in this country is jacked), and a sonographer who assures me he is one talented mother-f@*ker. He's also Russian, which is great because as health care professionals go a) they tend to not bullshit you and b) they tend to be honest. None of this cosseted vagueness that we went through last time, you know, when they left out key things like 'Stop going to work; it may kill you,' and 'hey, we really think that you should know that there is a very real possibility that not only will your child die, but you might die as well.'
Of course, I didn't die, but it would have been nice if someone had given your poor papa a heads up. He's still not quite forgiven me for scaring him the way I did in the labour room and he certainly hasn't forgiven me for being the teensiest bit angry with Dr Perregrine for not listening to me when I told her I was in labour. As it is, I have requested that she not on my team and that is as far as I have gotten when it comes to throwing my toys out of the pram.
So far. . .