That the dream I had this morning would have ended happily. I’d like to think that I was not going to continue to dream of loss, death and babies. I’d like to think that the baby I was growing was not about to be shown on the screen, dead.

I had walked into the hospital, for an ultrasound to check on my baby. I was pregnant, DF knew, our family knew.

We- my family, my parents, my grandparents, DF- had all crowded into a small room, and waited. I was called into a separate room, with a female doctor, sonographer, radiologist…, who explained to me the two different types of ultrasound I was going to have- an internal and abdominal scan.

We walked back into the crowded room, where my family waited. I then kicked ( literally shooed) everyone out, except DF. This was our moment, we were going to see our baby.  I felt happy, I felt…well, pregnant. I felt relieved to know that there was a life inside of me, and it could infact sustain a life.

DF smiled at me as I adjusted myself on the bed, as the sonographer organised herself. I did the usual, lifted my top to reveal my gently swelling belly, winced as a cold, jelly like substance was squeeged onto my stomach and waited as the woman manouvered the wand.

We waited.

That was the moment I was wrenched out of the dream, left wondering the outcome of this deleriously happy scene. I suspect that my sub-concious knew, just KNEW, somehow, that the dream would not end well, so I woke up.

A part of me wishes it would have all ended well. No dead baby, no tears, no loss. And the other part of me is thankful I woke up when I did. Both miscarriages, I have gotten to that exact point- ultrasound, waiting, hoping. But both times, I have been told “I am sorry, there is no heartbeat, the baby has died.” I think my mind protected me from the very thing I never want to hear again.