(for the beginning of the end click here)
And then they called us through.
The set up was the same as before. I couldn't see the screen; D could. Surely they would have moved things around if they were worried? They must think that everything is OK.
It was uncomfortable when she pressed the wand into my abdomen. I'd read that by 17 weeks the baby would try to squirm away from pressure. I felt sorry for the poor little thing. Sorry, I said to it. They just want to make sure you're OK.
I could see D's face. He looked puzzled, but not worried.
She seeemed to take a long time, but I didn't really notice.
Not until she said 'I'm going to stop there.'
I knew then that it was over.
She told me the baby didn't have a heartbeat.
I wanted to tell her to look harder.
Instead I asked how many weeks it was measuring.
She told me the measurement she had just taken was thirteen weeks.
And that was the moment that I really realised that it was gone.
That whether or not there was a heartbeat, if it had stopped growing four weeks ago, at such an early stage, there really was no hope.
My first instinct was that I needed to pee.
I'm still quite surprised that they let me go into the toilet alone two minutes after finding out that the baby I was carrying was dead.
They put D into a different room while I was in the loo, a more private one.
I didn't realise I was going to cry until I got into that room with him.
I thought I was too shocked. That it wouldn't sink in until later. That I wouldn't cry until then.
But I walked into his arms and I howled.
I had never, ever realised that my hopes, my dreams could be shattered like that.
That was the end. 25 November 2009. One month before Christmas. One day after one of my friends had had her first baby.
That was the destruction of my innocence and my optimism.