The weeks that followed after saying goodbye to Harry are like a blur. It all seems very surreal, like it didn't happen to me. But it did.
Leaving the hospital was just hideous. All the pregnant women hanging around the reception area, or other families leaving the hospital with their newborn in their car seat. That should have been us. We should have been leaving with Harry all beautfiully dressed in the "coming home outfit" I had picked out, in his brother's car seat. Ready to come home and meet his family. Instead, the car seat was shoved into the boot of our car, and Harry's outfit was unworn in the suitcase we were carrying. We were going home, and our baby wasn't. We were going back to our lives, and Harry's had ended before it had even properly begun. Devastated doesn't even come close. I walked out of the hospital with tears flowing freely down my face, squeezing my husband's hand tightly, and fearing that I might collapse before we made it back to the car.
My parent's had made a meal for us at their house, and we were able to see our first born William, who we had missed so much and just wanted to hold. The whole family were there to support us, but to be honest, I just wanted to get into a hole and never come out. I remember sitting at the table while everyone talked and ate, just staring at the food infront of me, thinking of Harry.
My mum had agreed to take care of William for a while, and my husband and I went home. Home to where Harry's moses basket was waiting, full of the freshly laundered sheets and blankets waiting to have him sleep in it. The pram had been dug out of the attic, and cleaned and re-assembled and was waiting to take Harry out for long walks along the seafront. The baby bouncer was in William's playroom, ready to cradle little Harry and play the annoying music to soothe him. The bottles in the kitchen, the breastpump, the nappies, the clothes.... We looked at them all, but just went to bed. And cried.