The cliches are true: first there is shock, then a sprinkling of anger, 150 millilitres (or thereabouts) of tears, 2 lbs of courage, and so it goes on.
The recipe for losing your baby.
It took us several weeks to focus on Bear himself. To start with, you are consumed with grief for yourselves. For what you have lost. The empty Bugaboo. The non-sleepless nights. No skin-to-skin cuddles on a Saturday morning. The clean muslins that languish unused in the new chest of drawers: stillness, where there should be mayhem.
Then, you stop, and for seemingly no reason at all, you forget about yourselves and focus on Him. Our son. It dawns on you that you are in love. Crazy, fireworks, protective, drunken love. Loving your child - even one that you do not know in the everyday sense - is different to the gradual, learning-about-each-other kind of love that builds over shared hamburgers and walks in the park.
Because of the circumstances, our new love did not hit the moment Bear was born. It came later - but with no less impact. And when it happened, we cried and cried. We still do.
We cry because our hearts have never known such love. And yet at the same time never carried such a heavy, tiring loss. It is a confusing state. And probably the reason we've had such a wet, salty fortnight. By golly, advice, that is true! It is good to cry.
Toby is so close to Bear right now, he likes to think that our boy is riding on his back, looking at the world over his shoulder. When he told me, I loved them both a little bit more - together in their own, mobile world. What a wonderful image. Toby the big strong Daddy and Bear a little Koala on his back.
I think it is ok to imagine. After all, Bear is here somewhere - he has to be. And what better place to be than hugging up close to the man who loves him most.