I spent some time in Bear's room today. It wasn't anything other than hanging out the washing that took me in there, but once it was up, I sat in the newly upholstered nursing chair that was meant to be my Bear base camp.
Previously, I hadn't really found Bear's room all that sad. I think it was an avoidance tactic; I could easily ignore than whole end of the flat by turning right as I came in through the front door and thus, go about my business without having to enter the baby zone.
But as I was there, I sat for a while and looked at all the bits we had ready for him. The cot has been dismantled and the pram is stored away under the eaves, everything else is still ready to go. His chest of drawers is full of nappies and clothes. His birdie nightlight is perched on its wooden plinth. The baby gym is folded up in the corner.
We are exchanging on our flat today. As of this afternoon, it kind of becomes someone else's. They won't know the reasons why we moved. They won't realise that if our baby hadn't died, they wouldn't become owners of this lovely slice of Queens Park.
Life is strange like that. So much of what occurs is dependant on factors over which we have no control, and sometimes, very little knowledge.
So I sat for a while and thought about this terrible turn of events. How we'd come to carry death, not life. How the boy that we made together, whose entire being was constructed from Toby and I, did not get to have his turn on earth. I hope, in some form or other, his energy is still inside us. I used to think, kind of pray, that he was at least at peace. That he was wrapped up in a little blanket and being looked after by someone up there - someone who I envy. Now though, all I hope, is that he is close by. That his spirit and some part of him has been absorbed into our lives and that he knows that he will always be our firstborn. Our son. One of hopefully many children, who we love in equal measure.