Looking at memorial photos.
Writing messages of support.
Reading miracle stories.
Reading tragic stories.
All I can think about is that it was almost him.
It was almost Harry.
He was almost a Vasa Praevia Angel.

It was almost my fault.

It's not as easy as people think.
To move on from that situation.
To accept that he is here, and he is ok.

Everytime he smiles at me my tummy fills with butterflies and my eyes fill with tears. Realising how close we could've been to not experiencing these moments.

You can't just move on.
Not just like that.
It's not easy knowing your body almost let you down, right at the very end.
It helped to grow, protect, nourish, love this baby then....
It's almost like a punishment.
Like building your perfect, dream home. Then right at the last minute, it all crashes down, with no warning. Leaving you with nothing.

I realise how lucky I am.
How lucky I was, that my body almost fought against itself. Not pushing hard enough, just incase that vessel burst.
At the same time, my body had planted
the vessel there.
Its hard to decide how you feel about yourself after that.
How you feel about your body.

Ashamed. Respected. Disappointed. Proud. Angry. Joyous.

Its not a case of "just don't look" at the photos and the stories.
I was one of the few lucky ones. (95% mortality rate) and feel that its my duty to show respect and support to those who weren't as lucky as us.

Something I can never get my head round is how hard it would've been to have to come home and explain to Charles that Harry wouldn't be coming home.
I am so grateful that this wasn't the reality.

I'm so grateful that I can look I both boys, smiling at me, smiling at each other, cuddling, babbling/talking to each other.

I'm feel so terribly lucky to have Harry here, next to me...
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