I lost one baby. I almost lost two.
A week before we had found out at a scan that our baby had no heartbeat at 8 weeks, so I was agonisingly waiting to miscarry.
I miscarried on Sunday night.
But that wasn’t the worst part of the day.
In the morning I woke up to the sound of my 15 month old son gasping for breath. We were staying with friends and he had got hold of another toddler’s milk bottle and taken a sip.
Just a sip. But that’s all it takes.
J has a severe milk allergy and within minutes his airways were closing up. My husband rushed him upstairs.
He pulled out the epipen and stabbed J in the thigh.
It didn’t work. He stabbed harder.
My son let out an ear piercing cry. A cry that heartbreakingly yelled ‘What are you doing to me Daddy?’ but also, reassuringly signalled it had worked.
I called 999.
Within minutes the adrenaline was working and by the time the ambulance arrived his breathing had stabilised. They took us to hospital for observation but my boy was breathing.
He was still alive.
Later that evening I curled up on the sofa, my miscarriage in full progress.
I couldn’t do anything to save my unborn baby.
But I can do something to keep J alive.
And so, this blog was born.