An Open Letter to The Bump App

Dear The Bump

I could quite easily condense this letter into two short, rather predictable words, but it wouldn’t be nearly as worthwhile for space on my blog.

You see, I waited until I first heard my much sought for baby’s heartbeat before downloading your app. It was one of my first tentative steps to realise that we were finally pregnant after three years of fertility treatment, including two cycles of IVF. We could breathe and finally join the club. The pregnant club. Whilst we waited to join the elusive parent club.

After you hear that your baby’s heart has stopped beating, your world stops. It shatters. You have to process the reality of delivering your sleeping child. You spend three precious, unforgettable days with your baby in your arms. You then hand him over to a midwife, and leave the hospital, empty. An ache so deep, so physical.

When the word keeps moving on around you, you wonder how. How on earth can people keep moving when your baby has stopped? You start to practice living again. But you are interrupted by delightful emails counting down to your baby’s due date and then counting up from his birth date. What feeding cues is your newborn giving you? I don’t know! He doesn’t need feeding. He is dead. 

I have unsubscribed five times now. Five times getting a short reprieve. Five times for the emails to restart. That’s five times your emails have made my heart skip a beat, my stomach drop, the tears flow. Why do you insist on torturing us more than life already has? You see, it isn’t just me. It’s actually you that has the problem. Many of us keep receiving your emails. Despite trying to get rid of them, time after time, with shaking hands and tears dropping on to our phone screens. What’s your two month old up to now? Why don’t you ask him, he’s lying in his small, white coffin.

So, The Bump, you can take your delightful emails and milestones elsewhere. I do not need reminding. My life is a constant reminder. I do need you to sort your shit out though. For all of us. All of the childless mothers and fathers, walking around, somehow functioning, wth empty hearts and aching arms.

Yours,

Leo’s mummy.