Next week is going to be horrible.
Next week is Molly's cremation.
Next week we get the results of the post mortem. If any.
On Saturday we had to choose the flowers for her casket.
Christ that was hard.
We chose pink roses amongst white lilies. It felt so real then. We haven't had a chance to embellish the 'pink' in our lives.
Our little boy blue is now firmly ensconced in gender specific items as he has got bigger. But we won't get a chance to have the pink that would've been in our lives.
We had to have pink flowers. Its the first and last piece of pink we would've had for Molly. I guess this is what makes it suddenly very real.
The flowers made it fucking real for us.
We will have to go into hospital again to see the obstetrician who delivered my twins. She was amazing and was so good to me and the Brit. She will deliver the news of how and why Molly possibly died.
But she may also have no reason. Apparently this is the most likely case.
I still wonder daily if there was anything I did to make her die. I probably will always wonder.
Scenarios of the week and leading up to the week she died play over and over again in my head. What I wore. Where I walked. I'm stuck forever in that week of 18 March.
I've been told over and over it wasn't my fall. But I wonder. I've been told it wasn't because she was breech for most of my pregnancy. I've been told it wasn't that one time I ate brandy pudding.
How would they know either way?
It will haunt me forever. How. And if it was me.