That most of what is being made now is a cosy home, a down. Something is growing but it is very tiny. If it's not right it will pass through at the right time. A full, intricate, intimate and barely perceptible conversation is taking place between that tiny entity and the world it's held in - like an orchestra in two parts, working back and forth in hormones and enzymes and thickening blood. They are responding to one another. But it seems that if the embryo dies, it might take days before my body knows? Or my body will know, and wind the hormones down slowly. Let it pass through at the right time, without violence.

It's me who doesn't know. The me who isn't the body, and can only pretend to be the body. My conscious brain doesn't know any more about this than my ear or foot. I see a little bit of blood on the paper. It could mean anything at all.