I may have mentioned before that I use an app called Timehop. It cleverly collects photos and posts from Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and other social media platforms, and serves them up to me as an account of what I was up to on this day over the last ten or so years.

Mostly, Timehop is a source of great joy. It shows photos of lovely family and friends moments, exciting things happening at work and our travels. Or it shares tweets that make no sense in isolation, but if I click on link, am taken back to long-forgotten discussions that made complete sense at the time. It’s fun and each day, makes me smile a I remember some pretty great moments.

But around this time each year, I am reminded of what was going on a the end of July 2013. And I don’t smile fondly. Because it remains one of the most difficult times of my life, and remembering it so clearly stirs up a lot of sadness.

This time five years ago, I had miscarried a much-wanted baby. The miscarriage (and D & C) happened while we were on holidays in New York, but I needed another surgery once I returned home.

Had the pregnancy gone to plan, there would be a little four year old in our life. I can’t really imagine it, to be honest. I think of everything that has happened since July 2013 and wonder how different life would be today if there was a little one running around. We’d be thinking about a school start in the new year and all that comes with it.

But, life doesn’t always go to plan. This particular derailment can’t really be explained – it was just one of those things. Twenty years of diabetes has taught me that there will be occasions where I will face curve balls. Sometimes over and over again. But even with the understanding that diabetes brings about expecting the unexpected, there is little solace in dealing with pregnancy loss.

It’s five years ago now. It feels as though a lifetime has passed. And at the same time, it feels no more than a baby’s heartbeat ago.

I like to celebrate anniversaries. Diaversaries are given the fanfare they deserve around our place, with high fives and pats on the back as another year of dealing with diabetes is ticked off an imaginary calendar.

This anniversary doesn’t get celebrated. But it does get acknowledged.  This week, I’ve been imagining four year olds who remind me of our darling girl when she was a cheeky four year old. But I know this one would have had a personality all of its own, and been a force to reckon with in different ways. And I am thinking about what life would like with two kids, and how our daughter would have adjusted having a younger sibling following her around. I wonder how our house would breathe differently, reflecting a little one’s existing, picture books that have been put up on high shelves once again scattered around the floor.

These thoughts do make me smile.

But my smile when I think of these things is not a happy smile. It is a smile of regret, loss and grief.

I will buy some white flowers for the kitchen table today, and watch them as they bloom. And remember. Remember the time when I thought that we would be bringing home the baby growing inside me to add to – and complete – our little family. And how sad I am that we never did get to meet.