Tuesday, 30 July 2013 EDD
It is here. It is evening. I haven’t thought about it all day. I remembered it last night. I remembered the hospital and a friend’s attempt to see me in hospital that day. She never made it in time. I was discharged already. Her boyfriend made it. I met him for the first time on the day of my miscarriage. It was awkward and kind of sweet. I never minded the hospital too much, the whole taking care of you thing, bad food and sweet milky tea. I found time to relax there. I never lie in bed all day.
It is here. This would have been another summer baby. Baby is now lost, but I have a new life within me. Winter child has just stared to move inside me. I can feel it. It’s very hot today. The family and I are on Dugi otok, Long Island in the Adriatic Sea. It’s rough and beautiful here with rough cliffs, wind and heat. We swam in the salty warm lake. We swam in the crystal clean cold sea. How will we manage all this with one more: long walks, heat, eating in restaurants, mosquitos and wasps?
It is here and it is through this writing that I am trying to remember. There is no Internet access here. I am glad to be forgotten out here in the Adriatic Sea. I would have been in the Liverpool Women’s Hospital now, all open, all in pain. I long for water birth this time. I wonder if I will be too bothered about it when the time comes in freezing January. I am glad to be having a winter rather than a summer baby. Why can’t I think about the baby I lost? My mind travels elsewhere. The baby I lost is elsewhere. Maybe I never believed in it. Maybe I feel better because things are happening within my body again. I am with a child, a brand new possible child, with fear and with hope.
It is here and I feel removed. I can no longer address the baby I lost. It’s elsewhere, completely gone. Am I too cruel in my forgetfulness? Will it hit me hard? There are flashbacks of the event: the gush of blood, the moment I knew it was over, the lack of control. At the moment I must think different thoughts, those that are fresh and new. Sweet, sweet beginnings…
One Response to “Miscarriage EDD”
As I read your words I found myself daydreaming about an encounter we had back in December 2011. We were in London standing in a room having lunch at a symposium; celebrating the life and work of Roszika Parker. We huddled together and became engrossed in talking about our maternal journeys. We both had three children and my, then, youngest was with me that day, a nursing baby girl. We were in a reflective mood and we talked about ageing and maternity; how, now in our late thirties, we were approaching the end our reproductive years that we had both started years before when we were twenty five. We talked about what it meant for us, to move beyond our fertility; how we might change, how our relationships, our bodies, our sexualities, our identities. Maybe we had both already made the decision to try and have a fourth child; you in Liverpool, me in Sheffield. Maybe, as we talked, it nudged us closer to thinking, yes, I want this, just one more time, one last baby, and then no more.
That year we would both get pregnant, for me a month after we talked. Unexpectedly. I was shocked; I wasn’t ready. My youngest was 8 months, so it all felt too soon. I worried. Then I bled, a tiny speck. I had a scan and marvelled at my baby’s heartbeat, saw my baby somersault across the screen just 7 weeks in. From then on I fell in love; fell in love with my becoming-baby. At 12 weeks I had another scan. This was not a happy event. I glanced at the trainee sonographers face and his colour changed ever so slightly, a fleeting hint of pinkish-red tinted his cheeks, followed by those haunting words…’I’m sorry…’. But you know this story Lena. We were due to come to the Institute and so shared our happy news with you, soon after we shared our loss.
When I received your email 5 months later, I was shocked and so sad. Writing to you and reading your words over this time helped me; helped me to reflect on my miscarriage; help me make sense of my decisions to try again. Thank you my friend.
I was then pregnant and full of fear. But now I have my fourth baby; she is on my lap as I write, and you have a baby in your belly. Not long now Lena. We didn’t know all that time ago in London what the following months would bring, how could we? I am glad now to be past the miscarriage, past thinking and trying for babies; grateful, and relieved. I think I will always secretly long for just one more baby. I love this time, busy, boring, frustrating, wonderous, joyful, worrying time of having my children at home, them young, me young – the end of life seems so distant when you are surrounded by new life.
The loss that was intensely, viscerally painful at the time, is not painful any more, now it forms part of a complex maternity that has been as joyous as much as it has been sad. The maternal journey with all its vicissitudes continues for us both – and that which has past is never forgotten – we carry it with(in) us, it transcends, it transmits, it permeates all that we are, in all that we become – as part of us, our mothering, ourselves, our children.
I look forward to seeing you soon Lena, you and your baby – when we will once again share our stories and conjure up new dreams, new futures yet to come.
Love Paula x