Loss
Right at the start I was all logical and saying how I was fine, it was all right, no big deal. Miscarriages happen all the time, we can try again, it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.
And right at the start that felt true. It was no big deal, I thought. I would get over it quickly and get on with my life.
Maybe the logic comes first and the emotion comes after, I don’t know.
I mean, of course it’s a big deal. But still I deny myself any grief. I tell myself to shut up, I wait impatiently for the day when everything is all right again, and mostly I won’t let myself cry.
I just found a message on our answering machine, from yesterday afternoon. It was the midwife, wondering why I hadn’t turned up for my appointment. So I rang them, very calmly, and was told it was the wrong number, so had to ring a different one, but they’re not there on Wednesdays, so I had to ring someone else, and finally I got through to someone, and told them, and they said “oh dear,” and asked me whether I wanted one of the midwives to ring me (what for??) and I said no, and I put the phone down, and it was all fine, except that I felt agitated.
The man who delivers the organic veg was shocked by my haircut (it used to be very-long and grey, but for the last week it’s been very-short and orange). He didn’t recognise me; thought he’d come to the wrong house.
“Was there any particular reason?” he said.
Yes, I thought. I got pregnant and fat and then I had a miscarriage and it made me miserable, so I had a hair-do to cheer me up.
“No reason,” I said. “I just fancied a change.”
I think my problem is the acknowledgement of loss. What did I lose? It wasn’t a baby. I hadn’t started thinking of it as a baby. I didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t think of Felix as a baby until he was there in my arms, and even then I wasn’t sure. It’s a protection mechanism, I think. Because deep down we all know, that it might not work out.
So, no. I never thought of my swelling tummy as a baby, not really. And the thing that I held in my hand in Asda’s disabled toilet, that wasn’t a baby either. And that’s why I feel as though it should be all right. Because I didn’t lose an actual thing, or a person, or a child. Just... something. Something intangible. Something I should have stopped going on about by now, because it’s getting boring.
But something which hurts, nonetheless.
___
And right at the start that felt true. It was no big deal, I thought. I would get over it quickly and get on with my life.
Maybe the logic comes first and the emotion comes after, I don’t know.
I mean, of course it’s a big deal. But still I deny myself any grief. I tell myself to shut up, I wait impatiently for the day when everything is all right again, and mostly I won’t let myself cry.
I just found a message on our answering machine, from yesterday afternoon. It was the midwife, wondering why I hadn’t turned up for my appointment. So I rang them, very calmly, and was told it was the wrong number, so had to ring a different one, but they’re not there on Wednesdays, so I had to ring someone else, and finally I got through to someone, and told them, and they said “oh dear,” and asked me whether I wanted one of the midwives to ring me (what for??) and I said no, and I put the phone down, and it was all fine, except that I felt agitated.
The man who delivers the organic veg was shocked by my haircut (it used to be very-long and grey, but for the last week it’s been very-short and orange). He didn’t recognise me; thought he’d come to the wrong house.
“Was there any particular reason?” he said.
Yes, I thought. I got pregnant and fat and then I had a miscarriage and it made me miserable, so I had a hair-do to cheer me up.
“No reason,” I said. “I just fancied a change.”
I think my problem is the acknowledgement of loss. What did I lose? It wasn’t a baby. I hadn’t started thinking of it as a baby. I didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t think of Felix as a baby until he was there in my arms, and even then I wasn’t sure. It’s a protection mechanism, I think. Because deep down we all know, that it might not work out.
So, no. I never thought of my swelling tummy as a baby, not really. And the thing that I held in my hand in Asda’s disabled toilet, that wasn’t a baby either. And that’s why I feel as though it should be all right. Because I didn’t lose an actual thing, or a person, or a child. Just... something. Something intangible. Something I should have stopped going on about by now, because it’s getting boring.
But something which hurts, nonetheless.
___
Labels: Miscarriage
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