Butterfly Soul
I was describing the miscarriage to a friend at the weekend, and - put baldly - it sounded pretty horrific.
I find out I'm miscarrying. I get sent home from hospital, and told that it might happen at any time. It does. In the toilets at Asda. I hold my dead foetus in my hand. In the toilets at Asda. I see a tiny webbed hand. I flush it down the toilet. On my own. At Asda. I drive home again, on my own. We go away to Wales, two days later. To escape. We stay in a freezing cold caravan. I bleed a lot, and am in a lot of pain, and sit on a tiny toilet where your legs have to scrimp sideways at a funny angle because there is no room to sit straight, and I bleed. I come home again, and it still isn't over, and it drags out for another week or two.
Horrible. Sorry. Not sure why I made you read it all again. Bit gratuitous, really. Maybe because I'm trying to make it real. Back then I just sort of floated through it all. I didn't cry much, I waved the horror away, I was matter-of-fact, I told myself it didn't matter, not really, I was fine really.
When I described all this to my friend, I felt the tears edge in. But I had things to do, I didn't want to start crying.
That's how it's been since it happened. I've been busy-busy-busy. No time to cry, apart from in short bursts, every now and then. Just to prove myself that I'm not repressing anything.
Even when I had four weeks off sick for "nervous debility". Even then, I pushed myself forwards, became obsessed with my book.
Because I needed a tomorrow, and I had it already planned, and that future contained a baby and a book deal, and the day after the miscarriage an agent rejected my book, and I couldn't make the baby come back and I wasn't ready for another pregnancy...
That's another thing, which I talked about to my friend, which sounds horrific, which made me want to cry, which brought that painful lump that sits there in your throat when you refuse to dissolve it with tears.
I thought I'd escaped. I was only a bit ill with this pregnancy. Nothing compared to how it was last time. I was so proud of myself, that my obsessions paid off. I did everything I could think of to prevent the illness returning. I only drank filtered water, only ate organic food, took supplements, took rest, did exercises, did meditation, replaced all our household products with rubbish eco versions that cost twice as much and don't do the job but don't (supposedly) contain nasty chemicals... and I wasn't so ill. But the foetus died, and the pregnancy was wrong, and that's probably why I wasn't ill, and now if I want another baby I have to face the same statistics, the same 60% probability of debilitating life-threatening illness all over again...
...so. I couldn't make a baby, not yet, not ready, so I had to make the book happen instead. I had to do another edit, on the whole book. I had to find and research the details of 30 agents, in great detail. I had to write and edit and rewrite again a synopsis, a covering letter, a CV. I told myself that once I had done these things, I would stop. And cry.
But then there were other things that needed doing. Urgent jobs, housework, forms to fill in, a child to look after, no time to cry.
But I've finally cleared the decks. I've booked a week off work, no commitments, no bags to pack, no rush-rush-rush to run around a foreign city or distant rolling hills...
Indeed, I did reverse packing. We've been away a lot recently, and there were half-unpacked bags and piles of unpacked-but-not-put-away stuff all over the house, as well as uncleaned rooms and untidied-away day-to-day detritus from all that going away and being busy and never having time and
And so I reverse-packed for my week's holiday. I put everything neatly away, and created a calm cool space for me to rest in. For me to cry in. It felt a bit like nest-building.
I used to get really angry when people told me I was nest-building. When I was pregnant with Felix. I hated the idea of being labelled as an animal, of being told that my behaviour was so simple, that I was so simple, that I could be defined by a few random chemicals swilling through my veins. I said it was just part of who I am. I love to plan, love to prepare, love to be ready for any eventuality and obviously if a baby is coming into a house, that house needs to be ready. Just common sense and good planning. Not hormones.
I didn't nest-build this last time. Just like I didn't buy anything except a packet containing two pairs of tiny mitts.
Tiny mitts with a picture of a zebra on. One pound, from Boots.
I bought them to distract myself from the hyperemesis. To remind me it was all worth it. I didn't get hyperemesis. It wasn't worth it.
I didn't book a place at a nursery or tell my colleagues I was pregnant or buy any maternity clothes or plan the birth, either. Just in case. I'm not stupid. I know you can't be sure until you reach twelve weeks. But I still didn't think it would happen to us. Not even when the nice nurse told us, bleeding isn't good, not at this stage. Prepare yourselves for bad news, she told us, and she sent us down to sit in the long long queue for a scan, and we sat there and I refused to think that it might be bad news, because that was silly, because it was only a tiny bit of blood and the pains in my stomach were only constipation and how irresponsible of her to say things like that to people, things that might make you panic, but I wasn't panicking because I knew better.
But anyway. I've cleared the decks of responsibility, I've built myself a nest to cry in, and here I am. Finally acknowledging that something bad has happened, and it hurts, and giving myself space to cry.
And after this week, I have a big future waiting for me, and I will get on with it, and it will be all right because I let the tears out and flushed them away.
My friend told me I'll never get over it. Other people have said this, too. But I still don't believe it. I still can't accept that anything that major happened, I still don't have an identity, a person, to remember or grieve for, so how can it last? How can it not be replaced by a new person, a real person, a proper squalling baby?
My friend said I mustn't get pregnant again until I feel I could cope with another miscarriage. I don't see how anyone can ever say, "I am ready for another miscarriage." I refuse to think like that. How can I? How will it help?
My masseuse said the soul of the missing baby is still here. She fluttered her hands around her head, and I imagined the soul flitting around my ears, waiting for a new hole to open up in my stomach, and then it will leap in through my mouth, down through my innards, snuggle up in my womb, safe and happy.
I don't believe in souls, or reincarnation, or heaven and hell. I don't believe it was a person, not yet.
But I don't think that matters. I like the idea of that butterfly soul.
It's helpful, so I'm keeping it.
All the Miscarriage Posts
___
I find out I'm miscarrying. I get sent home from hospital, and told that it might happen at any time. It does. In the toilets at Asda. I hold my dead foetus in my hand. In the toilets at Asda. I see a tiny webbed hand. I flush it down the toilet. On my own. At Asda. I drive home again, on my own. We go away to Wales, two days later. To escape. We stay in a freezing cold caravan. I bleed a lot, and am in a lot of pain, and sit on a tiny toilet where your legs have to scrimp sideways at a funny angle because there is no room to sit straight, and I bleed. I come home again, and it still isn't over, and it drags out for another week or two.
Horrible. Sorry. Not sure why I made you read it all again. Bit gratuitous, really. Maybe because I'm trying to make it real. Back then I just sort of floated through it all. I didn't cry much, I waved the horror away, I was matter-of-fact, I told myself it didn't matter, not really, I was fine really.
When I described all this to my friend, I felt the tears edge in. But I had things to do, I didn't want to start crying.
That's how it's been since it happened. I've been busy-busy-busy. No time to cry, apart from in short bursts, every now and then. Just to prove myself that I'm not repressing anything.
Even when I had four weeks off sick for "nervous debility". Even then, I pushed myself forwards, became obsessed with my book.
Because I needed a tomorrow, and I had it already planned, and that future contained a baby and a book deal, and the day after the miscarriage an agent rejected my book, and I couldn't make the baby come back and I wasn't ready for another pregnancy...
That's another thing, which I talked about to my friend, which sounds horrific, which made me want to cry, which brought that painful lump that sits there in your throat when you refuse to dissolve it with tears.
I thought I'd escaped. I was only a bit ill with this pregnancy. Nothing compared to how it was last time. I was so proud of myself, that my obsessions paid off. I did everything I could think of to prevent the illness returning. I only drank filtered water, only ate organic food, took supplements, took rest, did exercises, did meditation, replaced all our household products with rubbish eco versions that cost twice as much and don't do the job but don't (supposedly) contain nasty chemicals... and I wasn't so ill. But the foetus died, and the pregnancy was wrong, and that's probably why I wasn't ill, and now if I want another baby I have to face the same statistics, the same 60% probability of debilitating life-threatening illness all over again...
...so. I couldn't make a baby, not yet, not ready, so I had to make the book happen instead. I had to do another edit, on the whole book. I had to find and research the details of 30 agents, in great detail. I had to write and edit and rewrite again a synopsis, a covering letter, a CV. I told myself that once I had done these things, I would stop. And cry.
But then there were other things that needed doing. Urgent jobs, housework, forms to fill in, a child to look after, no time to cry.
But I've finally cleared the decks. I've booked a week off work, no commitments, no bags to pack, no rush-rush-rush to run around a foreign city or distant rolling hills...
Indeed, I did reverse packing. We've been away a lot recently, and there were half-unpacked bags and piles of unpacked-but-not-put-away stuff all over the house, as well as uncleaned rooms and untidied-away day-to-day detritus from all that going away and being busy and never having time and
And so I reverse-packed for my week's holiday. I put everything neatly away, and created a calm cool space for me to rest in. For me to cry in. It felt a bit like nest-building.
I used to get really angry when people told me I was nest-building. When I was pregnant with Felix. I hated the idea of being labelled as an animal, of being told that my behaviour was so simple, that I was so simple, that I could be defined by a few random chemicals swilling through my veins. I said it was just part of who I am. I love to plan, love to prepare, love to be ready for any eventuality and obviously if a baby is coming into a house, that house needs to be ready. Just common sense and good planning. Not hormones.
I didn't nest-build this last time. Just like I didn't buy anything except a packet containing two pairs of tiny mitts.
Tiny mitts with a picture of a zebra on. One pound, from Boots.
I bought them to distract myself from the hyperemesis. To remind me it was all worth it. I didn't get hyperemesis. It wasn't worth it.
I didn't book a place at a nursery or tell my colleagues I was pregnant or buy any maternity clothes or plan the birth, either. Just in case. I'm not stupid. I know you can't be sure until you reach twelve weeks. But I still didn't think it would happen to us. Not even when the nice nurse told us, bleeding isn't good, not at this stage. Prepare yourselves for bad news, she told us, and she sent us down to sit in the long long queue for a scan, and we sat there and I refused to think that it might be bad news, because that was silly, because it was only a tiny bit of blood and the pains in my stomach were only constipation and how irresponsible of her to say things like that to people, things that might make you panic, but I wasn't panicking because I knew better.
But anyway. I've cleared the decks of responsibility, I've built myself a nest to cry in, and here I am. Finally acknowledging that something bad has happened, and it hurts, and giving myself space to cry.
And after this week, I have a big future waiting for me, and I will get on with it, and it will be all right because I let the tears out and flushed them away.
My friend told me I'll never get over it. Other people have said this, too. But I still don't believe it. I still can't accept that anything that major happened, I still don't have an identity, a person, to remember or grieve for, so how can it last? How can it not be replaced by a new person, a real person, a proper squalling baby?
My friend said I mustn't get pregnant again until I feel I could cope with another miscarriage. I don't see how anyone can ever say, "I am ready for another miscarriage." I refuse to think like that. How can I? How will it help?
My masseuse said the soul of the missing baby is still here. She fluttered her hands around her head, and I imagined the soul flitting around my ears, waiting for a new hole to open up in my stomach, and then it will leap in through my mouth, down through my innards, snuggle up in my womb, safe and happy.
I don't believe in souls, or reincarnation, or heaven and hell. I don't believe it was a person, not yet.
But I don't think that matters. I like the idea of that butterfly soul.
It's helpful, so I'm keeping it.
All the Miscarriage Posts
___