3 months later

Three months on, I’m so fine. That is what I tell myself and all of my friends. I’m ok at the moment! I say YES! I’m so fine! So fine! I sometimes get a little hormonal but who doesn’t?! I’m FINE!

…

How much am I hurting myself by pushing this away? I don’t do that. I’m the writer, the drama girl, the creative writing graduate who wears her heart on her sleeve and is poetic about everything. What is going to happen in 10 years’ time? Are these complicated feelings that I don’t understand going to manifest themselves in some awful relationship I bury myself in? Are they already manifesting themselves in the relationships I have now?

The sage advice I give to all of the people I know who have sadness is to lean in. Lean in to your sorrow. Lean in to it, feel it, let it overwhelm you and control you, and then remember that your feelings belong to you and you are in charge. Maybe it’s a trivial thing that upset you. But your sadness is yours and it’s real.  You can’t control how you feel, but you can - sometimes - control how you feel it. Sometimes. Lean out.

…

I was raised Catholic, and although I’ve always found the bible and religion in general to be slightly wanting, I’ve always found the conception part easy to get along with. Life begins at conception, I’m not sure if that comes from my religious upbringing or not. I’m agnostic (a term I hate – it makes me sound unsure but I’m very content with my religious views – I sit very comfortably on a fence and dip over to each side if and when I need). I don’t go to church anymore, but some of those Catholic doctrines must have stuck. I’m also a feminist; I don’t burn my bras or grow out my armpit hair and I still care about what people think of me, even if I wish I didn’t, but I do believe in equal opportunities for men and women, and I am pro-equality and pro-choice. But I also always hoped that if I ever got pregnant by my own mistake, then that’s life and I live a privileged one and I know I would be taken care of by my family, and whatever my circumstance, my baby and I would have a comfortable life.

In the time since my operation, I’ve known two girls who have had abortions, and one girl who had a miscarriage. It happens a lot. Women losing early pregnancies is a very common thing. And in the pro-choice, anti-male, feminist society we live in, it seems to me that if these women grieve, it must be a very private and very taboo grief. I never said to anyone that I lost a baby. I’m careful about those words. I wait and see what kind of views the person I’m talking to holds, and I’ll tailor my story to how they view it. I tailor my grief to fit other people’s views. If I feel comfortable enough, I’ll allude to it, I’ll make a joke about how I had morning sickness and still didn’t figure it out and I’ll try and catch their eye to see how far I go. Keep joking? Change the subject? Am I allowed to cry here? I blame my hormones and the weather outside and how my job is very hard. It’s been three months. My hormones should be settled, it’s turning out to be a beautifully cold and sunny February and I’m pretty sure I’ve got the coolest job in the world.

I’m sad because I lost a baby.

I wasn’t trying to get pregnant, I didn’t know I was pregnant, I wasn’t in a relationship, there was a minuscule chance the pregnancy could have gone to term, and I was using contraception. When I’m asked about it, I reel off the above with a shrug and a big smile and a crass joke about how I thought I was just getting fat so they know its ok. People comfort me with analogies of making an omelette (having the ingredients in the fridge doesn’t constitute an omelette – you get the gist) and how a mass of cells isn’t a baby and thank goodness right? And for these people I wipe my tears and call myself silly and I know it wasn’t a baby, I know that. And maybe that’s how you see it. That’s ok. But it’s my grief. And, actually, maybe I know better than you.

I’ve done my research. I’m well aware of the science behind it. I know how big it had to get for my tube to burst. I know that it died before they removed it. Maybe some time before.  I’m sad because I lost a baby. I’m sad because I was pregnant then I wasn’t. I’m sad because when I look back on the months before my operation I ignored the signs my body was giving me. It kept trying to tell me and I kept ignoring it. My lower back ached all the time and I blamed the £700 ergonomic swivel chairs in my office. I’m sad because I didn’t take care of my body. I was hungry and sick all the time and I drank wine and gin and I ate Chinese and Indian and pasta and pizza and the occasional banana, I’m sad because now all I have are two tiny scars and in a peculiar way, I wish it was one huge scar, so I could show people and say see? Look how big it is! See how big this was for me! See my pain! When people see my scars they say how well they are healing and how clever modern medicine is. I tell them about the procedure and how amazing right? But when I touch them I don’t think that. I think about how wrong my body got it, and how these barely noticeable marks take me back to the heartbreak in the waiting room in the maternity ward. I’m sad because I lost a baby I never had. I lost a baby I didn’t want. I lost a baby that maybe could have had a heartbeat and hands. I lost an existence that I didn’t even know was there. I’m sad because I lost control of my body. I’m sad because my body turned to pain to try and tell me and I still ignored it. I’m sad because my body tried but could have killed me in the process. I’m sad because my back still hurts sometimes. I’m sad because I don’t feel like I should be sad. I’m sad because I apologise for my grief. I’m sad because I didn’t think I still would be sad. I’m sad because I’m lonely. I’m sad because none of this came from love. I’m sad because I had a dose of reality. I’m sad because I try to be cavalier about it. I’m sad because all I want to do is talk about it. I’m sad because I don’t feel like I can. I’m sad because I can’t find the strength I used to have when I was alone.