So that’s it. Gone. Just like that. Nine weeks, I thought. You didn’t make it past five. My gestational sac is still growing; every week it will grow more. Soon it will be broken down and then it will pass. And I won’t even be a bit pregnant any more. I’ll be post-pregnant but I shan’t have a baby.
This isn’t my first time. This is my second, possibly my third. Each one has been different.
It just seems such a waste. All that happiness, that love, the planning.
And for those people who say that “you shouldn’t plan until you get to 12 weeks”, I say fuck you. Fuck you, because I am a human being with love and hope and happiness and you just can’t hep it. You’re in love with this cluster of cells, you’re in love with what they will become. Love.
Ok, so this week has been really fucking hard. But actually it would have been a lot fucking harder if I didn’t have the support of my friends. And you know who those friends were? They weren’t even necessarily the select few people I used to just tell everything to. This time I didn’t just stick my head up my arse and pretend it was all going to be ok. I didn’t try and shoulder it alone. I told people. And every time I told someone I felt lighter, I knew that that person was thinking of me and sending me positive energy and that made me feel stronger.
No, I haven’t spoken to anyone, not really. I’m not good on the phone. My mum tried to FaceTime about it and I was like, what the fuck mum. I don’t want to be talking about this while you’re watching my face and ew. I just. Facetime? No.
But I have had some serious text conversations with people who have really opened up to me and been supportive and for that, thank you.
Everyone says “what can I do to help?” Just fucking be there. Let me know you are thinking of me.
I can’t sit and wallow in this because I am a mum and I am self employed so I have to crack that smile on and continue to play house and painting and watching We’re Going on a Bear Hunt and making dinners… and, you know. But it helps.
I tell myself, keep buggering on. One step at a time. One day at a time. You’ve got a magazine to get out you know. Keep going. Keep eating, keep walking, keep emptying the sodding dishwasher. Keep moving. Keep reading. Keep sending emails. Ignore that ache. It’s not time, not now. You’re a Mum you know.
I say: There will be a time - and it will be soon -when you can deal with this. You can lock yourself in the bathroom, lay on the floor and weep. But now is not that time.
Let people know. Thank them for their concern. But just keep buggering on. Watch CBeebies. Make beans on toast. Play with dinosaur and Oo-oo the monkey. Tell stories. Comb hair. Wrestle toothbrushes into mouths. Don’t break. You can’t.
So my baby didn’t even, it wasn’t even there. And soon I won’t even be pregnant. Someone is going to either make me not-pregnant or I will let it pass naturally.
Let it pass naturally. It makes it sound like I am going to sit in a fucking field until fairies come and take the gestational sac and yolk bag, or whatever it is, out of my womb and then I can float down with daisies in my hair and be all with nature and go and do some yoga or something.
Well, it’s not like that. I’ve had a miscarriage before and it hurt and it hurts and it hurts. And it’s messy and you bleed a lot for a really long time and all the stuff comes out and it’s sad and awful because that’s stuff that you were in love with. That was your baby. But now it’s just matter and in the loo and in your pants. And oh God, I can’t.
So I’ll keep on. Keep buggering on.