The Leper at the Christening

I feel very sorry for any friend of mine or any member of my social circle at the moment. I am super sensitive and it seems that by mentioning our pregnancy loss people upset me, but I also get upset when they don't mention it. Mr W's best friend and his wife had a little boy in October and they decided to get him christened in January. And they decided not to tell us. The first I heard was from another mutual friend telling me about it as they were due to attend on Sunday. I was devestated that we had not been invited. A million reasons went round my head but I felt like the leper that no one wants at their family events. After all, why would they want to be reminded of loss and sadness on their child's special day? And I of course currently am loss & sadness personified. Mr W called his best friend who avoided mentioning the christening until Mr W mentioned it himself. At first the excuse went that the event was too quickly organised for us to find time in our 'busy schedules' and then when Mr W said we would make time for this important event, the christening was so 'low key' that they didn't think to invite us. So it was the most low key christening that even the best friend of the father was not invited. Mr W came off the phone and cried. Seeing a man cry is always heart-wrenching, even more so when it is the man you love and you can't do anything to take away the hurt. His best friend was lying to him, and doing so because of something we had suffered that was not our fault. It felt like a double punishment. Not only did we lose our precious babies but we were also set to be the lepers of any social occasion for the foreseeable future.

Mr W, being a man, did not want to confront the issue further. They had their reasons for not inviting us but we were not to delve any further into them. So I did what most women would do. I text the wife of Mr W's best friend. I told her we were upset that we weren't invited, that we would have loved to have been there, and that we were still able to share in their happiness despite what had happened to us. I did not get a reply but Mr W received a very quick phone call from his friend who quickly confessed all. The REAL reason they had not invited us was because they did not want to put us through any more pain. They thought it would be too soon for us to be able to happily take part in such a day. So their hearts were in the right place, despite the fact that honesty really would have been the best policy. So we forced ourselves an invitation when really I would have liked the opportunity to decide for myself if I was strong enough to attend. But after such a fuss, we could hardly turn round and not go!

I have to say I am glad I did. The baby was beautiful and no one can be hurt by the joy in a child's smile. I made it through the whole day without a repeat of the baggage hall sobbing although there was a particularly hairy moment when the vicar compared the care of the church to a new member to the care a mother's body gives her baby during pregnancy. The care I was unable to give my precious little ones. So I squeezed Mr W's hand and I took a few deep breaths and I tried not to delve into the part of my mind that already blames my body for failing in its task. Because it does seem that view is shared by others. My mother-in-law gave me strict instructions that 'when' (not her use of 'when' and not 'if'!) I get pregnant again I am not to paint, stretch, lift anything because I obviously did too much of that this time in order to lose my babies. And my thoughts went back to the performance of Willy Russell's Blood Brothers that Mr W had booked to cheer me up after my depressive January state. Those familiar with the play will know that the heroine of the piece is Mrs Johnstone, who already has 7 children when she finds herself pregnant with twins after her husband has left. Mrs Lyons, the woman who adopts one of the twins in a secret bargain, ends up going mad, attempting to stab Mrs Johnstone, & betraying her adopted son's relationship with his brother's wife. Mrs Johnstone on the other hand always manages to do the best she can for her children. Now while some people may argue that Willy Russell's distinction between the two women is to do with social class, I can also see that the heroine is the woman that can have more children than she can afford to feed but still endlessly love each & every one; while her counterpart cannot have even one child of her own and seems incapable of anything but smothering & manipulating her adopted child.

Of course it seems natural in a society that needs to recreate itself that the woman who has a body that can successfully carry children is obviously of greater value than the one who can't. And it makes me painfully sad that mine is, to date at least, a body that can't. It's not my fault, in the same way that it's not my fault I have to wear contact lenses, but still it's something that makes you feel incredibly sad. And envious of all those women with the bodies that do work & envious of the praise they get for their nurturing ability. I wish I had it. If I could earn/create/grow/learn it I would do everything in my power to achieve it. But, like perfect vision, I can't. And I wonder if Sunday's christening was a sign of things to come. Will I always be the childless woman: the leper at the party?

Poems about Pregnancy Loss

Never Meant to Be

The babies that grew inside of me
Had no chance from the start.
Their lives barely allowed to begin
They found the way to my heart.

In moments of joy I dream of them
As the people they would be.
I wrap them tight with blankets of love
They heal the hurt in me.

My eyes awake and fill with tears
Our angels I no longer see
Pain strikes deep with an iron grip
As they were never meant to be.




Shadows

Shadows
Seen by ultrasound
Our darlings
But to the world
Just shadows

Expectant
My womb was waiting
Our babies
Could not finish
Their journey

Angels
They are remembered
Our babies
Yet will only live
As shadows



Prometheus

To say my heart aches
Does not describe the pain
I am Prometheus, yet not my liver
But my heart pecked out again.

Zeus’s eagle wrestles with its prey
Into a thousand pieces torn
My heart succumbs to its perpetual grief
For babies never to be born.

New Beginnings

Apologies for not updating this for so long, but seeing as there have been days in the last month when I have not even been able to get out of bed I hope you will forgive me. I have changed my blog to be more focused on the battle I am still fighting to get my life back on track after the double ectopic pregnancy we suffered last year. Pregnancy loss is something that will always be with you, but I am hoping to try and somehow convert the pain & suffering I am feeling into a more positive energy to push me forward.

Christmas was a difficult time. I sat in church for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve and seemed surprised at the tears that flowed the moment I opened my carol booklet. With hindsight, I think I should have been more aware that singing songs about a mother and the birth of her precious baby would have made my heart ache. Christmas Day was also tough as it was meant to be the day we made our annoucement. I was sick in the morning, not from any bug I had but from the stress and anxiety of just getting through that day in one piece. I did get through it and then New Year's Day presented the next hurdle. Standing in Birmingham Airport after returning home from Spain I stood waiting for my case on the conveyor belt and burst into tears. And I mean 'burst'. It was an explosion of emotion that saw me sobbing uncontrollably in the baggage hall and all the passengers around me wondering what Ryanair had done to my bags to make me so upset. Mr W tried his best to comfort me and through sobs I hope I managed to convey why I was making such a fool of myself. It suddenly dawned on me that with the two cycles I had to wait before we could try again, I would not be holding my baby in my arms in 2010 whatever happened. I had nothing to look forward to. 2010 was meant to be the year I welcomed two beautiful babies into the world on 25th July, yet, with a cruel stab from Fate, that dream would never be realised.

Somehow we got home and I spent the next 3 days in bed. Nothing would please me and I had forgotten how to smile. I just felt numb and empty. I didn't eat and I only dozed, getting out of bed only to watch trash on TV until about 1 a.m. and then I would go back to bed to start the cycle again. My Mum had told me the worst part of dealing with our loss would be when everyone else had gone back to normal, had stopped checking up on me, and then I would still feel the pain and hurt but I would feel on my own. Of course all my nearest and dearest told me to reach out to them in that time, but with my world reduced to my own bed, even Mr W seemed completely beyond my reach. It was my acupuncture appointment that finally got me out of bed and out of my pyjamas. She told me how my body was showing her what a great trauma I had been through by the unbalance in my pulses. She said it was the kind of trauma she would see with patients that had experienced years of some kind of substance abuse. After our session, I was angry with the whole world for about 48 hours. Mr W couldn't even sit right on the sofa beside me, that's how angry I was. And then I woke up two days later and I felt better. I felt stronger. I felt ready to put some clothes on and venture outside. And it was snowing. And everywhere looked beautiful. And Mr W and I went for a walk through the park and I linked my arm in his and I thought to myself 'Would it really be so bad if it was just the two of us?' And I didn't cry. But my heart still ached. And I knew I could hide my longing from everyone else, but not from myself.