I saw a show at the Edinburgh Fringe on 8 August 2017, "Lou Conran: I Love Lou C". I read an article in the BBC magazine that she had written that led me to book the show.
I knew her story before she started, so I knew it was not going to be a laugh a minute show. She wove such an interesting tale of her life, without really going into her miscarriage until about halfway through; but having mentioned incidents that happened after it at the start of the show!
It was lovely. Really nice to hear her story, hear the differences, and the similarities. The best part was laughing, laughing with her.
There were some differences though. Her struggle to get pregnant at first was due to a lack of the sex. (As she put it.) The gentlemen callers who were not so gentlemanly. The almost barren ovaries. Then a surprise pregnancy with someone who she had not been with that long. (Including a story about coconut oil that it would not be possible to re-create!)
She was informed at the second anomaly scan that her baby was "incompatible with life". She said she was unable to connect it until she was told that the baby was a girl. She told of how she thought it was not serious, that it was a joke. She surrounds her life with jokes, so I think it was probably a craving for the familiar.
I think a comedy show with a story about losing your child isn't going to be a barrel of laughs, that much is clear. She put a side to the story of loss that was from someone who had always wanted children, discovered it was unlikely, come to terms with that, had a surprise pregnancy, only for it to be taken away again.
It happens so often, to so many people. It's hard to talk about. It is why I created this blog; I can't share this a thousand times verbally, but I can share it as many as a person cares to read it. I can talk about what I have written; with anyone who has read it. It's easier to share it this way, than not to share it at all.
Of course, my story is a little different to some other miscarriage stories, that makes it hard at times. How different our family plans have become. However I think that we will have a family, It is just that I am impatient for it to happen now. As Lou C found out, the later you leave it, the harder it gets!
Wednesday, 16 August 2017
29 July 2017
Our 1st wedding anniversary.
The due date of our first child.
Our good friends' wedding day.
Not the due date of our first child. The date we were told was the estimated delivery date of our first child. I always knew it was wrong, just like I always knew she was a girl, somehow.
When I first shared the news of my pregnancy with friends, I had a conversation with one about the due date, combined with the wedding, and what we were going to do. I said we were determined to go, but only one of us would be able to drink. (Me, that late in the game, I was planning on half a glass of champagne to celebrate!) I suggested that I might be so fed up of being pregnant by that stage that I would try to dance it out of me; I do love to dance.
We arrived in the morning, having booked into a nice hotel, (because we needed to treat ourselves on our anniversary) to find out that not only was our room ready early, but we had been given an upgrade! We hadn't even told them it was our anniversary! We had dressed for the occasion at home that morning, before the drive down, and I had put on the war-paint in the car, with some touch-ups planned wherever I could find an empty toilet. Thankfully, we were able to get into the room (instead of leaving our bags until whatever time we got back that night) and relax briefly before heading on. We walked through the town, our disorganisation meant that this was necessary, as we needed to buy both lunch, and a wedding card. We arrived at a pub to meet with some others, including the groom, before making our way to the venue for the ceremony.
Throughout the day I was able to enjoy myself, and enjoy the company that we were in. We had to stand for the ceremony, as there were limited seats with it being outdoors (Edinburgh's botanic gardens), and we had to walk from one side of the gardens to the other after the meal for the evening reception. The walk was nice, I got chatting to a friend who had read some of what I had written so far, and I explained a bit more. However by the time we got to the other side, my feet were killing me! So I didn't start dancing straight away. I think both my husband and I drank a little bit more than either of us planned to. We got up to dance at one stage, and instructions for the dance were called (Scottish Ceilidh) but apparently he had gone a bit deaf, so we didn't do so well. Then, when the couple next to us accidentally elbowed me in the head (I think they experienced a similar temporary deafness, as everyone else seemed to know what they were doing!) I tried to keep going but walked off the dance floor shortly afterwards, I think entirely a combination of not being able(/supposed) to lead my husband, and him not knowing the dance, and a memory of that conversation about dancing the baby out.
I stuck it out a little while longer, but I think I had reached saturation point by that stage. We said our goodbyes to the bride and groom, who looked suitably exhausted and happy, and a few others who were nearby. As we made our way down the stairs towards the doors, I burst into tears.
I did not let it ruin our anniversary, and it did not overshadow it, however once the dancing started, it did start to a little bit. I can honestly say though, that I had a good day, and it was the week that followed that was harder. I'm very glad I had booked that time off work.
It was much much later in the year however, that I realised something else: My beautiful patterned umbrella, the kind with the curved handle that I could hang off my arm, I last saw that at the bottom of the stairs by the doors. I'll replace it, eventually...
The due date of our first child.
Our good friends' wedding day.
Not the due date of our first child. The date we were told was the estimated delivery date of our first child. I always knew it was wrong, just like I always knew she was a girl, somehow.
When I first shared the news of my pregnancy with friends, I had a conversation with one about the due date, combined with the wedding, and what we were going to do. I said we were determined to go, but only one of us would be able to drink. (Me, that late in the game, I was planning on half a glass of champagne to celebrate!) I suggested that I might be so fed up of being pregnant by that stage that I would try to dance it out of me; I do love to dance.
We arrived in the morning, having booked into a nice hotel, (because we needed to treat ourselves on our anniversary) to find out that not only was our room ready early, but we had been given an upgrade! We hadn't even told them it was our anniversary! We had dressed for the occasion at home that morning, before the drive down, and I had put on the war-paint in the car, with some touch-ups planned wherever I could find an empty toilet. Thankfully, we were able to get into the room (instead of leaving our bags until whatever time we got back that night) and relax briefly before heading on. We walked through the town, our disorganisation meant that this was necessary, as we needed to buy both lunch, and a wedding card. We arrived at a pub to meet with some others, including the groom, before making our way to the venue for the ceremony.
Throughout the day I was able to enjoy myself, and enjoy the company that we were in. We had to stand for the ceremony, as there were limited seats with it being outdoors (Edinburgh's botanic gardens), and we had to walk from one side of the gardens to the other after the meal for the evening reception. The walk was nice, I got chatting to a friend who had read some of what I had written so far, and I explained a bit more. However by the time we got to the other side, my feet were killing me! So I didn't start dancing straight away. I think both my husband and I drank a little bit more than either of us planned to. We got up to dance at one stage, and instructions for the dance were called (Scottish Ceilidh) but apparently he had gone a bit deaf, so we didn't do so well. Then, when the couple next to us accidentally elbowed me in the head (I think they experienced a similar temporary deafness, as everyone else seemed to know what they were doing!) I tried to keep going but walked off the dance floor shortly afterwards, I think entirely a combination of not being able(/supposed) to lead my husband, and him not knowing the dance, and a memory of that conversation about dancing the baby out.
I stuck it out a little while longer, but I think I had reached saturation point by that stage. We said our goodbyes to the bride and groom, who looked suitably exhausted and happy, and a few others who were nearby. As we made our way down the stairs towards the doors, I burst into tears.
I did not let it ruin our anniversary, and it did not overshadow it, however once the dancing started, it did start to a little bit. I can honestly say though, that I had a good day, and it was the week that followed that was harder. I'm very glad I had booked that time off work.
It was much much later in the year however, that I realised something else: My beautiful patterned umbrella, the kind with the curved handle that I could hang off my arm, I last saw that at the bottom of the stairs by the doors. I'll replace it, eventually...
15 June 2017
After learning of the problems our baby had, the developments that weren't, there was a time when I found it difficult to grieve, difficult to think of the baby I had dreamt of, because this baby did not fit into that dream.
After learning that there were chromosomal abnormalities, it became harder still to grieve for what "might have been", as the logical part of my brain knew that it never would have.
After learning that the chromosomal abnormalities were as a result of a balanced translocation, and learning that phrase, and what it really meant? Well, that actually helped me to grieve properly again. I'm not sure how or why, but it helped me to know that it wasn't random, and our child was that way for a reason. On the good days, I can think about our baby, and hope for the future, as the post-mortem helped us to find out that there was a problem, and pointed us in the direction of ways around that problem. Our child helped our future children live.
For those who have a miscarriage and never find out why, the grief will always be for what might have been. The life that could have been lived. For those who, like me, have a miscarriage and learn why, the grief changes, and although I still consider what might have been, it's now with a caveat, if it had been a different sperm. However, if that had been the case, everything would have been different, and for me, there are too many possibilities to imagine. It's like the butterfly effect, (the chaos theory, not the movie I have never seen) changing one thing changes many things, and I have to trust that this is the best possibility for me. This is true for big things, and little things.
Like: I never regret being late for work, because if I had left earlier, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I never regret leaving a party late, because if I had left earlier, well, number one, I would have missed the craic, and number two, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I like to believe that no matter how rubbish things are, for me to even consider an alternate reality, means considering one where I, or worse, those who I love, are dead, where in the current reality they are not. Perhaps it means that in my reality everyone lives for as long as they possibly can? Or perhaps it means that everyone I love lives for as long as they can in proportion to how much pain they can bear. I'd like to think that is why our baby did not survive; the pain would have been too much, and although we suffered pain, we understand why.
I will continue to have moments of "what might have been" in days when I'm in work, and would have been on maternity leave; in days when I'm visiting family, and would have been bringing a cousin for our nieces and nephew; on significant events, when I will think about the missing presence, and what that would have added.
After learning that there were chromosomal abnormalities, it became harder still to grieve for what "might have been", as the logical part of my brain knew that it never would have.
After learning that the chromosomal abnormalities were as a result of a balanced translocation, and learning that phrase, and what it really meant? Well, that actually helped me to grieve properly again. I'm not sure how or why, but it helped me to know that it wasn't random, and our child was that way for a reason. On the good days, I can think about our baby, and hope for the future, as the post-mortem helped us to find out that there was a problem, and pointed us in the direction of ways around that problem. Our child helped our future children live.
For those who have a miscarriage and never find out why, the grief will always be for what might have been. The life that could have been lived. For those who, like me, have a miscarriage and learn why, the grief changes, and although I still consider what might have been, it's now with a caveat, if it had been a different sperm. However, if that had been the case, everything would have been different, and for me, there are too many possibilities to imagine. It's like the butterfly effect, (the chaos theory, not the movie I have never seen) changing one thing changes many things, and I have to trust that this is the best possibility for me. This is true for big things, and little things.
Like: I never regret being late for work, because if I had left earlier, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I never regret leaving a party late, because if I had left earlier, well, number one, I would have missed the craic, and number two, I might have been in the way of a car whose driver was not looking where they were going, and I would have been dead. I like to believe that no matter how rubbish things are, for me to even consider an alternate reality, means considering one where I, or worse, those who I love, are dead, where in the current reality they are not. Perhaps it means that in my reality everyone lives for as long as they possibly can? Or perhaps it means that everyone I love lives for as long as they can in proportion to how much pain they can bear. I'd like to think that is why our baby did not survive; the pain would have been too much, and although we suffered pain, we understand why.
I will continue to have moments of "what might have been" in days when I'm in work, and would have been on maternity leave; in days when I'm visiting family, and would have been bringing a cousin for our nieces and nephew; on significant events, when I will think about the missing presence, and what that would have added.
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