Predictably, I feel I am in the process of stitching my heart back together. I’m not very good at sewing – my darning always made socks fourteen times as uncomfortable. Giant stitches, slightly puckered. And, as I said to H, they will probably come a little unravelled over Christmas. Especially if I’m not p-word again. And I don’t really expect to be. Everyone else can be optimistic if they like, as long as they don’t mention it to me. And I insist on becoming a tad unravelled on Pikaia’s due date – 16th of January 2009. And I hope not to become unglued on my 34th birthday, but that’s me being optimistic, and I can’t talk about that, in case I get somewhat titted off with myself.
Other giant puckered stitches:
Item: My step-father sent me a note to thank me for his birthday card. He took the opportunity to offer his sympathy, and did it very kindly and wrote all the right things. The man is a mensch. And I cried. But they were good tears – relieved, grateful, pleased tears.
Item: Still nothing from my sisters. I can’t think what I will say to them when I see them next weekend. But I have amused myself in composing dozens of sharp, calm, witty and above all devastating one-liners to smash them to flinders with. Heh heh.
Item: My pregnancy radar is still on hysterically oversensitive, and I find myself leaping back from people’s midriffs with a startled ‘GAH!’ several times a day. Mentally, of course. Not physically. Tempting, but no. There are a LOT of pregnant ladies out there. Also, the fashion for empire-line tops and tunics continues unabated, so no doubt a good half of the ladies I have recoiled from were probably not pregnant at all. Still, I only think ‘GAH!’ and hurry on. I do not cry in public. Children and babies do not bother me much at all, I suppose because I never got a chance to think of Pikaia as a Real Live Baby.
Item: Other people’s babies. Specifically, the very-brand-new baby indeed of a good friend (hello! You know who you are!). I’m so glad he’s here safely. His mother, by the way, despite being eight-and-a-half months pregnant, offered to come over and help us while I was down for the count. Partly, I suppose, because she has been to Bad Sad Place too, but mostly because she is a Good Person. I am very much looking forward to seeing this precious offspring of a Good Person. Also, I owe him knit-wear. He deserves such beautiful knit-wear I have frightened myself by attempting something rather tricky, but I have sensibly decided to make it for a 6-month-old, by which time it will be cold enough for him to want woolly items, and I might have actually finished it.
Item: You do get to know who in your circle actually can do the old empathy trick. Other honourable mentions to the In-Laws, who sent a card, and MIL, who actually spoke to me on the phone to offer her condolences, and Grandmother-in-Law, who H fielded telephonically when I was in an unspeakable mood and who also offered condolences. My good friend E, who offered to come over straight away and, oh, he didn’t know, do anything we needed (what we needed in the end was pizza, ice-cream and Beowulf). My New Line Manager, who won a small gold star for asking how H was as well, when I went back to work.
Item: I have two memories to cherish, and I can, now. One is the morning of the 11th of May. The previous evening, H and I had been utterly gob-smacked by the pregnancy test that turned only-vaguely-possibly-positive, and that a good hour after you are supposed to read them for accurate results. Was it really a positive? Was it messing with me? The next morning I woke up at about six, and could not even begin to go back to sleep. Bugger it, I thought, and got up, and peed in my pee-mug, and dipped an Internet Pee-stick of Doom. It came up very, very, very faintly positive. I took it to show to the unconscious H, who, to his credit, did not tell me to sod off, but peered blearily at the tiny stick and said he couldn’t see anything. So I went silently back to the bathroom and dipped the Posh Shop-Brought Test. I showed that one to H. He sat bolt-upright in bed and said ‘That’s definitely positive!’. And then we hugged, and I cried a little, and then we lay in each other’s arms, admiring the pee-sticks propped up on my bedside table in the light of dawn.
The other good memory is that, despite the stress of the constant slight bleeding, I got to see my Shakespeare Extravaganza of eight plays in one long weekend. If I had known for sure I was miscarrying, I don’t think I could have made myself go, and the Extravaganza was one of the great theatrical happenings of my life (and yes, I am very very keen, beyond keen even, on theatre. And Shakespeare). Ironic, and probably weird, but I am thankful.