Dear period, thank you for indulging yourself with a crampy, spotty, watery couple of days that feels (and looks) exactly like my miscarriage bleeding did. Like I needed to be reminded of that. Like I needed my face rubbed into exactly how much I’d rather be 19 weeks pregnant. Bitch.
And then I was listening to the news on the radio while doing a little washing up, and a story came on about the horror of deprivation that is the Congo. The journalist and the doctor he was interviewing came across a young woman being taken to the nearest clinic (mud hut, miles and miles and miles away) in a teeny canoe (no roads. It’s river or nothing) . She was having a miscarriage. The journalist’s team got her aboard their motorised boat and took her to the clinic as fast as possible, and the doctor paid for her antibiotics. And if she hadn’t been lucky enough to bump into a news crew, she would have died. And I dropped the plate I was washing into the sink, chipping it, and I sobbed and sobbed, blind with tears.
I am totally not over it.
And now I can’t stop crying. I am too busy for this kind of breakdown. Must dissertate. Arse.
Also, must make donation to Medecins Sans Frontiers.