My words sound better coming from my hands than my mouth.
Which is ironic considering the £20,000 spent on my higher education in drama,
then two years spent at drama school after that! Perhaps it’s because you can
start writing and delete it if you don’t like it. You can’t do that with words.
Once spoken, they’re hard to erase.
The last month has been a strange one. My mum, a wise old lady
from Galway/Warrington, said she thinks I’ve gone from a girl to a woman. I,
however, feel I’ve backtracked and gone from a girl to a toddler – I need food
on tap, I can’t make it through the day without a well timed nap and I was far
more excited for this Christmas than I thought I would be.
As well as having to deal with losing the baby, my dad
walking out and being in a car crash, I’ve also had to answer some very small
minded questions. So, rather than verbally answer everyone’s questions, I thought I would write down the answers. You know what I’m like. Let’s address the first point. One which, sadly, I’ve come
across a few times.
“It wasn’t a real baby.
A proper baby. You didn’t bring that
baby home with you.” No, and believe me, I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t.
Any woman who brings a baby home from hospital and takes photos of her holding
her baby and baths, feeds, clothes and loves
her baby – then for it to be taken away… That is torture. I honestly don’t
know how they would continue to wake up and get out of bed in a morning. Any
woman who has been through this and continues about her daily life is a hero in
my eyes.
But why are people so quick to dismiss a lost baby? Is it
because the outside world cannot see a baby, therefore no baby exists? Does the
same go for arthritis, diabetes, mental health problems? Isn’t that a
frightening, quintessentially British attitude to take? If you can’t see it, it can’t cause you pain.
But I did see my
baby. I saw him several times in fact – healthy, happy, wriggling around on a
screen. Waving to me, almost mocking me: “You
took your pill every single day, but look, look at me!” At no point did I
see a frail looking baby. At no point did I see a hushed look across the room
between the sonographer and the nurse. There was no tilting of the screen, no
furiously scribbled notes, no lack of eye contact. There was nothing to suggest
that my world was going to fall apart in a matter of days. That from the
Saturday morning when I was doing overtime in work, I would arrive healthy and
happy, listening to music as I ploughed through my work – and on the Sunday
night, I would have spent hours in hospital and the only thing to wipe away my
tears was a leaflet called Miscarriages
and Stillbirth.
I saw a heartbeat. I saw a person. And the saddest part, the
cruellest part, was that he was still
there. In my tummy. Still there, just fast asleep.
So. What happens next?
I lay there in bed and I accepted the continuous offer of
tea from people who didn’t really know what else to say or do. (What is it about
tea? Why do we think that drinking a cup of murky brown water will help us to
feel better? I discovered it isn’t the actual tea itself that we’re offering,
but the tea is a symbol of comfort – to those making it and those drinking it.
In times of trouble, in times of desperation, people will switch the kettle on
and bury their hands into the biscuit tin. Why? There’s something oddly
comforting about a cup of tea and a chat. Trust me. I drank so much tea in the
month that followed, I started to turn into a teabag.)
I lay there and for the first time in my life, I didn’t
actually know what I was going to do next. I’ve always been a girl with a plan. Even when I knew I would be facing bringing this child up single handedly, I was still a girl with a plan - plans that extended for the next few decades. Lovely plans. Heart warming plans. It was unexpected, but I'm ballsy and I always have a plan. Admittedly, the plan doesn’t always turn out how I initially thought, but at
least there was something. This time, I couldn’t see what was coming next. I
knew I had several hospital appointments to follow. I knew I had to have an
operation. I knew there would be conversations that I didn’t want to have. But
what about after that? What about
when the hours turn to days, the days turn to weeks, the weeks turn to months…
what do you do?
I could sit here and list all the reasons why it was unfair that my baby was taken. Having to endure the seemingly endless list of women announcing their pregnancies to the world. Having to paint a smile on my face and pretend I was happy. Having to listen to everyone at work saying "isn't she lucky?" and thinking yes, more than you know. Yes, I was pleased for them, but the jealousy was eating me alive. Why do you get to take your baby home and I don't? I would think as I hugged them and whispered congratulations in their ear, then rush off to the toilet and sob into my hands until I could no longer breathe. The world can be a very cruel place.
When I see clips on the news about mothers such as poor Baby P's, it literally makes my blood run cold. Why me? What did I do wrong that she didn't? She had a beautiful baby and she didn't deserve him. Questions buzzed round my head day in, day out. Was it because I had mayonnaise with my chips during a pub tea with the girls? Was it because I'd been blind drunk at my friend's wedding? (without knowing I was pregnant, may I add) Was it because I'd done something bad which karma was taking for her own?
The short answer is no. There was no reason. All of the very kind faced nurses would smile at me, squeeze my hand and say, "It's just one of those things". Really? I didn't believe that for a second. If I wasn't meant to have that baby, I wouldn't have fallen pregnant. The feeling crushed me. It was like I was being eaten from the outside in. My body had failed me. A woman is supposed to produce babies. I couldn't even do that. Most nights, I cried myself to sleep, my pillow sodden from my tears. I would wake up feeling hungover, despite not drinking for months, simply due to exhaustion.
When I see clips on the news about mothers such as poor Baby P's, it literally makes my blood run cold. Why me? What did I do wrong that she didn't? She had a beautiful baby and she didn't deserve him. Questions buzzed round my head day in, day out. Was it because I had mayonnaise with my chips during a pub tea with the girls? Was it because I'd been blind drunk at my friend's wedding? (without knowing I was pregnant, may I add) Was it because I'd done something bad which karma was taking for her own?
The short answer is no. There was no reason. All of the very kind faced nurses would smile at me, squeeze my hand and say, "It's just one of those things". Really? I didn't believe that for a second. If I wasn't meant to have that baby, I wouldn't have fallen pregnant. The feeling crushed me. It was like I was being eaten from the outside in. My body had failed me. A woman is supposed to produce babies. I couldn't even do that. Most nights, I cried myself to sleep, my pillow sodden from my tears. I would wake up feeling hungover, despite not drinking for months, simply due to exhaustion.
In a situation like mine, it's easy to blame science, even God. Growing up in a very Catholic family has left me simply accepting that God exists because I've never questioned otherwise. Don't get me wrong, I'm not overly religious - sex before marriage, child outside of wedlock etc - but the thought of a presence being there, watching over us somehow comforts me. Blaming statistics was much easier. Less than one percent chance of conceiving? I'd done it. Contraception was ninety seven percent effective? I was in the three percent. Out of all miscarriages, those after twelve weeks are just one percent. One teeny tiny percentage. But it happened to me. The statistics had been against me from the start and it angered me. I've never been an angry person but suddenly, I found myself throwing things, smashing things, kicking everything in sight.
I was a broken woman.
So, where do you go from there? Do I move away to a town
where no one knows me? Do I get a new job where I can start afresh? How do you
move on from something like that?
The truth is, you don’t. Not really. I mean, it gets easier.
People will succumb to the inevitable head tilt and ask me how I’m doing and
they’ll press their lips together while they await my answer – and gradually, I
won’t be completely lying when I say that I’m doing alright. Just alright. Not
100%. But alright.
My counsellor says we have an image in our heads of us
needing to be a ten out of ten at all times. She says it’s okay to be less than
that. I reckon I’m about an eight or a nine now. This has been helped by
liberal amounts of alcohol, a great workforce and the best friends and family a
girl could ask for. Naively, I used to think the perfect 10 referred to a woman's size. It isn't that at all. It's about a woman's happiness.
For a long while, I suspected I would be stuck at two or three forever. Gradually, I moved to a five. And I’m quite pleased to be where I’m at now. In all honesty, I doubt I’ll be a ten ever again in my life – losing this baby has taken something out of my heart which I don’t think can be replaced. My arms ached to hold my child for weeks afterwards (but I thought it was from all the blood tests) Talking about what had happened gave me comfort. Some people could not accept this. For some bizarre reason, they thought I should have taken a vow of silence. Pretended it hadn't happened. Gone about my daily business within a day or two. It's so sad that the society we live in will accept photographs of Kim Kardashian's greased up naked body, yet someone mentions the word miscarriage and everyone looks away.
For each person who has said - or thought - something along these lines, you're a cunt. You were born a cunt, raised by cunts and quite frankly, will always be one.
For a long while, I suspected I would be stuck at two or three forever. Gradually, I moved to a five. And I’m quite pleased to be where I’m at now. In all honesty, I doubt I’ll be a ten ever again in my life – losing this baby has taken something out of my heart which I don’t think can be replaced. My arms ached to hold my child for weeks afterwards (but I thought it was from all the blood tests) Talking about what had happened gave me comfort. Some people could not accept this. For some bizarre reason, they thought I should have taken a vow of silence. Pretended it hadn't happened. Gone about my daily business within a day or two. It's so sad that the society we live in will accept photographs of Kim Kardashian's greased up naked body, yet someone mentions the word miscarriage and everyone looks away.
For each person who has said - or thought - something along these lines, you're a cunt. You were born a cunt, raised by cunts and quite frankly, will always be one.
A child who loses its parents is an orphan. There is no word
for a woman who has lost a child. The saddest moment of the entire saga was the
day before my operation when I was signing the consent forms to go under a
general anaesthetic. There was a section which I pushed towards my mum, who was
sat in the room with me at the time.
“You need to sign it,”
I said, pushing it towards her.
“Where does it say
that?” the doctor asked, confused.
“There,” I pointed
out. “It says mother’s signature
needed.”
“No, Emily,” the
doctor said, quietly, pushing it back towards me. “It’s talking about you.”
In the weeks that followed the miscarriage, truth be told, I
needed something to distract me. Writing is what I would normally do, but I had
completely lost all inspiration. I lost count of the amount of times, I would
pick up my laptop and twenty minutes later, I would be a sobbing wreck with a
zero word count. Exercise was out of the question for six weeks after my
operation. I’d bought and wrapped all my Christmas presents. I’d painted my
nails. My bedroom was immaculate. I was bored.
So, now we’ve reached a point in the blog where I set out my
little begging mission. I need your help. I’ve registered myself for the Great
Manchester Run in May 2015, where I’ll be raising money for Tommy’s, the baby
charity. They’re a great charity and their work investigates why miscarriages
happen and what can be done to prevent future miscarriages and baby loss. Not
only is it something I can work towards, something to give me focus and get my
backside out of bed on bad days, but the run also happens to take place on my
due date. If that wasn’t a sign for me to do this, I don’t know what was.
I’ve put down £500 as my target and although it’s a hell of
a lot of money, I’d like to think I can make it. This is the last time I’ll
talk about what happened. Talking about it comforts me, but it hurts too and I
am determined that 2015 will be a happy year. I won’t be bombarding your Facebook
timelines with pleas for donations. I won’t be begging for retweets on Twitter.
I’ll simply ask you here, now, for your help. Just one pound is all I ask. My
last blog entry had over 50,000 views. If every person who reads my blog
donates one pound, I’m sure I’ll hit my target. (Plus I sponsor everyone for everything - sometimes even when people don't actually DO the task they want sponsors for!) I want to turn a negative into a positive and I can't think of a better way than by giving money to people who really need it.
Wouldn't it be lovely if every time a woman makes a baby, she gets to take the baby home with her? Every time. Without fail. Maybe one day it will be like that.
Wouldn't it be lovely if every time a woman makes a baby, she gets to take the baby home with her? Every time. Without fail. Maybe one day it will be like that.
This is the link: https://www.justgiving.com/Emily-Chriscoli
For everyone asking, I'm genuinely okay. Honestly. I'm looking forward to the New Year. I've made one resolution and it's to be happy. It's taken over a year for me to realise that my happiness doesn't depend on anyone else other than me. A person cannot be happy with anyone if the person is not happy with themselves. Whether that's from holidays, writing, eating, dating, drinking wine, exercising, chatting, reading, having sex, driving, learning - I will spend my entire year smiling and laughing.
Oh, and I want to do something new every month. I've signed myself up for self defence classes starting in January. After being mugged twice, it's a skill I could do with, plus I think it will give me some much needed self confidence. I've already got plans for speed dating, dance lessons, scuba diving and rock climbing. If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.
One last thought before I pop off to bed – I’ve had lots of words of wisdom over the last few weeks. I’ve stored them up and kept them in my head so even if I didn’t verbally respond – I was like a zombie – I do appreciate everyone’s kind words. The best words, however, came from my sister. It’s something I think about last thing at night before I go to sleep:
Oh, and I want to do something new every month. I've signed myself up for self defence classes starting in January. After being mugged twice, it's a skill I could do with, plus I think it will give me some much needed self confidence. I've already got plans for speed dating, dance lessons, scuba diving and rock climbing. If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.
One last thought before I pop off to bed – I’ve had lots of words of wisdom over the last few weeks. I’ve stored them up and kept them in my head so even if I didn’t verbally respond – I was like a zombie – I do appreciate everyone’s kind words. The best words, however, came from my sister. It’s something I think about last thing at night before I go to sleep:
“Your first baby is such an exciting time. It’s a lifetime
of firsts. First positive pregnancy test, first scan, first kick… The list is
endless. And it’s cruel that you’ve been robbed of this. But think of it this
way – you get to do it all again one day. You get to do the first everything for a second time. How special is that.”
Happy New Year,
folks. Make it count.