The perfect 10.

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. 

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. 

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.

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:

“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.