“Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it.” – Jacques Prévert

The weeks pass by and nothing changes. It’s the same pattern… the same rituals… the same pitiful story. My supposed thick exterior is protecting my brittle insides. I know that, however, in these few weeks I’ve had many opportunities to develop my tact and poise. Tact, while smiling at that student who hunts me down during playground duty just to tell me, “your baby died”… as if I didn’t know… every single time. Calmly, with a smile replying “yes, dear, I know”… every single time. Poise, to not punch the woman who went on to describe with glee how her cousin continued to smoke and binge drink throughout all her pregnancies and how, “they all turned out fine.” But really… have they? Are you really having this conversation with me? You do know what just happened, right? 

I know some people just don’t think, but oh, the things I could write… you have no idea.

Tact and poise, tact and poise…

My dreaded appointment has finally arrived at the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Clinic and I take the first session off work to attend. My parents are away celebrating their 35^th wedding anniversary and husband is again told not to come. Why drag us both through the mud, right? I sit in the desolate waiting room, flicking through magazines, flexing my jaw, widening my eyes, trying not to cry. This hospital makes me feel feeble and pathetic. The appointment’s running late, as the head Feto-Maternal obstetrician has been called away. My imagination runs wild thinking of the poor couple that may be upstairs right now receiving their sad news. My heart hurts for them. With apologies I’m eventually invited into another clinical room. A nurse, a social worker and the sweet obstetrician with the old blue eyes, the one that rubbed my arm all those months ago, are sitting informally, welcoming and warm. I’m alone, but they look at ease as I convincingly justify my solitude. We talk for over an hour… where I cry and cry at the injustice of it all, at being here, at having to relive it all again and at the fact that this isn’t going away anytime soon. Lots of questions are unable to be answered. The sweet man revealed that it was only the second case he’d come across in his whole 46 year career and that most of the staff would have only read about it in medical journals. She really should have been a ‘miscarriage’. Her little organs were too weak, too damaged. She should never have been, but she was. Again, I’m not too sure how to take it. I’m relieved, but angered at the same time, that nothing is “at fault.” It’s unfair. I’m warned to not even try to work out ‘why’ and the meeting ends with the advice to take a pregnancy multi at least 3 months before falling pregnant again. Lucky for me, I bought in bulk as soon as I found out I was pregnant and have continued to take my pills for the pink tub every morning. It’s just another daily reminder that I refuse to throw away. I’ve still got two tubs to go…

Gosh, I feel this story’s getting old. I want a new one…

I drive back to school thinking how am I going to get through the rest of the day. I’m a mess. I was so fortunate that the first person I saw was just the person I needed. She has always been able to make me feel vulnerable, safe and normal all at the same time. Who knew that “I’m fine” or “I’m ok”, wasn’t ‘fine’ or ‘ok’. Who would sit with me and have a laugh. Who made me feel like I always had someone looking out for me. Who understood in a way that not many others could. Who I will forever call friend.

With all this in mind… I compose myself. I’ve 32 kids and a Maths lesson waiting for me.

“Friend pick us up when we fall down, and if they can’t pick us up, they lie down and listen for a while.”