Allow me a moment to boast. Myself and the husband unit did something really good.
We’re lucky enough to have a lot of love and, out of that love (to our idiot astonishment), came a small burst of life: I was pregnant. But sadly the little life didn’t make it. I had a miscarriage before it really had a chance to get comfortable in there. Just at the end of last month.
Surprising in the sadness is the sense of thankfulness for who was, and that we got to be involved at all. Thankful, too, that it was quiet and private and at home, and not in a hospital.
Almost every woman I’ve told has quietly said, “Me, too.” One had lost her baby just the week before me. Unlike me, she had named her daughter; she had things to unwish for and plans to unmake.
My doctor, who I love, to protect me, wrote “viral illness” on my sick cert. I’ve lied about it in work. I’m not exactly clear on why. Why do we not mention miscarriages?
The husband unit went and had another birthday and we ate beef wellington and drank two bottles of sparkling wine: one expensive, one cheap.
And, I got a new job. That company called me back and offered me a more senior role than the one I’d applied for: more responsibility, longer hours, better pay. It’s a little hard to believe…and a little hard to care, to be honest. Nothing like a bit of death to put a bit of perspective on things. Or is that a bit of life?
Anyway, we are ok, but a bit like play-doh at the moment: squishy and easily smashed flat if not approached with tenderness. On the upside, play-doh smells oddly good, is brightly coloured and ruins even the fanciest of carpets. And is non-toxic to children.