While sorting, tidying and chucking the other day, I came across a letter. Actually I came across a whole pile, I seem to be really bad at keeping on top of paperwork.
However, this one turned out to be from the hospital, and invited me to a memorial service to remember my baby (it was in between the miscarriages) to be held sometime late spring, in a marquee in a carpark. There was a slip to send back if I wanted my baby’s name read out and a candle lit.
This infuriated me somewhat at the time, bit of a paltry follow up. Last night on the way to bed though, it suddenly because too much to handle. You see, I didn’t give them names. There was nothing to give a name too. There was no baby, simply a not very fertilised egg, and it didn’t last long enough for dreams or names or hopes or wishes to have any kind of form.
Was I supposed to give them names? Would it have helped? I can’t stop crying (again) – I wept all over Tim for what felt like hours last night. Wrap it up with the fact that every period feels like a little failure, and another step towards no more children (ticking body clocks have nothing on what’s going on in my head at the moment) and I couldn’t have found that letter at a worse time.
There’s a post in draft somewhere about, ranting about the absolutely dire way my second miscarriage was handled, and the complete lack of any kind of follow up psychological assistance. I can have drugs, that’s no problem at all, but they don’t help me (it really doesn’t help to become completely disassociated from the world around, especially when you spend so much of each day driving up and down the M1) and my doctor doesn’t believe in counselling. Online therapy that rattles on about warpy thoughts left me wanting to throw the puter about out of the window – just because I have depression doesn’t make me a fool you know.
I just want to feel better. I wouldn’t really mind stopping wanting to have another baby (I think) – I’d just like to be able to enjoy my life again instead of dragging myself through each day and hating the fact I don’t seem to be able to be nice to the children I have.
(So if you were wondering why there were no posts for a while, there you have it, it felt completely hypocritical to waffle on about day to day nothings when really all I wanted to do was scream. Then I realised that I felt even more isolated when I wasn’t posting so I started again. Bet you wish I hadn’t bothered.)
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