Aftermath

I've been feeling a bit better the last few days. I went to the hospital on Saturday to confirm what I already knew. I thought I would feel worse, but it was almost a relief - at least I had a definitive answer. Days of bed rest had left me with too much time to think, and I was tired of the false hope being given by somewhat disinterested health professionals. I just needed someone to look me in the eye and tell me it was over.

Distraction has helped, a trip to Dublin with friends for a gathering on grassroots organising has left me with a bit of perspective and a new focus. The social aspect of the evenings were an added bonus. Pints of cider mixed with roll-up cigarettes and angry girl punk bands have had an profoundly medicinal effect on my sadness. There is nothing like mildly self-destructive behaviour to make a girl feel better.

It was nice to be around people who were not walking on eggshells around me, waiting for me to fall apart. There is something about being teased or punched in the arm when you're experiencing despair that is such a relief. It makes you feel human again, having someone do something to you which they would never do to someone who they knew was sad. Back to normality. My sister said that if she were me she would make a list of all the things I had worried I would miss out on when I found out I was pregnant and then go and do them. Good advice, I think, except I couldn't really think of anything I was dreading giving up (except coffee, but I think I needed to do that anyway). So I acted like a teenager for the weekend. I wandered around a city with a tin of beer and sang bad 80s tunes at the top of my lungs while walking arm and arm with friends. I stayed up until daylight arguing about nothing and laughing at less than nothing. I slept in my clothes and did the walk of shame through Dublin. I took the train home and we talked all they way to Belfast about our plans for the social centre and the world. It was a good weekend.

So there it is. Life is back to normal. Just like that.

Normality carries with it its own problems. There are moments that I feel bad for trying to move on, like I should grieve a bit longer to show my respect to the life I had inside of me that is no more. My desire to try again feels like a betrayal, as if I am simplifying loss of a baby into something as trivial as replacing a dead hamster with a new one. Even the fact that I deleted the blogs associated with my pregnancy and its end leaves me with a sense of dismissal - as though I have decided that part of my life did not exist, that joy last week never happened.

I console myself with the mantra "there is no right way to do this," and just keep moving. This morning I cried in the car while listening to this song. The opening lines sum up all of the things I feel into a neat little ball.

Some days aren't yours at all, they come and go as if they're someone else's days. They go and leave you behind someone else's face - and it's harsher than yours, colder than yours

The happiest and saddest days of my life so far occurred within three days of each other, less than one week ago. Why is it starting to feel like they never happened?