On Summer Fruits and Staying Alive
“Can you pass my bottle of Summer Fruits over, please?”
These were the first words out of my mouth this morning. I rubbed the sticky sleep from my eyes as Reuben, who was already talking in my face about his birthday wishes (for December), reached over to the thief’s side (his dad’s) and retrieved the stolen bottle.
Insta-dentists (is that a thing?) look away for this confession: I can’t drink water anymore. It has to be diluting juice/squash/cordial/whatever you call it. And it has to be Tesco’s Summer Fruits. It’s the only thing I could drink through Asher’s pregnancy and the thought of plain old water still makes me feel like someone turned my stomach inside out. Sometimes I’ll down a glass of water to make my husband’s day, but I’ll wretch profusely in the process.
This day last year I was at my 36 week antenatal appointment. Alone. And on this day, my bump measurement fell off the chart. The dear midwife, unable to hide her panic, sent me for a growth scan.
After the doctor took my baby’s measurements 3 times, he confirmed everything was okay. I just had an unusually small bump, perhaps due to my long body.
Or perhaps due to being so physically and mentally ill.
On the third measurement, the room started to spin in a cocktail of anxiety, a very hot room, and having laid on my back for too long. So I prayed. And then I blacked out and vomited into my hands. When I recovered, the doctor said it was very ‘helpful’ of me to catch my vomit. “No problem,” I replied, obligingly
I don’t know how I got home, but 2 days later a speeding ticket arrived through the letter box. On my birthday, no less. My hands were still shaking as I ate a lukewarm tuna and cheese toastie with a piping hot cup of tea (still my comfort meal of choice) before going to see my fellow pregnant friend.
Recently, I tried to write about said-pregnancy, but I couldn’t. My mind wanted to go anywhere but THERE.
Type. Delete. Type. Make some toast. Type. Delete. Cry.
I’m just not ready to relive it. And that’s okay, because it’s still a wound, but some day it will become a scar.
I don’t know why I’m sharing this, except to say that today, I’m really happy to be enjoying this boy on the outside. He is absolute gold. I’m so happy I grew his little life and I’m so happy I stayed alive to see it.
Pregnancy is a privilege. But the curse of pain in childbearing didn’t stop at labour. From monthly cycles to menopause, from infertility to incessant carseat tantrums, from miscarriage to mental illness. Pain and joy co-exist in an exhausting tandem. Life and death dance far too closely.
Today, it’s life. It’s sun and giggles and carrot puffs and curly hair and learning to stand and coffees and tuna-cheese toasties and walks and snuggles and deep chats and baths and Grace and maybe a happy cry. Oh, and Summer Fruits.