I was looking forward to going out. I remember getting stomach cramps which I put down to period pain, because I always got them really painful and I usually bleed heavy. I stopped to go to the toilet, and I discovered a stain the color of a "show" that a woman normally gets before going into labour, and I thought nothing of it at all, as I had given birth to a baby not long before hand, so I ignored it, thinking it might just be a light period.
When you think of a family you see a mother and a father with their children. Be it they have one or six. They spend time together, laugh with each other. Make memories, and have great moments. They would go spend time with grandparents, or aunts and uncles, or cousins. Thats what I picture as a family. I had to picture in my head what a family is.
"Give Thanks," proclaims the Vicar, from the front of the cavernous church. His loud and confident command, however quickly softens, perhaps in respect of the service he conducts, or embarrassment at the negligent faces of a congregation, who would rather do anything but 'give thanks' for something that has torn their hearts into shreds, and buried the fragments on some painfully distant desert island.
Published 6 months ago
Nearly two years ago, after a successful, stress free pregnancy, which was greatly received, after two miscarriages before that. Knowing that I’d passed the three month danger zone, the rest would be a breeze. Turning off the podcasts that had been about miscarriages and baby loss—I didn’t need to listen to anything like this, as if my baby would die now that the danger zone had passed. I allowed myself the freedom of having a glass of wine on the weekend, as my baby kicked away in my belly. I allowed myself to completely relax and unwind, all felt so well. I allowed myself to look for names for the baby, buy a few things for the little one for when it arrived. I wouldn’t find out the sex, as I wanted that to be a surprise, deep down I knew he was a boy though. The last few hours he had been really kicking, doing a final dance in my belly, before coming out into the world.
Thursday March 21, 2019 10:45 AM:
My oldest brother, Arthur Jr., always looked out for his younger siblings. I remember him making things for me at school and presenting them to me, his baby sister, with so much pride. He was in the third grade by the time I was born. He and I never even went to the same school due to our age difference. Although we became distant for a few years as adults, by the time he and his third wife separated, we were close again.
At age 20, I experienced something I never wish I would ever experience in my life, losing a child. So I am going to give you a back story on what happened.
Things that I never told you are immense, heavy and deep. The secrets that I keep are a thousand times greater than the ones we share when we eat. I think this at times as I sit across from my friends at our favorite restaurants. I wonder how many hold secrets they never speak about? Maybe it is time that we all just stop trying to be so strong, and admit that we hurt too. Men hurt too.
It's ungraciously early on a biting spring morning and I'm watching my youngest son haring across the school tarmac, little chuffs of steam trailing his wake in the white March sunlight, and I'm crying. Not with the sentimentality such inevitable maternal unbridling provokes—nor icy panic caused by my nest emptying at an alarming rate. I'm crying because the canteen staff are cooking meat and onions, and I'm remembering my mothers shepherd's pie.
The clocks strikes 3 PM, the sound of a key being hit against the metal door signaling our arrival. Inaudible commotion is heard as the wooden door opens and I see the welcoming smile of my grandma. As soon as I enter the humble home, every sense in my body is stimulated; my eyes follow everyone gathering around the dining table. I can smell the chili and feel the warmness of my grandpa's menudo. The smell is so strong I can almost taste it, but I'm interrupted by the screams and eager hugs of my nieces. It is another Sunday at my grandparents' house. It is memories embedded in my mind.
I’m angry. Bottled up frustration and anger is not healthy for anyone, even those involved. One person can only be pushed so far before they crack and the flood gates open.
In February of 2018, I left work early. I work at a factory and just wasn’t feeling it that day. My mom and I came through the door and my dad was home. He was disabled, so he didn’t work. My mom worked with me. He was excited to see that my mom and I were home. He asked if everything was okay. We both told him yes. He sat my mom down and told her he had stage four esophageal cancer, which was caused by acid reflux.