I have always wanted to write anyway. So finally, at 43 I find I actually have something to write about and so, this is my blog. As I typed in the beginning I didn’t even know what I was going to call it. And I still don’t know how it will pan out. I don’t want to come across as self-obsessed or completely broken, but I am so under-whelmed with my life and over-whelmed by other people’s at the moment I need to take back control. So that is what it is about. My blog. How do I do that? Feel strong again? What am I going to do with the rest of my life?
While I absolutely admire anyone who has made a career from either writing about their life or capturing beautiful moments on their Instagram feed, and believe me I have these moments too, plenty of them, at the moment I am stuck In a strange pin balling between between utter despair and heart-wrenching grief and over-whelming love and hope. Before my last miscarriage all I wanted was the little white cottage cookie cutter life, my picture perfect, puke free babies dressed cosily in pale grey. But now this has happened to me again, I have to be brave, tell the truth about life. I am not going to ever write about my very limited range of Emma Bridgewater although I have spent a lovely day at her factory decorating my now prized butter dish [not pictured] or my view on fashion over 40, although I love dresses, and can be mainly found in vintage-style dress, Adidas, leather jacket combo or ballet flats if the occasion requires.
My only fear is that if I really am honest day one, I am going to scare you away and more importantly frighten myself seeing it all down in black and white. If I let it all out I will never be able to get it back inside my tightly packed head where it has been for some time, and safely stored away from prying eyes. So to break both of us in gently, dear reader some basics.
I am 43. Despite my only ever dream of being a farmer’s wife and having babies, I have worked all of my life in digital media. First creating content, selling advertising, moving into ecommerce when it started to emerge in the nineties. My latest job was running a multimillion pound e-channel for a very well known heavy iron merchant. I have been married twice. My husband is tall and broad and sweet and supportive but a knob sometimes by his own admission, aren’t we all. He is permanently attached to his iPhone unless he is taking part in some expensive pursuit like shooting, flying, or scuba diving which actually we do together. It’s how we met, but that’s another story. We married in Vegas. We both wish we had met in our twenties and say it out loud often. More often probably in the last year as we struggle to have a family. We have achieved a lot in our 6 years together including moving into our dream house in the country. We have a dog, a Jack Russell. Who is 17, deaf and amazing. We have also been pregnant twice and miscarried twice in the last 12 months making a grand total for me, of 3 miscarriages, no children.
Our last miscarriage was 8 weeks ago. We had IVF with the support of an egg donor. We lost our baby, named Maximus Decimus Meridius, a good strong name given to keep him safe even though we have no idea whether he was a girl or a boy. He had a twin who was missing from the first scan. We were and still are devastated. I particularly am stuck in a fog of grief and fear that I battle every day and night. Even my dreams are taken away for nightmares of babies being stolen, or me drowning, that feeling of grasping on to your last moments of air. Have no fear my subconscious is spelling everything out loud and clear for me at the moment. I want to write about all of this more. My experiences through this time, good and bad, our decision to give it one more go. It may help me, help others, be entertaining I hope more for my sake not yours.
There are many things about life that worry me at the moment. Getting pregnant again and miscarrying being the most concerning. Not getting pregnant again at all. What will come after that if we don’t get pregnant? In my darkest moments my unruly brain pictures me left alone and hopeless after my husband leaves me for a new younger and much more fertile woman who can deliver babies, with one squeeze of her perfectly honed thighs bouncy blow dry perfectly in place. In my bravest moments I am surrounded by my children, our dogs, and family running around like a mother clearing spills, baking cake, tripping over toys. Somewhere in the middle of these two vivid apparitions is my new life, and over the next few months I mean to find it.
Next Time: My MoJo