When I was 13 going on 14, I was going to marry both Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith from Tears For Fears. It was going to be a double wedding. It wasn’t that either of them was particularly attractive (although Curt is looking quite handsome these days), but we had a connection. I was sure they were singing to me as they walked the sultry windswept beach in Shout. And they were British which was such an appealing place for me at that time – for the first time in 10 years I returned to England with my mother and got to see the places of my early childhood again, and be wrapped up in the stories of my mothers childhood which seemed so full of bitter north east English romanticism. Roland and Curt summed it all up. Although for a while it was a toss up between TFF and the Thompson Twins of which I was sure to become the 4th member.
I can explain my life with songs. The emotive pull of a chord set, or the utter relevance of a verse and chorus, even a single sentence. Songs can take me back to places in an instance. My pregnancy isn’t something I’ve talked about here except in veils of piles of fabric, or pieces of fabricated clothing and knitted stitches. Yet it is such a massive intrusion – yes I have used the right word – into my current life, that it has been a struggle at times to not let it taint my writings. My pregnancy anthems have been 2 Tears For Fears songs :: Woman In Chains, and Mad World. I could listen to them over and over. They fit. They are right. We have a connection.
A pregnancy is so much more than a child growing within you. It is a function of the environment which surrounds you physically and emotionally during that journey, and the people who are there to either support you, or not. I’m battling with the physical aspects of pregnancy, and the emotive environment around me as well, and the last few weeks have seen a number of events shape the energy of the pregnant woman. I am drained. Sucked almost dry by constant pullings within and around me, tired from standing upright, and fed up with continuing down this path.
Someone said to me last year when I started talking about getting pregnant, and the conversation had turned to how hard the first pregnancy was on me, that no 2 pregnancies are alike. The suggestion being that the second one might be glorious. In one respect they were right – no 2 pregnancies are alike. Some are worse. And this is where I find myself. The first 3 months gripped by morning sickness even more intense than with Max. Then a body which decided to go straight to 6 months pregnant without batting an eyelid, seemingly overnight. At 3 months. My body can’t cope with the extreme changes within me, and now at 24 weeks, it’s collapsing around me. The weight of a baby – who is not huge I might add, I just make a nice comfy mansion for baby to lounge around in – suddenly contained in front has taken my body by surprise. I struggle with body image, and whereas with Max I got to 7 months before the ‘due any moment’ comments started, to deal with them from 5 months is slightly unnerving, and a little insensitive and hurtful to a mind already borne fragile by the experience. My close friends were warned months ago to not say a word.
Now I have SPD and need help. My whole pelvic bone structure is distorted and stretched, trapping my baby within it so she bangs to be let out, adding more pressure to the area. The relaxed ligaments cannot hold the pelvic plate in place, and the bones are rubbing against each other, shooting pain through me as I walk, and rise from sitting, and roll over in bed. Dull ache pain seeps through my groin all day, every day. The ligaments from my sacrum area are pulled against their natural movement, causing constant lower back pain, and the residual damage from the smashed coccyx a few years ago adds another layer of daily ache. I’ve lost track of the times I have cried silently at my desk at work for the constancy of it all. 15 more weeks seems like a lifetime.
I’ve lost a very close friend through pregnancy, and the loss of this person in my life :: not dead, just silent and unresponsive :: has played on my mind daily. I have run out of options to change the situation, so battle with hope they might suddenly return, and grieve that they’re not there to share. And work. Something I keep very much separate from here. A high pressured job, nearing completion, which will be a fabulous addition to my portfolio, but which has been relentless and stressful and hard throughout. Both babies are due at the same time - both will be beautiful structures. My mind is fading, my concentration faltering and I’m terrified of the mistakes I’m starting to make.
I’ve looked to the midwives and staff at my hospital to find a part of me which can be hopeful for a good birth. What is a good birth? Surely it’s a healthy baby, no matter how it arrives. Yes. But I had a difficult and unexpected birth with Max, and hence a lot of unresolved feelings about what should have happened, and could have happened if things had been different. I need reassurance and support from the people around me that I have the strength and ability to do this. Of course I do – but until you’re in this situation, it makes no sense. I envy first time mothers their bliss soaked naivety and optimism. Perhaps, like pregnancy, no two births are the same. I thank particularly the cold hearted clinical obstetrician (not seen by choice I might add – it’s hospital policy to see an ob once through ante-natal care. I’m still not sure why in this case) who saw me for all of 2 minutes and ended by saying that he didn’t think I could birth, but if I wanted to try VBAC, well, I could give it a try in a resigned way, but remember the statistics I told you. Thanks. My reading suggests otherwise. So the anxiety builds.
My piles of fabric are little symbolic totem poles to the dedication of having a child, and are small moments of delight in what and who I will soon meet. They are my glimmers of substance and hope, the forged reality of a life of which the birth is but a small part, and for which the joy of seeing her in the clothes I made for her will be a much more satisfying and fulfilling part. So continue to indulge me my piles, for they build my bond and give me hope.
