At Last..

At last... I found a dream that I could speak to, I found a thrill to press my cheek to...

I suppose this is what contentment feels like. That feeling one gets sitting by the fire, with a good steak and kidney pie in ones belly, the feel of a soft black jumper all-too-recently on ones cheek, and a healthy son nestled in ones stomach, happily somersaulting away without a care in the world. Wish I could join you in there son, although that would be an acrobatic feat worth a few quid..
Even a sporadic onset of flu-like symptoms can't seem to get me down. Snuffle. Legs ache as usual, the same shooting pains I get at the backs of my knees and down each calf as the nights draw in, and a nicely sleepy feeling.. I'll sleep well tonight, provided my little man keeps still. And right on cue, he gives me a big wriggle and a kick. Youch. Good job I love you matey, else I'd be tempted to give you a big kick back!
It's been a long time coming, this chilled-out feeling, this lovely warm glow, and I hope it's here to stay.

Tears And Fears

I am Poppy, abstaining from my diary because to write down the torrent of emotions of the past few weeks would be to force myself to examine and re-examine and cross-examine the agonies that are a result of the choices I have made.
I had a scan today, halfway through my pregnancy, eating terribly as money is scarce but seeming to do okay; everything appeared fine, normal, good reassuring words used soothingly by well-trained women who are used to terrified faces of first-time mums and necks craned to look at grainy black and white moving magic pictures of their little ones.
I awake with nightmares some nights, flashes like the trailer of a Hollywood horror film of blood, images of gore, pictures of death and hospital waiting rooms and corridors and latex gloves and flashing lights and screams. I lie awake not feeling my baby move, fearing the worst, saying to myself that it would be a fitting punishment for an unfit mother, prodding my abdomen, desperate for a wriggle or a movement of some sort.
And then today, I see him there, kicking and writhing and flailing his fists, headbutting my bladder, well alive and thrashing around inside me, and I cannot even cry, so shocked, so relieved, halfway there and nothing going wrong yet.. I am blessed. We left the hospital, a few grainy black and white photos of hands and big feet and a right little poser, smiling, and I start to look to the future. My future, our future, me and my little boy. Things might just be okay.

Drowning

For the last week or so I haven't been able to shake these blues, well, this big black cloud following me around. They have shifted from ignoring and unsupportive to downright abusive and harrassing me, text message after text message of nastiness- and now this. I spend my days considering suicide and abortion, ways out, because I honestly cannot see a way forward any more. I sit still and fantasise about a time when none of this was happening, when I was happy in my work and had a beautiful home and was just building bridges with my parents. I dream of ways out, I stand on train platforms and see myself stepping off them as the train approaches. I lie in bed at night and tick off all of the things I would solve if I just wasn't here any more. I struggle to love my baby, to do right by him/her, when I keep smacking into walls and walls and walls of people shouting me down and worming their way inside my mind. I honestly cannot cope any more. I have become irrational, my head filled with images of dead discarded babies in hospital corridors and funeral processions and ticks in boxes. I fear that I am slowly going mental, and pushing everyone away- everyone who hasn't pushed me away first. I cannot do this any more. I have no strength left, ebbed away by hour after hour of people telling me I'm not ready, I won't cope, I have no right to bring up a child who didn't ask for it, beating me, defeating me, and I'm just struggling now. I want to go to bed and not wake up again. I just want it all to end. I want me to end. I cannot see hope or a good future, I cannot see through this at all.
So sorry if I have dragged you down, and sorry if these past few days I've made it hard for you- but I'm actually going insane. I'm not eating properly, can fit in my own pre-pregnancy jeans again, because I can't focus on what's good and what's right for my child. I'm overwhelmed by a permanent grief, and a small, evil voice creeps in and whispers that it isn't too late for a termination. That voice is my mothers, and it whispers constantly, drilling into my mind with insecurities and embedding all of my worst fears.
I feel as though I am drowning.
Drowning
drowning
drowning.

Bad Food.

Doing a bit of internet research, I've just logged onto the Cow and Gate baby food website to look up foods to avoid, as so far it's all guesswork, and am I glad I've had a look, because I'm doing AWFULLY at this. I thought my lashings of meat, fish and fruit and veg were absolutely great, but in the past week I've had so many foods on their 'Foods To Avoid' list it's a wonder Social Services aren't going up there with a latex glove to take my child away from me already.
-Ice cream, mayonnaise; I can't have those because they're made with raw eggs, and I used to live off mayo and ice cream before I found out I was pregnant. And I can count three small tubs of Ben and Jerrys just last week. Well Asda had them for a pound, it would have been rude not to. I continue..
-Undercooked or rare meat; that rare/blue steak sandwich I had with Alicia at the pub last week, that consequently ended up in the loo in Starbucks after I sicked it all back up again, but nonetheless.
-Smoked salmon. And I thought I was doing so well with my salmon salads! BUGGER. What can I eat?!
-Soft cheeses. Well I had brie and camembert last night as snacks. I'm really quite bad at this.
-Tuna. Contains mercury, apparently, so I'm only meant to have a can a week. Well I've not exceeded that this week, but crikey, they've ruled out my entire diet!
-Peanuts. I'll just stuff my bag of peanut brittle under the sofa here and we'll say no more about that ey? And we'll forget that crunchy peanut butter I've just bought from Asda as well. Crikey, right I'm off to look at what I can eat, because I think I'm about to starve for the next 6 months. Humph. On a serious note, I feel terrible, and grossly naive. I need to start admitting that I might need help with this, as I only have this one chance, and I'm really fluffing it up.

Lonely Lonely.

Sitting on my sofa listening to the song Lonely Lonely by Feist probably isn't the most productive way to spend my morning. I have returned from the doctors, frustrated with the waiting, and wasting an hour before I return and drop a urine sample in for him to send to the hospital to confirm that I am pregnant. He said I should call his receptionist on Thursday, but, in my admittedly limited knowledge of these things, surely his receptionist won't be privy to my results? Times are clearly changing if she is, she's a friend of my Mums and a member of my old church. I am affronted by the sheer possibility.
My doctor says he will find me a midwife in the meantime, so clearly no hospital pregnancy test is required; he took one look at me and asked me to describe my symptoms, and said I looked glowing and exhausted, very typical symptoms of a pregnant woman! Nice to see all those years spent studying paid off then, eh doc? Glowing and exhausted. I smile to myself, as it all starts to feel a little more real now, and my plan starts to formulate in my mind.
He asked me if my pregnancy was 'unplanned', by which he meant, I suppose, what I intended to do next. I fixed him with that cheery smile that I reserve for the ladies in the canteen at work, and old friends I see in the street, and family gatherings, and force out an upbeat declaration that it is unplanned, but very welcome. I hear my words again, in that false, cheery tone, and see his relieved smile as he turns to type something onto his screen that I don't see. Unplanned, but very welcome. I see. Box three stays slammed closed, kicked to the bottom of the closet, and is not even an option now. I am haunted by images of destruction, nightmares last night that woke me, grubby and throwing my duvet from myself in the early hours of this morning, pictures of loneliness that close in on me now as I sit here, all by myself. By myself, but not alone. Never alone. Two people in every room I walk into, one, two. Two choices, one, two. Two more days until I am back at work, answering questions and explaining why I haven't got a doctors certificate, waiting for the gossip mill to start churning, the disciplinary procedures to carry on, waiting, waiting, lonely, lonely.. Lonely, lonely, that is me..

Dead.

Poor little squashed bird. I step over it on the pavement, a mass of clotted brown and white feathers, matted with dried blood, as I trudge to the doctors. I see death everywhere. Dead leaves, torn away from their life source and crispy brown and pitiful on the ground. Dead looks in my eyes reflected in cold car windows. Dead skin around my chewed fingernails. Fingernails. Scratching into the consciousness of my morning, as I crunch through dead leaves, and I am not alone. I am never alone. The extra person in every room, invisible but for a slightly thicker waistline, slightly tighter jeans- there are two of us now. I know this, but am on my way to my doctors to receive an ear-bashing from the receptionist for missing my last appointment, and to be told what I already know- that I am pregnant. A familiar feeling of nausea spins in my stomach. I am due a 12 week scan now, surely. Any day now. I cast my mind back guiltily to binge drinking sessions, cocktail nights, cider swigged on walls defiantly at pub closing times, parties where I stayed drunk for days, and hope with all my fruit and vegetables and vitamins now, I can start to rectify some of the damage I may have done. I don't stop by the store every day for Marlboro Reds anymore, but rather fruits and vegetables, smoothies and fresh fish. I hope it will all be okay.

Failing.

I have just walked half an hour to the local supermarket, only to find that it is closed. I kick myself and head home, my mentally-compiled shopping list of salmon trimmings, lemon sole, potato, and full fat soft cheese quashed by the sunday trading hours. There is a small Tesco Express around the corner from my house, but my measly few pounds won't go very far in there. I had been so excited about 20p nectarines, about lemon sole for less than a pound, about being able to afford good food, I am kicking myself as I trudge home, legs tired already from the effort, and dreading tomorrow's phone call to work. No, I'm not coming in, as I have been throwing up for 8 days now and the Motillium-10 the doctor gave me the first time round is doing nothing for me. Of course, I will fail to mention that I'm not actually taking it, because it is harmful to pregnant women, and am instead relying on dry toast and peppermint tea to ease the nausea. Play dumb, don't even mention the P-word until it has been confirmed by a doctor, and I can go and wave a piece of paper at them and shut them all up. Maybe I will take the whole week off work. That would leave me thirty pounds to eat with all week. Thirty pounds. That's a fiver a day, easily lived off, especially with my super budgeting ability.

I bite my fingernails, trying to not piss work off too much, knowing that my contract has not been renewed and that that will be the whispers in the canteen, that I am hiding from a contract that has run out and the possibility that it may not be renewed. The possibility of losing my job now frightens me. I need this job more than anything now, for the maternity leave, for the stability. I will book tomorrow off and gauge a reaction from there, but I am sick, and hopefully following the sickness procedure correctly this time. Phoned in every day, went to the doctors on the second day but they were fully booked for appointments, so went to the family planning clinic, but they closed at midday because it is a Friday; haven't been able to get an appointment all weekend as it's not one of those super-surgeries that is open weekends, and am off to the doctors first thing on Monday morning. I will phone them at 6am, and let them know, and hopefully nobody will wave procedures at me and tell me that I have failed to follow them. Hopefully.

Three Pounds And Fifty-Two Pence.

Having no money sucks. In the olden days- hark at me, the 'olden days' being a week ago before I discovered I was pregnant- I would have quite happily survived the week running up to payday on strong black coffee, Marlboro Reds and afternoon naps. I find myself with thirty-six pounds to my name, the exact price of a weekly season ticket to work if I walk 3 miles in the morning and 3 miles in the evening, and no food in the cupboards. Save olive oil, a single can of tuna, and little else. I chomp on a nectarine, struggling to get my five a day for moneys sake, and decide that tomorrow I will go to the doctors, saving myself a tenner, and now I am going to the supermarket, to spend that tenner on food. I have to. I can't survive on vitamin pills, and neither can my baby. I need some fresh fish, some sandwich meat, and have the gargantuan total of three pounds and fourteen pence to go shopping with. I rummage through drawers like a mad lady, scrambling for change. Inside a chipped ramekin dish in a drawer in my bedroom I find 38p. Marvellous. I think I can manage from here.

Cold.

I am Poppy, standing naked in my shower, prodding my protruding belly and instantly falling into bad habits. Weight watchers soups, baby food compotes, celery, lettuce and cucumber for 10 days would normally sort those few extra inches out, but now I have to feed it. Bubs needs grubs, I tell myself, and can smell the lamb stew cooking on the stove, packed full of fresh vegetables. And red wine. I kick myself; why did I put red wine into my stew? Can I have alcohol during pregnancy? I suppose it doesn't matter if I open box 3... Box three, option three, the unspeakable.

I clip on an underwired E-cup bra, defiantly ignoring the overheard advice in Marks and Spencers about wearing bras without wires so as not to damage my breasts. Damage my breasts, I laugh wryly to myself as I cup one in the shower; they're AGONY. How much more damaged can they feel? It sits heavy in my palm, tender to touch and ridiculous looking on my smallish frame.

Margaret calls to ask if I am ok, I have been in the shower far too long, standing staring at my exposed skin, staring at my stomach, imagining. 5cm long now apparently, with functioning organs and fingernails. Option three. Functioning organs and fingernails. Murderer. Fingernails. Like wasps in my head these words buzz buzz buzz, I can hear Margaret calling me, as if from a distance, but I cannot forget those fingernails, scratching at my conscience. Scratch, scratch, scratching guilt and murderous thoughts into my head. I am freezing cold, in this room full of steam, and I scramble out of the shower. I slip and hit my hip on the side of the bath. Fingernails. Murderer. I pull a jumper around myself, but the cold does not leave me.

One. Two. Three.

I am Poppy, drumming a three-part rhythm through my mind, a mind I cast back to this morning, laying across my sofa with my head in B's lap and my fingers wrapped around her wrist. My tshirt smells of decay, from the horrible house, but faintly of washing powder, and I smile as she always smells of washing powder.

One. Papa don't preach, but I've made up my mind, and I......'m keeping my baby... One. Carry my baby to full term, and make do and mend. Cut my hours at work to flexible working or job-share, which means only working one day and one night out of 8, for the princely sum of 13k a year, and attempt to support a child on that.

Two. Two being the most viable option, and the one I trembled as I told B about, and that is to carry my baby to full term, and then hand her over to the state for adoption. There are, and I know this as a child who was brought up in a home full of fostered and adopted children, lots of families out there desperate for children who cannot have them, and could give a far better life than I could dream about from my studio flat on my paltry income and my sleepless nights.

Three. Three is not even an option, as I clip on my new maternity bra and take another vitamin pill. Three is the unspeakable, the cold and clinical, the horrors revisited from losing baby Grace two years ago. The maternity wear found weeks later in a washing basket and sobbed, distraught over. The untaken pregnancy supplements hurled across the kitchen in anger, the smiling hospital staff I wanted to throttle for not having the answers to all my wailed and tortured "why"s. I cannot lose this baby. B held me to her breast, my head in her lap, and I could not meet her eye as she told me she would stand by me whatever I chose to do. I was ashamed of my infidelities, of my insecurities, ashamed of my shame.

She held me, and I could not cry, for I was and am numb. Closing out, shutting down, denying, tapping out my rhythm on all available surfaces and beating it like a war cry into my mind. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. Onetwothreeonetwothreeone... Two.... Three.