I have been away from home on business for the past week, several hundred miles from DH, calming voices and an easily accessible Early Pregnancy Unit with scanning machine.

For the most part, a gin swilling boss and mad-as-coat-hanger-clients were a good distraction from my very early pregnancy – nothing like other people’s neuroses and emotional breakdowns to distract you from your own – but, in the dark of night and during less engaging meetings my mind was doing back flips.

A cramp here, a sharp pain there, anything felt within a foot of my uterus was enough to draw the mist over whatever I was doing and to usher in a narrative that twisted, turned and spiked its way into every thought. With every ache I would be transported to a place where the embryo let go, where life left me for a second time. Each cramp was the one that preceded bleeding and that ushered in a voice that said “it’ll be fine, as long as it’s not in your tubes, what if it’s in your tubes?” Every spasm picked me up and threw me into a place where the physical pain of miscarriage would last seven days, maybe more, just like a heavy period, remember? Into a place where I’d have no choice other than to deal and to get on, that we’d have more investigations and then just…start again.

And that’s where the twisting narrative ended because I couldn’t imagine summoning the energy to start it all.. again.

In the past week alone my mind has taken me on on this journey three, maybe four times a day.

When I couldn’t live with the imagining anymore, I telephoned DH. I was tearful, anxious and looking for answers he couldn’t give me. He listened and told me he felt the anxiety too.

That night I slept deeply and dreamt that I had been robbed – stripped of everything I owned, wore or held. Although I couldn’t see myself in the dream I felt the draft and hollowness of vulnerability, like something had been gouged out and taken away.

Not long after, on the way to another meeting, I realised that my first miscarriage had robbed me of hope.

I sat down on a bench, outside a House of Fraser and imagined this: I am in the highest pair of heels I own, a pair of 40 quid second hand Mius Mius that I bought several years ago and only wore once because they made me much too tall and my calves ached too much being that way. I balance on those Mius Mius and I look the robber in the eye. I tell him I don’t need him, I don’t want him and that he sure is ugly. I knock the Stetson off his head and spit in the eye that isn’t covered by a patch. I grind the heel of my Miu Miu into his cowboy boot and tell him this town isn’t big enough for the both of us. Then I ride off into the sunset, the heels of my Mius Mius gripping the stirrups more effectively than you might imagine, and blind him with my dust.

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