It’s been a while since I really spent a while thinking about my miscarriage, not that I could or would ever forget Kai. In fact I often think about Kai just not the actual miscarriage; that does not define him. I actually subconsciously must have been focused on it as last night I dreamt about it again, nothing like the nightmares I had while I was pregnant with Joanie, but instead I dreamt that it hadn’t happened. I dreamt I had replaced Kai at birth with another baby who wasn’t mine, I sat there and thought why would I do that why would I give my baby away. I think in hind sight perhaps this is a little bit of guilt resurfacing that I had another baby and ‘replaced’ him, which I know isn’t true. He is my first baby, my first son. It’s hard not to have odd feelings like this every now and again and maybe it was my brains way of telling me to sort out the random twang of guilt I occasionally feel when I see his bear looking at me. When I feel sad about Kai I often turn to a poem I found in a book by SANDs the charity, it’s really sad; it makes me cry every time I read it, but at the same time it makes me realise that Kai and Joanie are two separate children two separate experiences. Both just as important to me and who I am. After reading it I feel positive again I respectfully remember Kai, it’s my time to give to him by remembering him.
So here’s the second blog post I wrote back when I lost Kai over a year ago now. This was written two days after the first post, again anonymously, only a week after my miscarriage.
There are far too many voices and opinions going on inside my head. My favourite is Deep Dave, who insists on giving me deep unhelpful advice when my brain is idling for too long. He often harps on about how ‘it’s all part of the ebb and flow of the universe’ ‘what will be will be’ and so on and so forth. I often imagine him as some 1960’s/70’s hippy wearing clogs. He most often appears after my 3AM cry with Miserable Mable or at the end of a sad conversation with people I have announced my miscarriage to. Though often he just forces me to continually spam deep verbal nonsense to my poor friends and family who just don’t know what to say. My least favourite is Angry Alan who insists on shouting obscene messages towards my general direction, like ‘maybe you would feel better if you shoved your hand in the blender’ or ‘ you don’t deserve a child because you’re a dick head’ and so on. He randomly appears and distracts me at any inopportune moment. I find him rather annoying. Please piss off Alan.
Lesson number four: Learn to live with the voices in your head, eventually they will fuck off (or so I hope)
So naturally as I was rushed into hospital by my poor worried husband, all these little voices were starting to make their appearances. Alan was shouting rude things at me as Dave was chilled out telling me to ‘go along with nature and the universe’ I listened to none of these voices. I had had pain for three days now (I had been to the GP every day that week, I think they were sick of the sight of me). As we got to hospital I started bleeding. Badly. I knew that it wasn’t ok, I knew something had gone drastically wrong. I didn’t know what though and I never in a million years thought that the pain I was having was labor pain. After watching all the screaming women on one born every minute I really didn’t associate the pain I was having with whatever they were having. I just didn’t want to believe it either.
Lesson number five: I’m not so sure One Born Every Minute is entirely accurate.
Miscarrying late (or at any time) is not pretty I lost a lot, and I mean a lot, of blood. I was in horrendous pain to the point where at one point I rather dramatically though I was dying. My husband spent most of the time clinging onto me looking pale. He really just didn’t know what to do and neither did I. Luckily my midwife was fantastic she has literally saved my life in more ways than one. Again I did not listen to my body I knew I needed to deliver my baby but I didn’t want to and therefore tried very hard not to. I knew he wouldn’t survive no baby survives at 18 weeks, so I held off hoping to god something could be done about it. Deep inside I understood that this wasn’t the case, I put myself in agony and would have rather died than deliver him, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Lesson number six: Listen to your body.
One thing I do believe is that at that moment I did everything I could to try and save my son.
So here’s to me bravely trying to humour myself. I laugh to cope with emotional turmoil but don’t underestimate it, it makes me stronger.
Two things I have mention here in case you would like to look them up, it would be fab if you would as they both mean so much to me.
Firstly the bear that I refer to is a bear that was given to me when I left hospital after having had to give my baby back. Her name is Isabel Piskal born 01/01/15 she was donated by a family who lost their little girl, to aching arms . Someone out there will sadly have a little bear named Kai Goodger.
Secondly is the wall, a poem or reading written by Rachel for SANDs in memory of her daughter Rhianna.
Love Kate X