Authors: Kirsten Rees
When I returned to the clinic, the straight faced nurse ushered me in to a tiny room. My head was spinning as she discussed my options – or rather she talked and I sat on the edge of the seat, gripping the sides and staring at the various things on the table. Some information leaflets, a small metal dish with some paraphernalia and a form with my details.
My name, date of birth and nine weeks gone. But that's not the whole story, there's more to me than that. Shouldn't I be crying, hysterical or at least showing some kind of appropriate feeling? The nurse gently informed me I didn't have long to make my decision. I left the small office and made my way home to my flat. My fridge had more alcohol than food and yet I couldn’t bring myself to touch a drop. I went to bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up and I still didn’t know what I was going to do.
Nine days later the decision was made for me. I stared at the white ceiling and tried to block out the pain in my lower area of my stomach. I had been bleeding for hours and it didn't seem to be stopping. They said the pregnancy wasn't going to come to term, I had miscarried. After that the nurse carried on talking but the words became muffled and distant. The fetus I hadn't even wanted to be real had given up its chance at life. Even though I was in agony, the guilt I felt was more intense than the pain I was suffering.
The nurse had been in to check on me several times and I managed to keep my face smooth and politely answered her questions as quickly as I could so she would leave the room. I declined the painkillers twice; I didn't deserve to have the pain relieved. But it wasn't just that, I was scared that they would numb the pain and if that went away I would feel nothing. Or worse I would only be left with only the guilt. At least if the pain was there, I could feel like I deserved it, appeasing the guilt somewhat. If the pain and the guilt were numbed I would have nothing. I couldn’t feel that unspeakable litany of loss.
Instead of the denial, the hopelessness, the anger, I only felt numb. It was like I had lost control of my own body, it had failed to do something that was supposed to be inherently natural for a woman’s body. It felt like I had a huge, gaping hole in my heart and my stomach felt hollow.
Adam had called and sent messages at first, but I begged him to stay away, insisting my Mother was unwell again and she was the reason since I couldn't find the words to explain. I couldn't bring myself to tell him what had happened even now when it was all over. Talking about it only made it all the more real.
The only thing worse than guilt, is the lack of it. When I woke a few days later, I felt nothing, no guilt, no relief, just a deep numbness with no light at the end of the tunnel. I began losing so much weight and it didn't go unnoticed. I just brushed off the comments and the constant black under my eyes was the only sign that I wasn't sleeping at night.
I woke with a start to find myself curled up on the seat and the TV on standby. The room was filled with an eerie glow and was silent apart from the sound of wind outside. My neck ached since I’d dozed off sitting up and I felt a little disorientated
.
I hadn’t eaten in days and my cupboards were empty so I made myself shower and dress and went to the supermarket in the town.
The one closest to me had already served me two bottles of vodka in the last week and I really didn’t want to deal with the less than subtle looks from the staff. “Nina?” I looked up and recognised the girl next to me as one of Anthony’s cousins. I would have walked straight past her if she hadn’t already spoken to me.
“Hi, Jenna. How’re you?” It was hard not to return her smile although mine was considerably less sparkly.
“Yeah I’m really good thanks. Just picking up a few bottles here for a party, while my friend takes forever clothes shopping! I adore her, but she thinks that finding that one perfect outfit will turn her into a goddess.” She laughed and rolled her eyes and I remembered liking her when we’d met once at Anthony’s birthday party.
“It’s a shame Chris and Anthony are away, you could have come along and caught up with them. I’m sure they’d both love to have seen you again.” she said.
There was nothing but genuine friendliness in her face so I guessed she didn’t know the truth about the not entirely mutual ending of my relationships with her cousin and his apparently no longer ex-best friend.
“The pair of them are away on some stag weekend up north so no doubt it’ll be a quiet party for us without those two terrors.” she continued.
She had no idea how appropriate her little pet name was. I tried not to let it sink in just yet that they were friends again. I would deal with that thought later when I could be alone.
“Oh well, it’s been so long now anyway. I better get going, hope you enjoy your party!” I said.
“Bye.” she called and waved after me.
I could barely hold it together until I got to the end of the aisle and turned the corner. It felt like my heart was going to beat out of my chest and I thought I was going to be sick. I don’t know why I was even surprised, at least Chris was consistent. His charm had worked on Anthony and they had patched up any differences they may have had over me.
It made my eyes burn to think what they may have talked about when they mended their friendship. I wondered if they even blamed me for their fall out. I was the Jekyll and Hyde and Chris had helped create that monster instead of me.
Thankfully the store was quiet and I stood facing one of the shelves until I managed to calm my breathing again. I had been standing there for so long that my hand reached out and grabbed several of the packets of crisps and shoved them in to the basket I was carrying. It wasn't long before I had a basket full of food, chocolate, fresh bread, chips and dips, I couldn't stop. I had hardly crossed the doorstep except to go to the shop for sustenance or something to block everything out.
In my flat I played my music, watched DVD’s, and read book after book just to keep myself from thinking. I began piling on weight and suddenly no one was commenting on my figure anymore. I think they were too embarrassed to point out that my face had filled out and my figure was losing its definition.
I ate until I felt sick and then I would curl up in my bed alone, hugging the little food-bump in my stomach. I dreamt of myself as a child holding Joshua, and then the image flipped and I was grown and the child was unfamiliar. I wake every time with my sheets twisted around me and soaked with sweat.
And just as I struggled to get to sleep, it felt equally impossible to get out of bed in the mornings. I wasn’t in any physical pain, but I was exhausted with the effort of holding myself together and I wasn’t sure I could keep going for much longer. What little energy I had was being used for the simple tasks of climbing out bed, getting dressed, walking in a straight line and just trying to stay upright.
I guess I’m lucky that I’ve never really been one of those people who lie in bed at night worrying. Until recently I had at least had a glimmer of clarity and found myself grasping at the need to make some change in my life. I would always wake in the morning riddled with uncertainty and self-doubt. I spent the days struggling to regain that confidence I’d had while laid in my bed when everything seemed like just maybe things might somehow get better. It’s like I’m struggling to remember a dream and can’t quite hold onto it. And so when I crawl back into bed the following night the cycle begins again. What was the point in trying to fight anymore?
“Nina, how are you feeling? You’ve not been yourself lately?” asked my Mother. I looked up to see her concerned expression. Sometimes when I catch her watching me, I can see a sadness in her eyes. I can feel the silent terror she carries, afraid to speak of the hole in my heart for fear of unsettling me.
I immediately forced a smile but she wasn’t fooled and I knew better than to claim all was well so I lied. “I think I’ve been coming down with something, just can’t seem to shift it.” I replied.
“I’ve got some cold and flu capsules in the medicine cabinet if you need anything. Would you like some hot chocolate?” she asked.
“That would be nice Mum. Thanks.” I said.
“Why don’t you go and lie down in your old room for a while. You could relax for the afternoon and then stay for dinner later. You look like you could do with some peace from the rabble.” She gestured at my brothers playing loudly on some computer game.
I found myself crawling into my old bed and pulling the covers up under my chin. I wasn’t sleepy but my body felt heavy and drained. A knock on the door alerted me to my kind Mother bringing me a mug and left a book on the bedside table before leaving me alone. She always seems to know when I want to talk and when I need to be alone. I finished the hot drink and opened the book. It was by an author I hadn’t read before ‘The Notebook’ by Nicholas Sparks. Four hours after I’d opened it I read the final sentence and wiped the tears from my cheeks and neck where they had fallen and I hadn’t stopped them.
I cried myself to quietly to sleep and only woke hours later when I heard Mother call from downstairs. The room was dark and I realised it was late in to the evening. I had slept for longer than I had in weeks. I’m still not sure if my Mother somehow knew I needed to cry but hadn’t been able to. It was easier to cry for the characters in the book than it was to cry for myself. It's not like in the movies where a single, gentle tear trickles down the cheek of the actress as she daintily dabs at her eyes. My nose is running, my eyes are red and raw and my cheeks are sticky.
Later that night I sat on my bed in my little flat holding this notebook. After an hour of struggling not to just drink myself in to oblivion, I knew what I wanted to do. I held the pen shakily in my hand, opened to the first blank page and began writing.
Six pinks ones, nine of the orange ones and one blister pack containing the white ones. That made only thirty-one tablets. I was going to need a lot more and so I found myself the following day hovering in the supermarket, staring at the various packs in front of me. Blue, red, white, silver, boxes filled with foils of paracetamol, aspirin, ibuprofen, anadin and various others - maybe enough to make one simple, fatal cocktail. I bought one packet of paracetamol and another ibuprofen. Too many might mean questions in the shop and that might lead to someone finally realising I wasn't doing so good.
I picked up a magazine and some crisps on my way over the checkout girl. She looked sweet, innocent, content even, working behind the counter. I didn't want to upset her. How strange that I cared more about upsetting the day of a stranger, than I did about the consequences of what I was planning to do. Well that wasn't strictly true, it wasn't that I didn't care about the consequences...more that I refused to think about them. I handed the money to the girl, put the small packets in my bag and wished her a nice day.
Maybe my Grandmother and the tiny soul I had lost would be in heaven waiting for me. Or would I go to hell for doing this? I wasn’t even entirely sure if I believed in anything, but I liked the idea of them both being together and somewhere pleasant.
One week has passed since that night and I had spent day and night writing about the last nine years. I know there have been and are good things in my life, but I can’t seem to focus on them – almost as if I’ve forgotten something important and try as I might it’s impossible to remember what it is.
I told myself it would be no loss for me to go. I had become a non-person, rarely seeing anyone anymore and I had no job. You can spend your entire day distracting yourself from thinking about the bad things, when you have things to be distracted by. I only had eating and tidying my flat to break up the day and in between I spent the hours trying to shut out my thoughts. Forcing myself into a troubled sleep until eventually the morning comes and I have to start all over again. It’s a merry-go-round of emotions, up and down, up and down, but never quite getting high enough.
It was like I had fallen into deep water and just as I broke the surface, waves were crashing me against the rocks and the undercurrent kept pulling me under. No matter how hard you try to swim, eventually your arms tire and your lungs grow heavy and your body begins to exhaust. Your body will give in long before your mind does though, so you keep dragging yourself back up hoping it will be different this time, but eventually you just can’t fight anymore. I was never going to be able to pull myself free from this and some days it just felt easier to stop struggling against the tide and let myself be pulled under.
Over the last week I’d built up enough pills and a bottle of strong vodka to carry out my final act. I walked home with my last purchase of painkillers in a daze, the cool rain trickling down my cheeks like the tears I wasn't able to cry.
I slowly walked up the stairs to my flat, the hall light upstairs was on for some reason and it seemed kind of appropriate walking towards the light. Only, I knew that what I was about to might disqualify me from any kind of heaven. The building was quiet, my neighbours would all be at work by now and I decided sometime during a morning soon would be best. I hung my jacket and placed it with my bag in my room. Everything else was already in order, I just wanted to see my family one last time.
Flicking on the bathroom light, I watched my reflection as I walked in to the room. I stared at the girl in the mirror and I wanted to scream at her; I wanted to reach in and shake her. I moved to the middle of the room and sat down cross-legged. Pulling a loose piece of wood out from the end of the bath tub I reached into the gap behind and pulled out a box of numerous packets and plastic containers. Even though I lived alone, it still felt wrong to have these out on display. I laid the packet of ibuprofen on top, but the other was a container with a plastic seal around the rim which I ripped it from the seams and looked inside.