Some things are hard to write about much less talk about. In the process of writing this post I grappled with how much detail to include and wrestled with my propensity to keep the emotional content unobtrusive – to not burden others with my sorrow. By nature I am an emotionally inconspicuous person – a liability for a writer. In the end I opted not to expose too much, in part to shield the reader, but also in deference to my own state of mind at this point in time – and perhaps dignity. Nevertheless, my choosing to express this much is a small attempt to maintain my sincerity and integrity as a writer.
I’ve known for several weeks that my baby had died, but until Wednesday night I hadn’t lost any tissue. At about 6.30 pm on Wednesday, (9/9/9) my baby “delivered” in my hands. An hour later my husband took me to emergency because of heavy bleeding. I was examined, hooked up to an IV which delivered fluids and antibiotics and then later transfered via ambulence to a larger hospital with better facilities to cope with my condition. By the time we got to the emergency department at the second hospital it was midnight. Fortunately I didn’t have to go to theatre, but I did have to stay in hospital overnight as I’d lost a lot of blood and there was a risk of my blood pressure dropping too much. It wasn’t until I got up to the ward that the magnitude of what I’d experienced hit me. Still, all I wanted to do was go home and make sure my husband and our dogs were ok. Even as I write this I am aware of the enormous descrepancy between what I am writing – which almost trivialises the events of that night – and what I am feeling.
Right now this is all I can manage to get out. I hope you won’t go too far, as I plan to return with full vigor to writing as soon as I recover.