For more than a month, two paintings constantly had before my eyes: the window in the ultrasound and the ceiling in the operating room. In the first – they announce to me: a frozen pregnancy, the fetus does not develop (“Well
, this is for your sins!” – peppy replica from the uzist). In the second-my restrained sob, “well, do not,” and immediately after the ceiling sailed somewhere. The next “after” came for me already in the ward, where I lay with a heating pad with ice on my stomach and bloodied legs.
I also remember the doctor’s office where I came a month and a half later. I sat back on the back of a hard chair and, resting my head against a cool wall, listened to the results of the study absentmindedly. It was a girl. With a genetic pathology, which is not inherited, but arises absolutely by accident – “just a failure”. My husband and I are healthy. It’s nobody’s fault. And the last: if in the very near future I will not find a way to overcome my indecently protracted depressive state on my own, I will be sent to correct mental health to the appropriate medical institution. It was said in all seriousness. I shrugged indifferently: that the will, that the bondage. Doesn’t matter.
Honestly, all this time, waking up in the morning, I thought that I had already died. Only the questions that were non -stop in my head forced to doubt it were forced to doubt. For what? Why? And why exactly with us? For what? It’s my fault? The point is in me? What exactly I did in life wrong? Both the husband and the whole family probably think that it is because of me, yes? I brought them all … because I failed? If it is for me for sins, then is it possible to pay for them somehow differently, and the daughter is to return? But what if the next time there will be the same? But what if there is no next time at all? If I never press my baby to my chest and I will not kiss a gentle heel? I am a terrible mother if I could not protect my daughter from an unpredictable and terrible failure? She will never forgive me? How can I love my other child, knowing how to blame for his uninhabited sister. They covered me even before I managed to open my eyes, and did not let go until I fell into a dream.
Although there was practically no sleep then: for weeks I slept literally for 2-3 hours. Moreover: I shuddered from any loud sound, sobbed at the sight of children’s strollers and pregnant women, began to suffer from aerophobia, and sometimes panicked during a regular trip by car. I had the feeling that my skin was ripped off and any touch with the outside world causes unbearable pain. Bright green grass with multi-colored leaves that I promised to show our child-pain. Our furry dog, which she will not stroke, is pain. Funny sugar down on the table that he will not see, a cottage that will not visit, large rain drops, juicy Chinese pears, air snakes, sled, trolleybuses – all pain – all pain.
I got rid of everything that at least somehow reminded of the child: a photo album, slider, calendar, books, gifts of parents in honor of joyful news about the upcoming replenishment, towel, dress and socks, in which I was on that unfortunate ultrasound … I threw everything outthings. But I could not throw out the most terrible: thoughts from my head.
And I would like to say that one morning I just woke up “healed” and began to live as before: cheerfully, optimistic, joyful. But this is not so. One morning I woke up and – which almost never happened before – I had a fight with my husband. He wanted me to believe in the best. And I did not want to: “What, they gave you a receipt after the operation that everything will be fine?!”” And what, they gave you a receipt that everything will be bad?”After that, I thought for a long time. Most of all-about whether I will ever be ready to try my maternal happiness again. Honestly admitted that yes. Someday-be sure.
And after this recognition, the thought flashed timidly that it would be necessary to prepare for this now. That that daughter, no matter how we suffer, can no longer be returned. But it is very possible to harm the next child with his shaken psyche. It’s time for my inner Munahusen to pull himself out of the swamp. The salvation plan has ripened quite quickly: it is only necessary to do what is enjoying. There is a popular saying that life begins where the comfort zone ends. In my case, life was warm only where I felt safe and could do what I wanted.
The first victim felling: warmly beloved, rather specific, terribly nervous. Periodically I touched to leave, but each time I stayed because I could not imagine my life without it. And here I could very much. Because after the loss of the child, it became obvious to me: I am not a careerist and I do not want either recognition, nor all the money of the world, nor my photo on the Forbes cover. I am an ordinary girl who wants ordinary girlfriend: a house – a full bowl and a bunch of peanuts from her beloved husband. And the work that puts it all in jeopardy is not for me.
The main phase of salvation began after dismissal. A lot of free time appeared, and it had to be carried out according to the plan. That is, with pleasure. Bake the pies with cabbage on the whole porch? Forward. I wanted to go to the zoo? Go. The weekend watch the TV shows with my husband? Easily. You don’t want to take on the freelance work that you are offered (let even for good money)? Do not take it. Lose on the synthesizer all day? To health. Dragged into an unpleasant or just boring conversation? Break. Pulls in sleep right after dinner? Go to sleep. Transfer to tomorrow what is too lazy to do today? No problem. Try to braid a beautiful pigtail and apply makeup, although you are not going anywhere? Please. Sit on my husband’s knees all evening? Easy to.
Under any other circumstances, I, always so organized and mandatory, would not allow myself such behavior, would consider it at least indecent. But it is not for nothing that they say that in war all means are good. At any cost I needed to make depression capital. It became clear that she retreated when I suddenly again began to distinctly distinguish between the taste of food, color and smells, notice the change of weather outside the window and the mood of others.
By the way, about others. I practically did not mention relatives and friends. All because at the most difficult time I completely went into my senses and tried to avoid any communication: I did not answer calls and messages, especially since I did not get in touch myself. Rare communications with those who nevertheless “erupted on the air” and clumsily tried to support, caused me at best. “You wrap yourself”, “You are not the only one”, “Take yourself together”, “Yes, this is not a child – so, a fruit egg, a larva” … Then it seemed to me that my loved ones were simply mocking me,And I was angry with them. Now I understand how difficult it is to select a word in such a situation that they tried as they could. And grateful to them.
Especially to her husband. I know so well and remember how bad it was for me. And I’m afraid to even imagine how bad it was for him. The more I think about it, the better I understand that in a certain sense it was much worse. From the very beginning, he kept everything in himself and, unlike me, did not complain to mothers, dads and everyone else about universal injustice, nor at the personal end of the world, or his wife obsessed with grief. For more than a month he suffered my round -the -clock sobs and tantrums, held me by the handles and on the handles. He spent all his free time with me, took a vacation, took it to the warm lands. He supported all my crazy ventures (night walks, morning hiking in the cinema, weekends far from the city …). And carefully reminded that if I did not change my mind and still want kids who would look like him like two drops of water, then you can’t give up in any way. So we don’t give up.
The window in the Uzi and ceiling in the operating room surpasses the window less often in memory. It must be released a place for another picture: for the walls of the maternity ward, in which one day I will put our baby on my stomach, living and healthy.