So I went for a run today, along the beach (which is 10mins walk from my house). Horah!!! I was out for over an hour, admittedly not running the whole time (starring out to sea or walking briskly) but did run for the majority of the time – quite proud of myself since I had a nasty (and first ever) bout of food poisoning the last few days. I must also mention that I don’t think it was caused by the Spanish restaurant’s food I ate the night before I left London (I put it down to this my last blog) but the egg and mushroom muffin from EAT at Gatwick Airport on Thursday morning – Londoners avoid this muffin if you frequent this chain of cafes.
Anyway, back to my fabulous run this morning…
It was amazing how many people were out at the beach on a Sunday morning in January. It was cold, but quite lovely. Being part of the dozens of runners among the ambling tourists I felt a little like a local. Not bad for day four! It did occurred to me that I might be also running with a bunch of other foreigners masking as locals on Barceloneta’s boardwalk. But I didn’t care. This is my neighborhood now, even for a short time, its my home. And today I really felt like I owned a little of that myself.
I ran past a restaurant I ate in back in October 2010 – the first time I came to Barcelona. I’d stumbled upon it. I remember well the day we went there, but I’d thought it was in the other direction, along another bit of coast. I went there with some locals I was staying with because they said it was the best place to eat seafood paella – they were right, it was very good! And that day was a good day. A nice memory. I’d gone on a trip with someone to Barcelona from London who was visiting me from Australia, and we were staying with an old friend of his in Garcia (just a little north of the centre of Barcelona). This person visiting me from Australia and I had a strange relationship, an odd long distant, fantasy-filled relationship where neither one of us could freely admit that it didn’t work living on opposite sides of the planet (it came to pass that the oppositions between us were not just about geography…!)
He was visiting me for three weeks, and within a week after him leaving London I discovered I was pregnant. We’d left things quite well in the end. Ultimately (and finally) admitting to each other we both wanted more, the main want being we wanted a partner who was in the same country as us – a bit of a no brainer maybe, but it took us a while to let go and really admit/say/trust that.
In a nutshell, I decided to keep my baby, he went a little mad with that news and throughout December 2010 there was enough emotional blackmail being fired at me to sink a battleship – believe me what he threw at me had much weight indeed! I never let go of the respect I had for him, even though I wanted to strangle him and hate him, I ultimately wanted him to understand where I was at, and why I’d made this choice – not at easy choice, and a choice I truly made with nothing but courage in my heart and an unswerving determination that whatever happened I would be fine, we would be fine.
Exactly one year ago this week I was miscarrying my baby. Miscarry… Miscarriage… such odd words! Odd for what they describe. Like I’m not holding onto something properly, like I might drop it. I have images in my head of carrying a large heavy watermelon, and the mess it would make if you dropped it… Mis is a prefix meaning; ” “ill,” “mistaken,” “wrong,” “wrongly,” “incorrectly,” or simply negating.” Negating…What doesn’t make sense to me regarding the definition we use for this trauma is that it implies that the best job has not been done. That somehow the woman made a mistake, did something incorrectly, or simply negated responsibility…? I don’t know that I’m getting this right… but there is something about the words Miscarry and Miscarriage which have never sat well with me. I get that it happens all the time – I learned all those stats when I went through it myself, its incredibly common. But, if you could help it you’d try NOT to drop the large heavy watermelon all over the floor wouldn’t you?? It would make a hell of mess!
I digress… The point I was getting to was about reflection. Exactly one year ago this week… I’m geographically in the same place where memories were made with someone who could have been the father of my child. NOT the right person in the end. But running past that restaurant this morning, remembering where I’d been, remembering what I went through, being here where things are reminding me occasionally of him, and at THIS time…one year on… I’ve heard that grief changes one year after the event. Never goes or stops of course, but one year past it changes…maybe its that more healing can happen? I’m not sure, and I’m well aware its very different for each person. For me… So much has changed, so much is healthier, and I am where I should be. In a very different place to where I thought I’d be when I fell pregnant over a year ago! We can’t forget where we’ve come from, our victories, our wins in life. Its so easy to remember the negative things all the time. A lovely friend asked at our shaky isles open space this month in London “What do you want to have achieved by this time next year?” And not in a new years resolution kind of way. But thinking about where you were a year before and the things that happened that you couldn’t possibly have imagined happening. And the unimaginable thing will happen again for the coming year. We must never forget! And we must always find gratitude in whatever those things that come may be – the good and the bad.
I did question myself today writing this – Is it too much to talk about my miscarriage in my second blog? But I remind myself that I made the choice to not be afraid to talk freely about what I went through. That so many women go through this, but its not something that is easy to share, but we can make it easier to share – by sharing. And its been a year. And here I am – being totally fabulous running the boardwalk with ‘locals’ in Barcelona, and its fantastic!
