“I’m six motherfucker, six!”

He would have started his day with the fresh excitement of boyhood: desperate for those presents, that cake, that party.

He would have been at school: a term time birthday child unlike his mother. How would he have endured the birthday beats there? What would he look like in his school uniform? Would he have been much liked by the playground bastards?

Death is a dirty full-stop. A punctuation mark that punctures the soft flesh of possibility. Once the key has been pressed and it’s been wallop-printed to the paper with its metal-arm clank, no more questions can be answered and nothing can progress beyond this point.

Though I can describe him to you in the minutest of details, from the image of him that continues to grow in my mind, I won’t ever really know what his voice sounds like. What colour his eyes really would have been. Whether he really would have looked like that little boy in the advert with the Smith’s song playing in the background. Instead, his life plays out in my prose. Like a novel that no-one can read but me.

So the world turns and we are dragged forever forward, whether we like it or not. Though he makes sure that the space he left unoccupied, screams out in decibels too painful to ignore: I am still the only one who can really hear it. So I cram the space with words and plastic ornaments that tastelessly overpopulate the tiny death-garden where he should never be.

Six years on and my little boy and I are no longer timid about the story he has to tell or the existence he did once have. No longer scared of how others will feel when we mention it. So we do mention it, all the fucking time. Not to ram it down people’s throats but to keep him alive, in the only way that we can.

6 years in this weird quiet sort of hell and I can’t say that it’s been wasted time. There are things I’ve learnt that I would never have otherwise known. I’ve learnt that some mothers are pack animals and they will drive the weaker of us from their group for fear that the same will happen to them. I’ve decided that these women are worthy of my contempt. I’ve learnt that if people can’t truly share in your grief then you can’t truly share in their happiness. I now see how cruel social media and the HD of other people’s perfect lives can be when you’re feeling  particularly low. I know that people have no idea how to speak of pain or sadness when it’s not something they can feel directly and that their fear of a slightly awkward situation will rob them of a compassion that could have been so beautifully shared. I’ve learnt that no matter how much ‘progress’ I make, part of me will always be stuck in a hospital corridor somewhere in 2011 screaming for my baby, whilst part of me lives for the future where I have seen all there is to see and lived to tell the tale. I’ve learnt that things can be taken in the blink of an eye for no reason at all and that we just have to treasure the shit out of them whilst they are with us. Most of all, I have learnt that it’s ok to be a little broken and a little less perfect when you have suffered something like this and I know now how to forgive myself for my occasional fury – after all, there are plenty of people ready to stick the boot in, why I should I be one of them?

So I shake off my inhibitions and I open  my mouth wide and proud, with the  cherry lips of a choirgirl, nose to the sky and I sing my version of the Murderdolls song directly to him: “you’re six, motherfucker six”. And although it’s an entirely inappropriate song for a child, I sing it to him just the same. Because what harm can it do now? And besides, I know he would have loved it.

It’s not a birthday in the conventional sense, no. But it’s still a birthday none the less. And I wish so hard he was here. Here to meet his hairy 4-legged brothers. Here to make me feel almost normal again. Here, with me, so I can watch him live and grow and be brilliant in the anarchy I know he would have caused. But another thing I’ve learnt in life is this: it doesn’t really matter how many candles you blow out, some wishes still never come true.

 

 

The Unbearable Lightness

There’s an all important pearlescent dribble that slides down our slopes and warms our wombs. Crawling through the cave of our cunts: they even say it has a tail. Like a lamp it plugs us in and turns the dull purposelessness of our design into something bright and brilliant: or so it would seem. I can’t deny how inexplicably beautiful it feels to beam from the inside out. It amazed me that at my heaviest, I could also be so light. And in that lies the paradox of all things. How can something die in the place designed for life?

There’s no worthwhile explanation. Nothing that could fertilize the too barren soil of my soul.

So there was a void. There was a gaping gash-wound so deep that I became a tunnel, big enough to bury even the biggest train. Frantically I threw out some of the dearest things to make space for the growing hole.  Not just people, but bits of me too. Parts of who I was that I will never get back. Parts that probably wouldn’t fit me anymore anyway.

I thank my lucky stars that there were friends who refused to be discarded, refused to back off. Those loyal lunch box and linen stealers, the ones who come thick as thieves in pairs like Jobber and Giambrone, or alone like the beautiful-faced wolf girl. Whether they have the strong arms of the polar bear warrior mamma who bravely birthed the Amazon, or the plentiful heart of the green eyed hard-girl who raises her fist to the world and cries for dead birds. No matter if they are a free spirited moon swan, the perfectly protective pink panther who has been there from the start, the softly savage De Palma, the raven haired witch sister who softened the severity of my sadness somewhat with sunflowers and haikus, the former pieman with the honey nature, the loyal ball-busting bambi-eyed wifey, the big hearted tin woman, the beautiful blondie who birthed my most favourite feline, the kindly compassionate one who Can Do It and WILL do it one day, the dos ossos, the coolest aunty with the contagious cackle and the button collector who went ahead on that tragic path and recalled the painful details to help me navigate through it: I will never forget how they weathered the storm of my sometimes unbearable personality and they will stay forever etched in the essence of who I am. So in the next life I’ll recognise them when they come tripping through the door, tea-stained CV in hand.

And I once sang at the top of my little voice, ‘from the darkness came light, from the blackest of nights‘, from behind my battered Come And Praise Hymn book, without questioning the purpose of choirs and childhood crooning. Without once considering the impact this conundrum would continue to have on me. So I fantasize almost as naturally as I catastrophize. Because from one thing springs another, like an endless rhythm of waxing and waning. Except from within me, (I think cynically), nothing springs naturally but my words. And maybe in the end all I really need to make me complete is the birth of a bloody good book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Running free

What do we need, where do we go
When we get where we don’t know.
Why should we doubt the virgin white of fallen snow,
When faith’s our shelter from the cold.

There was always a bit of him in every bloke I fancied. He set the precedent, created the mould. With his long blonde hair and his keen light eyes.

One day I was a child and the next I wasn’t. Turning the metaphoric (as well as the actual) corner to find him, sitting on the steps outside the off-licence in his ripped jeans and Megadeth jacket. He was new. 3 years older but still new. And from them on, so was I.

Of the gang of boys secreting from the estate, he stood out. Poisonous soulless fuckwits who revelled in hurting and humiliating wherever they could. I suspected a kindness in him that years later I would discover to be real.

So I became a collector of things connected to him. I immersed myself in things he liked, so by default perhaps I would become one of them. And it’s an embarrassing thing to admit that a lot of who I started to become was built around the interests of a bloke.

My crush on him forced me into a world of fiction. With pen kissing paper I crafted everything the way it should be and not the way it actually was. Lined A4 pads filled with romantic scenarios and how the two of us would one day come together. And I cringe now when I read them because it’s hard to take your first crush very seriously when you’ve been around the block so many times. If I was lucky enough for him to look at me or speak to me, I’d squirrel the encounter away ready for my wordy hibernation. Entire books based on scraps of something that could have been. And through him, I honed in on what I really liked and what I really wanted.

In later years I would discover that I could talk to him not just from within my head but in the real world too and finally came the time for me to put down the notepad (for a little while at least) and see how the real world compared. Although he never really had the same affect on me, there was always an appreciation, a softness I suppose you could call it, whenever I saw or heard of him. And those feelings, inexplicable at the time and now so very familiar, are still the basis for whether I really like someone or not.

I can conjure him at any given moment: walking with his hands in his pockets, wearing an oversized lumberjack shirt, flicking his hair out of his eyes. He smirked in a way that immediately made me think of sex, regardless how young I was or how little I knew about it. Him screaming ‘bacon’ at passing police cars, him putting my hat on his head on my 13th birthday and leaving behind the intimate scent of his hair, winking at me unashamedly while he pissed a heart shape on the floor of the underground car park and making my face burn with shyness when he asked why ‘I ♥ CB’ was scrawled all over my rucksack.

Hearing word of his death stunned me. Not high pitched and insane, not shaking and crying but somewhere still and adolescently sheepish within me. Not just because we were close in age but because despite never having been a part of my adult life, he somehow always seemed to feature. Characters fashioned from the essence of him made it into two of my finished novels and it occurs to me now that for him to have never faded in my mind, he must have burned so very brightly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A morbid sort of science

After giving birth to Dylan, we decided not to see him.

Making a statement of it like that, feels cruel. Reading about stillbirths and hearing about it from mothers who have been through it brings me to the understanding that it’s actually not all that common to choose not to see your baby. Not counting the mothers who were historically not given a choice and were forbidden from seeing their stillborn babies: most parents want to see their child and hold them in their arms.

It is mostly but not entirely without regret that I consider our choices as compared to others. I can see how it is beneficial and I know how the parental instinct is such that most would want to see and hold their babies no matter what. I stand firmly by the choice that I made whilst simultaneously using it to chastise the mother-woman within me for her uncommon actions.

The first person ever to question my motives was another mother from a stillbirth forum I sometimes visit. Almost 5 years later she asks me ‘but why didn’t you want to see and hold your boy after you gave birth to him?’ Boom, just like that, the first question in almost all my lifetime to have ever left me speechless. I hear the question out in my head in slanted twirly font like a wicked ghost. But no audible answer comes. I scrape like a dog digging for its once buried bone and things come, in stutter-spatters, loud-sharp and angry-scared.

Two things are true and two things are really fucking hard to say. The first is that I didn’t see what good it would do. No matter how much the midwife urged and pushed for me to do so, warning I’d only regret not having taken that opportunity. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see how it would benefit either of us. He was dead: what use would a cuddle have done him? I’m sure my thought process went something like that.

And the second thing is simply this: I was afraid that holding him would fuck me up. ‘Such is the extent of my self-preservation’, I think now cynically. If this was truly my reasoning then I think I hate myself a little more for it. Because other mothers willingly open their chests as a banquet for the vulture of relentless agony waiting to feast on them after losing their child; why couldn’t I have the decency to do the same?

It’s another way that I blame myself. Another way that I dislike myself. Let it queue-the-fuck-up with all the others and wait it’s fucking turn. Because parenthood, so I’m told, is a journey of self-hatred and guilt for the choices you do or don’t make. In that sense, for certain I am a mother. Was it right or wrong of me? I wouldn’t think poorly of other mothers who would have chosen to do the same (even though there don’t seem to be any of them out there). Why can’t I take such a benevolent approach when it comes to myself?

The series of pictures that I do have of Dylan mean more to me than any other item in this world. Because although other mothers will acquire thousands, if not millions, of photos of their children; I will only ever have just that one day’s worth. Just that one outfit. Just that one face expression. And I don’t mean that in as self-pitying way as it sounds, because at least I do have that (as well as the other lovely memories I have of carrying him in my body for the brief spell that we were together).

Losing Dylan has made me weird, like a mad cross-eyed hen, pecking and clucking crossly. I sift through pictures of my pregnant belly, I linger longer than I should on scribbles in note pads from that time, I treasure all the little things and pack them around me like I’m still nesting. I want to preserve all the bits I do have of him. All the things that prove he was real. It’s the ways we keep our ghost-babies alive.

In the same vain, science has caught up with this feeling. Way quicker than I did. And my fellow ghost-mum tells me about something called a Cuddle Cot . I won’t lie; I was stunned. In my mind I called something way worse and immediately saw an army of recently bereaved mothers hurtling toward me, thirsty for my blood. And though that’s precisely what it is, I wish the inner voice (that I’ve come to accept as my own) wasn’t quite so horrid about everything. Being a bit of a cunt can be exhausting at times, I should know.

So I endeavour to say something kind about the cold cot that doesn’t sound like a sales pitch or a sunny flowery solution to a hideous unfixable catastrophe. And so I’ll say this: it is a cot specifically designed to give recently bereaved families more time with their stillborn child. Reading the real life stories of people involved I can see it as gift of sorts. A sad one, but still a gift. The mother urges me that surely if there’d have been such a device at the time of losing Dylan, I might have changed my mind. Surely I would have, wouldn’t I? And I want desperately to agree with her, just to be plain and ordinary and feel all those text-book things. So just once I don’t have to be so contrary. So I ponder. Over and over I’m chewing on it like too-old flavourless gum, drying my mouth rather than moistening it, as if it makes the slightest bit of difference now anyway.

The same conclusion finally comes: I wouldn’t have used it. Although I do understand other parent’s decisions when it comes to the cold cot system, I just can’t share them. The uneasiness with which I accept this fact makes me wonder whether I am in the wrong. Is it Dylan frowning down on me? Is it God judging me for the hideous bitch/coward/bad-mother that I am? Is it just that it doesn’t take very much for me to feel guilty? Or that I wish I’d had the courage to hold Dylan when I had the chance?

I can analyse it all I want, it won’t change the facts. Instead I’m thankful that although there wasn’t the existence of a cold cot, there was the existence of the little yellow box from Sands. With a disposable camera and other beautiful things. A place for me to keep all my Dylan stuff and a way for me to preserve the moment of his physical existence, even though I didn’t squeeze his little body tightly to my chest as I should have done, just so I could feel his body once before it dissolved back into the universe forever.

A wheelie good idea

Some people are proper cycle-paths; they’ll put their own arses on the line just to try and make a difference. They look at the statistics on stillbirths, miscarriages and neo-natal deaths and they say ‘on your fucking bike!’

Wondering what on earth I’m talking about now? Is the suspen-sion killing you? Well here it is: the lovely Kim and Neil , gearing themselves up for a staggering 60 mile cycle across the capital.

Kimberley Course

They’re aiming to complete the challenge in under 6 hours through the night in the hope of raising a little cash for the charity Tommy’s. Undeterred by the smog and the stuffiness of summer in the city, this pair are properly prepared. Don’t try to let the air out of their tyres coz just like a pair of professional boxers, they’ll have to puncture!

Clicking onto their charity page and donating a little won’t stop me punning like a prick, but it will do a little something for a lesser known charity and a really genuinely good cause. It also gives a voice to the voiceless and helps to break the cycle of silence that stillbirths cause. It can be hard knowing how to speak to a bereaved parent about their loss or for a bereaved parent to know how to bring the subject up without bumming everyone else out. Parents who’ve suffered something of the like will know how hard it is when people ask if you have children, or how many kids do you have and so many of us just skirt around the subject or deny our truths to avoid shocking people who barely know us.

In many cases we go from the last stages of pregnancy to an overwhelming and heart-breaking nothing. (It still to this day, 5 years on, amazes me that pregnancy results in a real life actual baby for most who go through it.) Many of us return back to work without a maternity break, weeks after giving birth, to face people who had been counting down the days with us and the whole ‘business as usual’ bollox doesn’t really cut it at times like these. It’s not their fault and it certainly isn’t ours. But charities like Tommy’s and people like Kim and Neil, help to bring up the conversation in a positive way.

They’re doing it in honour of Dylan but it would be bloody marvellous if you wanted to donate and leave a little note or dedication name of your own.

Thanks to the loveliest people I know, from both me and Dylan. x

 

 

 

Freelance: like the cat

"Thank you my Finance darlings for the beautiful orchid. Pride of place on my windowsill. She's beautiful and I'm calling her Account dot dta in your honour. @[1442721296:2048:Laura Troiano] @[100006881567982:2048:Dorka Dee] @[574746038:2048:Remi Fiddes] say thanks to the other guys for me too. I love it. X"

The fog of other people’s voices and personalities blurs you out. You’ve developed this persona, based on clichés and what other people seem to like best about you. Developing who you are based on actions that reap the most positive rewards. You learn to play nicely with the other kids and modify yourself to suit their preferences. Likability takes on new meaning now because of Facebook but in my mind, it’s always been there.

They say at 29 years old, you’re at your most popular. But walking around the place grinning and high-fiving people isn’t really living. Or so I’ve come to believe. Those people crowding around you and laughing at your jokes aren’t your friends. They’ll go as quickly as they came and you’ll realise (almost 10 years on) it really doesn’t matter nearly as much as you thought it would.

A year since flying the office nest and I’m now full-time freelance – just like my Grandma’s old cat who was bizarrely called that. To my absorbent child mind, maybe Freelance (and her son Freeway) were the seeds that bloomed into the colourful flowers I now see. And sometimes I wonder whether life isn’t just like a novel; cleverly concealed clues enclosed in my chapters. 

So I’m freelance, not just in job title but in personality too. I’ve forgiven myself mostly for my misgivings, stopped giving such a fuck what people think and started following my happiness. If I’m not as popular today as I was when I was 29 then fuck it, at least I don’t have as many Christmas cards to write and at least I can lavish my love on the long-suffering lot that deserve it the most.  

Hearing from those still on the inside, and not much changes in office life. The bitches are still bitches and the arse-licks are still licking arse. Besides a few pregnancies, it doesn’t sound as though I’ve missed much. And what I’ve gained is so valuable: the resurrection of myself before the rigmarole turned me into a reactionary puppet, torn between the principles of my personality or the pay-packet that would help me progress.

The best part is that now I spend most of my afternoons writing guilt free, without worrying Pawel from IT will grass me up for packing my PC full of fat files bursting with words that I can’t seem to stop myself putting together. I no longer need to get my kicks leaving abusive remarks in white font at the bottom of emails, telling management what I really think of them. Or fraternising with frustrating fraudsters who like to send me riddles, just to feel connected in a deeper way with daily tasks. I don’t have to hate the one I called ‘Getting ahead in advertising’ for being a cunt to women who outrank him in almost every human way. And best of all, I no longer have to suffer the insipid chatter of women who’s only source of confidence is slating everyone else. For this I am constantly and unfalteringly grateful. 

So I high-tailed it out of there, moving literally up and I realised this: 

  • moving sideways can sometimes be more rewarding than moving up
  • wearing smart shoes instead of trainers is a form of torture
  • having a woman boss isn’t always an improvement on a man
  • I’m really not at all good at keeping my mouth shut no matter how much I tell myself that I am

The fickle footholds of the financial ladder flip you back down onto your arse just as quickly as they cured your ailing accounts and before you know it, you’re back to square one. Scary though it is, both the universe and the girl with the universal soul knew kicking me out of Kingmaker House once and for all would finally force me to do the thing I have always wanted to do. Finding a soulmate who favours meaning over money, she shared her certainty in spaces reserved for doubt and sent me a ‘the sky’s the limit’ card that to this day still makes me roar with laughter.

The only things to be missed are the fuck-load of free tea, the brilliance of the bantz back at the beginning, pensions and paid leave, surprising snow days and the few genuine friendships formed through the shared drudgery of working for the man.

Eager to start work each day,  I enjoy the variety that making money remotely offers me. I love that I can work from my very own little office for a company that just wants to make kids and customers happy. I love the contacts that I have made and the lovely people who have enjoyed my writing and helped pay my bills. I love the piles of prose sent for me to whip into something suitably salesy. Essays to be edited. Words in bunches wadding out websites like keys that open a company’s door to the surge of search engine shopping frenzies. All of it, even the really shit stuff, I totally and utterly love it all.  

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

You can’t lick da mutt’s nuts

I once had a hand me down t-shirt that had a picture of a British bulldog sitting with his legs apart, showing off a massive pair of bollocks. The slogan read ‘you can’t lick da mutt’s nuts’. At the time, I was pretty convinced it had something to do with being British and being untouchable; an immovable force, someone to be reckoned with. A position of great advantage, like the family pet who can do the one thing his owner can’t; tongue his own testicles.

Thinking back, I’m aware I had a sort of thickness when it came to phrases. A constant source of embarrassment and misunderstanding while I grappled with the language that eventually I grew to love.

  • You can’t have your cake and eat it – A diet mantra for the overweight?
  • Life’s a bitch and then you die – Male dogs are immortal?
  • It’ll cost you an arm and a leg – body parts are legal and acceptable tender in some shops.
  • Beat around the bush – shrubbery designed to conceal parents smacking their children.
  • Cut the mustard – trimming your facial hair (I was raised by Greeks and my English wasn’t so great back then).
  • Wouldn’t be caught dead – A ‘to-do’ list for the afterlife.

I don’t know how it came across, a baby bubble like me, wearing a t-shirt of a union jacked dog. A plump little kebab of a child, unruly hair poking out the sides of my pitta. But I wore it regardless, even though I wasn’t sure what I was telling people. And if truth be told, I’m still not sure what the fuck it means. I can tell you this though: the first answer in a google search, who’s redacted text seems to be answering the question, will actually take you to a website called Instabang which throws live porn videos of ‘horny girls near you’ or even more worryingly ‘naked pics of someone you know’ in your face. Unwanted flick-book images of overly tanned munters eating their own nips dominates my screen, till my frantic clicking of the ‘back’ arrow finally sails me safely to the search listings.

Even without all that pop-up-punani, the listings still don’t give a definitive answer. As a politer way of saying ‘The Dog’s Bollocks’, The Mutt’s Nuts could mean anything from an old printing term describing a full colon followed by a dash introducing a list :-, to a Meccano factory faux pas for the best kind of packaging: The Box Deluxe.

I resolve that I don’t actually need a half-baked bit of cyber cod’s wallop posing as fact to understand the phrase, instead I’ll come up with my own conclusion because today I feel a bit like that cute-stupid little shit who barely knows her arse from her armpit but grins affectionately regardless.

  • Why does a dog lick its own bollocks? Because it can.
  • The truth is like a dog’s bollock: easy to find, if you dare to take a look.
  • You can’t lick the mutt’s nuts – in a hierarchy, the dog’s bollox is top.

Though you may be slightly lower down the pecking order than you’d like, restrained on a too-tight leash, dump and dinner times dictated to you by the arsehole Alpha’s of the group: there are still sweeter things easily and exclusively within your reach, pleasures they will never know unless they are you.