Aftermath

Tomorrow evening I am going to drive up to see Ruf for the first time since it happened. I am so afraid that, besides my poor baby, there will be other casualties of A Day.

In all the trauma, the woman who had made love with such reckless abandon sat and watched in horror from the sidelines as events unfolded. Will sex forever be associated with the pain and anguish of that day? Lying in the foetal position with my face turned to the wall, I sometimes wonder if I will ever feel that lust again? I am not allowed to have sex or do anything strenuous for two weeks. Perhaps this is good in that it gives me time to recover physically and mentally but in other ways I just want to get back into the saddle so to speak, to make sure that our relationship is still as it was.

Most of the time I've been so strong, keeping everything going as if nothing had happened. There has just never been any time alone to cry properly. So many plates to keep spinning, so much stuff to sort out. I know I desperately need to shed the tears and I'm frantically clinging to the certain knowledge that he will hold me for as long as is necessary and soothe me when I get there. It's like being on a tightrope with the light at the end. If I can just keep looking ahead towards that light, I will make it but I'm so terrified that when I see him, I will just dissolve and there will be this horrendous, emotional ball of resentment exploding all over him. So I wont be able to voice the words I really need to say.

I want to tell him that I love him and, therefore, I also loved our baby and, in a very strange way, I enjoyed being pregnant for that short time - even if it did make me feel like shit. You will not believe the number of people who told me how well I was looking over the last couple of weeks and, in retrospect, I guess my skin was blooming. God knows how, with all the chips and crisps I was eating. Maybe the apples counteracted it. Needless to say, my face is now starting to erupt as the hormones continue to ebb away, spiking into unpredictable rushes of hideously irrational emotion that are so hard to contain and repress. Sometimes it all just overpowers me and my eyes fill up and overflow, despite my best efforts to control them and I want to sob and lash out hysterically until the the intensity fades away to let me feel like myself again. That's when I need him so badly. Not to call me because that would make the crying worse but to just hold me - even if it is only virtually through a text. Today was the third day. The day the Baby Blues always hit and even though I did not carry this pregnancy to term, it seems it was not to be an exception to the rule.

At least I'm lucky in that the bleeding has almost stopped so I don't have to wear big pants and sanitary towels any more. My belly and back still give me discomfort that requires paracetamol if I try to overdo things and I need to keep drinking bicarbonate of soda in lots of water to stave off an attack of cystitis. I suppose when you've just had your innards vacuumed, if you're susceptible to it, it's gonna be triggered.

Of course, I didn't like doing what I had to do but there was no option and I try to comfort myself with the thought that, statistically, the chances of our baby being born undamaged were not good. So it had to be done... and it hurt, both my body and my mind but in a weird, masochistic way, I'm glad. To sit here having emerged unscathed from the nightmare would be wrong.

And now I need to be with my man; to have him hold me really tightly and let me cry for our baby from the security of his embrace. I want to talk to Ruf about him with love, not with that furtive sense of brushing him under the carpet. It happened. For a few brief weeks, some positive proof existed of the strength of our love. We made a baby together. He was conceived in a blur of white hot passion by two people who wanted each other so badly, yearned for that ultimate connection over and over again. Each time it was never enough, we just needed to go back there again and I will remember that intensity for the rest of my life.

Yes, the outcome was a terrible thing but I won't say that I killed our baby again. I had to hear myself enunciate those dreadful words once... for me. But emotive, melodramatic language of that nature is not good for either of us. I am coming to terms with what happened. Once I have cried with his father, hopefully I can draw a line under it and we can move on together. I know he has read my last few blog entries now and I just wish I could tell how he really feels about everything. Men are such strange repressed creatures sometimes and it's so hard to know how this has affected him when I can't actually see his face, especially in this heightened emotional and hormonal state when I can't really trust any of my instincts. I want so much to feel reassured that everything is going to be ok but our love is so wrapped up in sex that I feel bereft at the thought of not being able to make love, to heal each other and make things right our way.

The really stupid thing is that I'm worrying about what to wear... I mean, what the fuck? But I am. Normally, I would be going for a weekend of hot, rampant fucking, in sexy lingerie and some outer layer that he would enjoy gently removing or forcefully ripping off.

This is all so surreal. For the first time ever, I won't feel confident and sexy as I try to pack my bag and get myself ready to start the journey.

Because I can't offer him sex, only tears.

What on earth is the correct outfit for those?