Page 26 of Escape to Starshine Cove
I am always very aware of asking questions that haven’t been invited. People are entitled to their privacy, to their secrets, and outside of a consultation, I work on the principle that if anyone wants to share, they will. Women in particular seem to be expected to divulge every detail of their reproductive health to complete strangers – everything from ‘Have you got kids?’ through to ‘When will you be starting a family?’, as though that isn’t a deeply personal issue, and one that for some people can be a cause of a lot of pain. Harmless questions that can inflict a lot of harm.
I lost count of the amount of times people asked me and Mark those questions. We were the right age, we were a solid couple, we had established careers – yet friends and acquaintances and random people we’d met in the bar on holiday still seemed to think it was perfectly fine to say ‘So, when will you two be hearing the patter of tiny feet, then?’
I found it intrusive even before Lizzie, but afterwards, every single time it felt like a punch to the gut. I often wondered how they’d react if I told them – if I responded to what they saw as a totally innocent query with the truth. That I had been pregnant, that I had lost my baby, that I had been consumed with grief and loss and guilt ever since.
Miranda, though, does not seem offended at my question – in fact she looks relieved.
“Five months,” she says, placing a hand on her bump.
“Oh – maybe you’ll get a Christmas baby then!”
“Who knows? Always thought that’d be rubbish, having your birthday the same day as Christmas. Bet people only get you one present for both… He’s moving around a lot now. Do you…want to feel?”
I smile, and place my hand where she indicates. Sure enough, there is that joyous motion as the tiny human inside her kicks and cartwheels and says hello to the world. I never made it far along enough to experience this, and for a long time after I lost Lizzie, I found it difficult to be around pregnant women. I found it hard to listen to their happy complaints, or share their excitement and fears, or listen to the names they were choosing. I deliberately chose not to do any pre-natal work, and would quite literally cross the street to avoid a pregnant woman.
I was in too much pain of my own, and always felt a sting of unreasonable jealousy that didn’t make me like myself very much at all – much as I tried to quash it, there was always a little voice in my head, asking why they got to keep their baby and I didn’t. What made them better than me? Like I say, unreasonable – and luckily not too long-lived. It’s not feasible in my profession to completely sidestep pregnancy issues, and, bit by bit, the feeling faded. It became something I recognised and managed and eventually it simply lost its hold over me.
Now, as I feel Miranda’s baby kick, all I experience is a sense of wonder – even after all this time, even after years of being a doctor, I am still amazed at this process. At the thought of that tiny life in there, who will eventually become a baby, then a child, then a person with their own hopes and dreams and challenges.
I move my hand, and grin at her: “Definitely nice and active!” I say. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, mainly okay, you know. Get tired easily. Jake’s been great though, he lets me work what hours I can, and he’s even put me a recliner chair in the back so I can put my feet up. But, well, I heard you were a doctor, and I wondered if I could ask you something?”
Ah, I think – here we are.
“Of course you can,” I reply, patting the chair next to me so she can sit down. “But bear in mind I’m not a specialist, and even though I’m a doctor, I’m not your doctor.”
She nods, and wrinkles her nose, and is obviously struggling to find the words. She looks so distressed that I am starting to worry there is something really wrong here.
“It’s okay,” I say reassuringly. “You can tell me.”
Her face creases in embarrassment, and the words come tumbling out: “I’ve got piles, and they’re really uncomfortable, and I just don’t know what to do – this has never happened to me before and it’s the worst thing ever!”
I bite back the laughter that is rising in my throat, because this is clearly not funny for Miranda. I assure her that it is very common, and talk about it in a matter-of-fact way that seems to console her. I give her some advice on diet and possible medication, and tell her to talk to her midwife about it.
“Okay,” she says, staring at me intently. “That’s good. But I won’t be like this all the time, will I?”
She looks heartbroken, and I realise again how young she is. There has been no mention of her parents, or the baby’s father, and suspect she has nobody around to support her through all of this.
“No, you won’t. I promise.”
“And another thing – someone told me I might poo myself during the birth! Is that true?”
I smile, and answer calmly: “I’ve noticed that people are always really keen to tell you horror stories when you’re pregnant. My advice is to not listen – everybody’s pregnancy and labour is different. Yes, that can happen, but it’s not inevitable – and even if it does happen, much as you think it would be the most embarrassing thing in the world, it’s not. Midwives and doctors will have seen far worse, and once you have that baby in your arms, you really won’t care any more. All that matters is the outcome, not how you get there.”
She considers this, and eventually nods firmly as she gets back up.
“Yeah. That’s a good way of looking at it. Anyway, sorry to bother you – and I feel a lot better now. Thank you.”
I wait until she is out of sight before allowing myself a quick laugh.
“Well,” I say to Larry as I chop his sausage in half and pass a piece down, “what a way to start the day, eh? Piles and poo! At least it wasn’t a swollen testicle…”
We eat our breakfast, and as I leave, I see Miranda cleaning the surface of one of the big tables. She is singing out loud, and smiling at something only she sees, and I feel a little thrill of satisfaction. She is happier now, and that is a pleasure to see.
I had been planning on a drive to Poole today, but instead I make a last-minute decision to stay local. I leave the inn, and wander around the green until I reach the village shop.
The shop – or Emporium as it is grandly titled – is run by Trevor the Druid, and is one of those places that stocks a little bit of literally everything. Tinned food, a small counter selling fresh meat and fish, pies and cakes from the Betties’ Bakery, drinks and sandwiches. There are souvenirs and postcards, household items, toiletries, toys, books, fishing gear, a whole rack of weird but useful items like shoelaces and sewing kits and plug fuses. There’s even one corner of it that is filled with videos for hire – the old-fashioned VHS ones in their chunky plastic cases. Basically, it’s a one stop shop for everything from a multi-pack of Wotsits to an inflatable dinosaur.
