I’ve had my hair cut today. The last time I went was 6 months ago and I was pregnant. I hoped upon hope that the girl would not ask me about it, and thank God, she didn’t. I was so unprepared to answer questions about losing Freddie that I even had a look on the net for another hairdresser, but I couldn’t find one that looked any good. And my hair takes a certain sort of skill to deal with.
I got back about an hour and a half ago, and I don’t know what to do. I had hoped that having my hair cut would make me feel better and maybe I’d feel like doing something this afternoon (probably just the gym, or shopping), but it hasn’t. Nothing to do with my appearance does – yesterday I bought some clothes, as I had to resign myself to the fact that I am now bigger than I have ever been in my life, and that the jeans I have are too small, and it doesn’t seem like my body is going to cooperate any time soon. Trying on clothes is distressing to the point of panic – I HATE being in that tiny little cubicle surrounded by mirrors, desperately hoping that something will fit. But I’m running out of options – I can’t live in leggings forever. I have declined all invitations to social events in the coming months, because I cannot bear the thought of:
a. Trying to find something to wear
b. The panic and upset that will inevitably ensue when I am convinced that not even all the money in the world could make me look any good
c. Conversing with people at what is supposed to be a happy occasion
d. The looks of pity
e. The possibility of there being either pregnant women or small babies or both for me to try to ignore
f. People taking photographs – I cannot bear the thought of smiling for a photograph and pretending to be happy
So, I thought I may as well write a bit more. I think partly I’m avoiding doing something about Freddie’s room. It doesn’t even feel right to call it that. Not least because at the moment there are various plants on the windowsill waiting out the cold weather. I worried about putting them there, that it might somehow feel like desecrating the room, and sometimes it does, but I have nowhere else to put them, until they go outside.
We haven’t yet done anything with any of Freddie’s things. After we lost our baby girl, the day we came home from the hospital, I stayed downstairs and Sam, who is much stronger than me, cleared away everything from our smallest spare room and put it in the attic. We just left the furniture. During my pregnancy with Freddie, we assembled more things – particularly clothes – and put them in the baby wardrobe and in the drawers in the dresser. We got everything out of the attic and put it in the room, ready to be arranged. So far I have been able to open the doors and drawers and look very briefly at the tiny clothes hanging up, the stacks of brightly coloured sleep suits and rompers and the tiny weeny socks. I take a deep breath, open the drawer, and look, just for a few seconds. Then I close the drawer, exhale and walk away. We decided to leave everything there as a positive act, in the hope that we will use them soon.
I think I’ll go and have a look at his socks.