Thanksgiving is not my favorite holiday for 2 reasons.
Firstly, I am not an American! What do I have to be thankful for? That y’all took a one way ticket out of my country? See ya! Don’t forget to write…Yeah, no.
My second reason is much, much, more personal and deeply distressing to me. I was pregnant for my first Thanksgiving, or more accurately, I was not. I found out the day before, that the baby I was carrying had died. My stupid body did not recognize the fact that a little heart had stopped beating, and I did not naturally miscarry. Thanksgiving being what it is here, I had to wait four miserable days for a D & C. I remember begging the doctor to check one more time for the heart beat, just in case. She did, but obviously she had much more important places to go, as she practically ran out of the room afterwards… I can only imagine a luckier woman than me was waiting to become a mama.
They handed me my little dead baby in a plastic pot in a brown paper bag, I took him home (I think of it as a him, don’t ask me why), and I put him in the freezer…A little while later a local funeral parlor very kindly cremated my little fellow and gave me his ashes in a tiny cardboard box…they must have thought I was crazy given the size of the little mite, but I had a plan…and I planned to break the law. Luckily my mom is no stickler for regulations either, because I sent my baby home to England and she buried him with his Grand dad, my Dad, her husband so he wouldn’t face eternity alone. Sweet, sweet baby I miss you every day.
But, I remind myself that if this hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have my darling Imogen, so I guess the worst things can happen for the very best reasons.