Having a daughter and losing her

No, I don't doubt that people don't read my blog anymore. Two years ago I was desperate to be well known as a blogger, always shoving my page into people's faces, trying to get them to read my stories. I know better now. Maybe I have guts to write this post right now only because I know my other half is the only one who reads it still.

I'd gone through a lot last year, all of which I will never forget, be it the events or the people. There was a period in my secondary school days when I remembered dates really well, whatever happened on the exact day itself. These days, I find myself losing track of time easily, sometimes forgetting even what year it is.

I can't tell whether time is going too slowly or quickly. Sometimes I go through certain things that make me feel tired and old; other times I realise hey... I'm only twenty...? I just can't decide whether I have more time before this very moment or after.

A month into 2013, I found the love of my life.

A month into 2014, I lost him, but we reconciled 6 months later, leading the both of us to believe we were meant to be.

A month into 2015, I still had the same person, but I was blessed with another love of my life.

I didn't even realise I had her--we had her--until March, and even then it wasn't me who noticed her existence. It was my sister-in-law, who told me I was having the same symptoms she'd had.

Yes I did realise I was late for 2 months, and a few days before we'd gone on a road trip to Kuala Lumpur, the whole time of which I'd been nauseous, vomiting out whatever I'd eaten. But I just didn't think twice of it.

Her existence was proved to me in the form of a faded red line. Surprisingly I wasn't panicked or anything, just too weirdly calm on the outside, probably like how you'd react when you get the final bill at a restaurant, one part internally screaming at how expensive it was, the other merely mumbling an Oh shit it's so expensive. Either way, you deal with it, smile to the cashier and pay anyway.

I made my decision on the spot. Reasons were simple; it was for the sake of my other half and my parents. I'd already disappointed them by engaging in the act that got me there in the first place, and I just didn't want to throw the fact straight onto their faces.

What's more, the announcement of my niece last year was unexpected enough, and I knew they didn't need another grandchild made out of wedlock. Not for them to take care of, not for them to think there was something wrong with the way they raised their children.

It was another one of those rare times where I was grateful for being skinny. Nothing showed through my belly, not even when I was 19 weeks through. Whatever physical changes my body was forcing me through, I had to deal with it myself because it's not like any of my best friends would've understood.

Out of the 6 girls, I only managed to confide in one of them; the one who's been in relationships before and who was definitely the only one who would understand the feeling of giving a boy your everything. Even she knew that the others would have secretly thought I deserved it if I talked to them.

My whole life, my mom has always brought me to the clinic. The day I fainted at work in late April, I brought myself to the polyclinic, and to tell the truth I was scared because it was my first time talking to a doctor myself. Maybe that's when I realised I was growing older.

Being in a polyclinic by myself was scary enough; imagine how much more terrified I was when I went for my ultrasound scan at the women's hospital.

The weeks leading to my appointment, a part of me thought that maybe I wasn't pregnant after all. That maybe I had some sort of cancer or whatever. My mind made up all kinds of shit, but when the lights turned off and the screen overhead the bed lit up, I knew I just had to face the fact.

It took me some time to process it, all I could do was just stare at the screen, the shot panning in harmony with the probe that the nurse was moving along my tummy.

I couldn't believe that something so amazing was growing inside me. That very moment, I stopped feeling scared, telling myself I was nothing but lucky. And I was, because for 19 weeks, I was able to be the most amazing thing in the world: a mother.

For a moment, I lost sense of reality when the nurse told me it was a girl. I was struck with happiness for about 5 seconds before remembering I wasn't able to keep it. Her. My daughter.

I had to go through three counselling sessions, the first being at the polyclinic and the others being on the day of my scan. They were all the same, trying to get me to change my mind about the termination. I hadn't cried in all of them, but it was only after the counselor talked about my mom in the last session did I shed a few tears.

She asked me, this I will always remember: Would you rather hurt your mother or hurt your baby?
I answered without hesitation, this I will also always remember: My mom is more important.
She nodded, and I cried.

I got admitted the Monday after, my other half's hand in mine. The day of my scan, the counselors and nurses told me that at 19 weeks, they couldn't use the vacuum method anymore. Instead, I had to be admitted, have pills inserted into me from below, to contract my womb, forcing the fetus to slide out of it and out of my body.

Just after I was warded, they had a counselor talk to me. Again, she tried to change my mind, as did the doctor just before she inserted the first pill. I'm going to insert the pill right now, but it's still not too late to change your mind. Are you sure you want to do this?

I had nodded, but by the time the doctor and nurses left my bedside, replaced with my other half and my one best friend I confided in, I was bawling endless tears. From the physical pain or the emotional, I couldn't tell.

They had to insert a pill every 5 hours for a maximum of 5 times, hoping it would drop out during one of those times. The insertion was really painful, I was asked awake every hour or so to check my blood pressure, I had needles probed into me here and there... It was horrible.

By Tuesday night, all five pills were in and yet, nothing was happening, so they had to bring in the 'more painful method'. This time, a stick-like object was put into me from below, apparently to hold my womb open instead, wide enough for the fetus to drop out. I was really weak by then, I didn't really pay attention much, to what they were saying or doing to me...

They weren't kidding when they said this was super painful. My belly was as hard as stone, and every ten minutes a sharp jolt of pain would hit at me from the inside. All I could do was grab at my other half's hands with my trembling ones, squeeze with whatever little strength I had left.

It just got worse after visiting hours, when he had to leave the ward. I couldn't sleep at all, I wasn't comfortable enough to even lie down, and even the painkilling injection the nurse gave me faded after a few hours. I just wanted to die, for God to take my life and just end my suffering.

Emotional pain can't compare to physical pain. You won't know the true feeling of wanting to die until your body is in great and terrible suffering, not your heart.

The pain was at the highest peak at 4 in the morning, and all I could do was desperately claw at the emergency call button. The nurse came over and drew the curtains over my bed, and I couldn't find any humanity left in me to talk, but she asked: Is it painful?, and seeing that I obviously was in pain, she actually exclaimed, Good!

It was just the same as giving birth, and I was in labour for one and a half hours. I probably woke the whole ward up with my screaming. Out of the pain or the fear or both, I don't know.

My girl was out at 5.30 in the morning; I felt her wet, bloody, undeveloped body against the skin of my ankles. By this time I had difficulty breathing, but lacking a few breaths can't compare to the fact that my daughter had taken her last at that moment.

And that's just another experience to add into the list of things I've survived. It doesn't make it 'my story', because all these things that happen to me don't make me on their own. They're all puzzle pieces that make the whole picture that is me.

When I walk in a crowd, I wonder what all these other people have gone through or are going through. For a moment I would tell myself I'm sure they have it worse than me, but then again, it doesn't matter, because I am not living their lives. I'm living mine, and my story is all that I care about. I have the rights to feel whatever pain or sadness no matter how good I have some things compared to others.

Some things make me feel older than I am, and this is another. I was pregnant, I chose to lose my child, and I didn't even have the balls to tell my own parents. It's still not over, because I'd only just started feeling the depression slowly coming in, and I have some physical problems, no doubt after-effects of the termination.

When my other half told his friend that has never liked me, that accused me of cheating and the child of not being his; when our most trusted friend spilled the secret to the classmates from their secondary school; when this post is being read by unknown eyes; I'm aware tongues will wag and I know some of the things that might have already been said... But I'm too tired to care anymore.