What Could Have Been

TW: Miscarriage, Stillborn, child loss

It was finally almost finished. A bit dated I’ll admit, the paisley duvet cover contrasting ever so slightly with that dusty pink, almost ballet slipper paint I picked out in haste. The double bed, worn oak peaking through the sheets, was a loan from my mother, reluctant at first but knowing how much my husband wanted, needed this room to be filled. It stood in the middle of the room with its back against the wall, too pristine, too unused with its smooth, plump bedding, fresh from a store. It was surrounded by furniture I guessed without much of a thought that a guest would need. A dressing table? A chest of drawers for them to throw one night’s worth of possessions in? A mirror? All carelessly grabbed from the shelves of Ikea, thin, cheap wood frame loosely matching the bed. All thrown up, shoved in random corners of the rooms, a bad attempt at interior decoration. A plant here. A print of a supposedly inspirational quote nailed to a wall there. But instead of making it feel more cohesive, as if I had wanted to put effort into this room, it just accentuated how little I cared.

My husband had demanded that the room had been emptied weeks ago, and there it had sat, pale rose paint alone in a room that felt larger with every cushion, every toy, every tiny piece of clothing was taken out of it. I couldn’t stand it for more than half an hour. I watched the others, my husband, my parents, his, as they took out the bigger furniture, heaving them down the stairs, sweat dripping as they lumped them down to the front garden in pairs. And I stood there, the pale sunrise burning my eyes as much as the coffee I had just made was burning my mouth, as the binmen took it all away, black bag after black bag, watching on as the option to take them back rumbled away in a truck full of old apple cores and scraps.

And as I sit here on the matching cheap, fake suede chair donated by my husband’s parents (initially for a different use, but apparently, they insisted it ‘didn’t go to waste’), I look at this furniture, this failed attempt of hospitality to cover up the hostility I felt to anyone who got to sleep in here because she didn’t, I thought about what could have been. Late nights, crying, feeding, tired eyes staring into these blush walls warmed to a peach with gentle light from a sun and moon mobile. The centre of the room filled with a much smaller bed, not meant for adults stumbling drunkenly up the stairs from a party hosted downstairs, or falling into bed with a thump, bellies full after a three-course dinner party. No, this was meant for a different purpose, a more important one, that I couldn’t let go of. Instead, these tired eyes looked at a cold, sad room, dull from being bathed in harsh, white artificial light, alone. My husband is downstairs, oblivious, mostly because I told him I was going to change the sheets on the beds upstairs (partly true, I had just done this one), partly because his eyes were glued to the television, obsessed with the cricket players encased in black plastic, a glassy stare in his eye. He wouldn’t accept that this had affected him. Wouldn’t accept that I had seen tears in his eyes as he brushed his teeth at night, when he thought I would be asleep in bed. But I would still be walking around, despite this being the early hours of the morning, neither of us being able to sleep.

I have been in here for twenty minutes, staring blankly at the wall. I have not heard any movement from downstairs. He has suggested at least three times in the last month that we should try again, and each time he meekly brings it up in conversation I can’t bring myself to look at him, let alone answer. I do not feel that I can fill the shadow, the empty little space that lingers in this room. The space that he yearns to occupy with something, anything, be that friend or family. Or a replacement for her. But I can still feel her presence, even though she never made it to this world, and I never met her. Almost as if I can see her, in the stages of the life that she could have had, growing, changing with the years, all within these four walls. And how could I just ignore that? Jumping straight on to the next child, forcing my body to grow something to act as a stopgap for its parent’s pain. To give them something they never had, only to remind them everyday that there should be two. To make them feel guilty for not grieving, for not acting as if she existed simply because she was never alive. Because her only time on this earth was spent lovingly tucked away in a bubble of warm safety, meant to be away from harm.

There are times that I admit that my husband has had a difficult time, despite his pent-up emotions. Losing a child and almost losing your wife twice could never be easy. I watch on as he stares at me sometimes, him knowing I’m not emotionally there, a husk of a mother stuck within the body of a childless young woman. Perhaps he thinks a child will help. Perhaps he thinks because of last time, my body won’t be able to handle it, and he will be free from me. That he will lose us both and finally be alone. With only his guests and his parties, entertaining and pretending to be happy until they go home again, reminding him of the family he almost had.

But I cannot think about that anymore. About children, about my marriage, about the future. I can only sit here, feeling the phantom of my tiny, unborn baby in my arms, and imagine what could have been.