In February 2012, I suffered a very unexpected miscarriage. I say unexpected, I think deep down I knew was pregnant. You see, I had been feeling very sick, was gaining weight and my boobs had felt like they were on fire since mid November. I had been having regular periods and when I spoke to the doctor about my concerns, he told me he believed I was showing symptoms of stress due to the pressures of school (I was in my last year of A Levels) and of the ongoing family trouble we were having, along with a hormone imbalance. I was not, he said, pregnant. Even after all of the blood & urine tests.
So when I was consumed by excruciating pain in my abdomen, which I can only describe as period pain x 10,000, started bleeding heavily and discovered the conjealed bloody blob in my knickers that Friday afternoon, it’s safe to say I was taken a little bit by surprise. As, it seemed, was my doctor & I could almost picture him scratching his head over the phone.
You’re supposed to be able to trust your doctor and hang onto their every word.
At just 17, I was a little bit knocked for six and pretty much went into hibernation for the next week, curled up on my mums sofa, my quilt folded in half as she used to do when I was little & kept at home with a sick bug.
After 9 days of emotional turmoil, confusion and, I’ll admit, shame, I could no longer sit and stare at the same four walls. School were on my case and so were my friends. I got up on the Monday and went to school, trying to at least regain some normality.
Four days later, exactly two weeks after the miscarriage, almost to the minute there was a knock on my front door. There was my mum standing there, white as a sheet with tears in her eyes. A cardboard box in her hands.
I just remember my heart feeling as though it were going stop. In that box lay our family cat, bought for me when I was six, to help me cope with the fast approaching death of my nan. Smudge had been run over and died immediately by a neighbour when he ran out into the road to greet my mum upon her return from work as he always did.
If you’ve never experienced the death of a family pet, you will probably be sitting reading this thinking ‘it was only a cat’. I probably would have been before then.
If you have, you will totally understand the feeling of emptiness in your home the loss brings. You will relate to how you miss the things you did not even realise were there before.
I was well and truly emotionally battered and bruised. I had lost the two things which were my sole responsibility in the space of two weeks.
And then I saw something on my facebook timeline. Something which looked as sad and as lost as I felt. Someone.
This little guy, formerly known as Hacker, came to my Rescue.
His name is Alfie and he is a 3 year old Jack Russel x Springer Spaniel.
Alfie became mine when he was 9 months old, after being returned to his mother’s family by his abusive owners. I’d seen a photo of him advertised on an acquaintances facebook page, sad looking and lost. A little bit like me back then really.
I am going to be documenting his adventures on the blog each week in a series called ‘Puppy Dog Tales’.