Memories, and Friends Old and New in Leeds

Six different trains, and four friends helped celebrate old memories and create new ones during a day trip to Leeds last week.

The trip to Leeds was made for lunch with two friends I had ‘met’ through blogging: Vicki (Honest Mum) and Katie (Pouting in Heels), and to meet for hot chocolate with Lea, my old boss and good friend.

Vicki, Katie and I have bonded through our blogs and on social media, and had been trying for a while to arrange to meet up in person. Vicki lives in Leeds, and Katie in south Yorkshire; I was a student in Leeds during the 1990s (International History and Politics, 1998). I hadn’t visited the city in years, and wanted to take a nostalgic trip down memory lane. Lea moved to Yorkshire for a fabulous new job last year, and I was delighted that we were able to meet up too.

The day began bright and early, with three trains to get me to Leeds. Katie and I had planned to meet at Leeds train station, but we met sooner than expected because my train stopped in her home town. We had some rather strange looks from fellow passengers as we greeted each other with an excited hug, and proceeded to natter non-stop until we reached our destination (in fact, we chatted non-stop until we parted again a few hours later!).

Katie and me.

During my student days I lived in Headingley, so we headed up there to see what it is like now. Visiting Headingley again after so many years was good but strange: it’s the same, yet so very different. Some of the shops in the local parade are the same, but feels much more upmarket than my student days with more coffee shops and gastropubs (the same in most places, I expect!).

We wandered around the corner to visit Tetley Hall, which is the halls of residence I was fortunate to live in during the duration of my degree. Tetley Hall is set in beautiful surroundings: six Victorian houses (built originally by the Tetley brewery family) and a modern main block. The halls were closed and the land sold off in the mid 2000s.

From the photos I’ve seen on the university’s website, it seems today’s students prefer snazzier accommodation (with brand spanking new facilities, and en-suite shower rooms)! Tetley had great character, a friendly atmosphere, fabulous social activities, and a wonderful community spirit – I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

Me at one of the entrances to Tetley Hall.

The grounds. I lived in the Main Block (to the left of the photo) in my first and final years.

Moorfield Lodge, where I lived in my second year.

Me, with Moor Grange in the background.

At one point the properties on the Tetley site were planned to be demolished and new houses built instead. Luckily the local residents successfully opposed such destruction, and it all still stands, although in various stages of repair. The grounds in general are not as well-maintained as they once were, the main block seems to be boarded up, and the houses are being used for various purposes, with some of them undergoing renovations. I understand some of it is now being used as a hostel for asylum seekers.

While wandering around, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw this sign in a window: Hugo was nicknamed Hugo Boss by his nurses for his feisty behaviour. How remarkable that such a sign was there, in my old home, and facing outwards too. It gave Katie and I the chills, in a good way.

Lunch was booked at the Olive Tree, one of Vicki’s parents’ restaurants in Headingley – just around the corner from my old halls. Vicki and I had met the previous Saturday at BlogCamp; seeing her twice in one week was lovely.

Vicki and Katie are wonderful, inspiring women full of energy and ideas. We had a fabulous time, eating, chatting and laughing. The time went in a flash.

If you live in Leeds and have never been to an Olive Tree restaurant – go! Now! Oh my goodness, the food is AMAZING! I love Greek food, but don’t get to eat it very often. We had mezze (shared dishes of all sorts of food) that was absolutely incredible. The waitress kept bringing out plate after plate of the most delicious dishes – some of which I’d never tried before. After several plates, the look on the faces of Kate and me when the waitress asked if we were now ready for the main course was a picture – we thought we’d already eaten it! We were absolutely stuffed, and happy.

A trio of blogging lovelies (left to right Katie, Vicki, Me).

We were sad to leave Vicki, and Katie and I headed back to the train station. She to catch her train home, and me to meet Lea.

Lea and I hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, and so had a lot to catch up on. She is a lovely lady; I am glad she is my friend, and not just a former boss. We share so much in common (besides our names!), and we chatted for more than four hours without noticing the time. I was so glad to be able to see Lea on my trip up north.

Lea and Me.

It had started to rain when we left the train station, so Lea and I had ducked in to the first café that looked inviting – it turned out to be a Hotel Chocolat café. Very nice it is too! We both had cake, and hot chocolates (mine was a salted caramel one), and I am happy to report it was excellent, so there is another place on the list in the quest for the perfect hot chocolate.

The day was long, but wonderful. Social media is fantastic for keeping in touch with friends, and making new ones, but there is nothing quite like meeting up in person.

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Before and After

I remember…

Before.
When all we had was hope.
When we had everything to look forward to.

I remember Martin cooking me my favourite meals and not minding when I could manage only a token mouthful, thanks to my all-day-and-all-night nausea.

I remember spending hours reading about pregnancy.
I remember feeling so excited about what every pregnancy stage brings.
I remember the excitement about wondering what my baby would look like, who they would take after, what they would be interested in, what they would like to play with.
I remember looking forward to playing with my baby, watching them grow up.

I remember shopping for maternity clothes, showing off my growing bump, so proud.
I remember shopping for them in the post-Christmas sales, grabbing bargains, transition clothes that would last me until my baby’s birth in June and beyond, while breastfeeding and losing the baby weight.
I didn’t get to wear those clothes for as long as I had hoped.

I remember having things to look forward to.
I remember being more in control of my mind, my emotions.

I remember when I would leap at the chance to cuddle someone else’s baby.

I remember the blissful ignorance of not knowing about HELLP syndrome, that pregnancy can kill you, that bad things happen not only to other people but to you, too.

I remember Hugo kicking me, and punching me inside my tummy. I miss those wonderful moments.

I remember the feeling of Hugo’s skin against mine.

I remember his strong grip on my finger.

I remember watching him open his eyes, so proud.

I remember him kicking his arms and legs.

I remember him boogying to my singing.

I miss my boy. I miss him so, so much.

I miss the blissful ignorance of not knowing what it means to have your heart shattered, of having to cuddle your baby as they breathe their last, of having to leave them behind in hospital. Of having only memories, a legacy to nurture.

I do not want to remember anything else that happened, right now.

What happened, after.

A Year Ago Today

A year ago today I awoke from a fitful night’s sleep. For the past few days I had been suffering from what I thought was heartburn. It was worse at night, and I had been sleeping poorly since it started.

Normal heartburn medicine had no effect. At 24 weeks’ pregnant, I thought heartburn was a normal part of having a baby. I had never been pregnant before, nor had I had heartburn. I did not know any different.

I called in to work sick. I felt utterly rotten. I had a routine midwife appointment later that day, where I was going to beg for stronger, prescription heartburn medicine. All I needed was for the heartburn to subside, and for a decent night’s sleep, I thought. I would then be right as rain and would potter along as planned for the remaining 16 weeks until I got to meet my baby boy.

The majority of the day was spent feeling rather sorry for myself, huddled on the sofa under my favourite snuggly blanket. I stroked my bump, and chatted to my baby as I did every day. I watched the Winter Olympics – it was luge or bobsleigh that day. My memory is hazy on the details, but I remember enjoying watching people hurtle down mountain tunnels at incredible speed.

Even though I was feeling so rotten, they were actually my last moments relaxing as a pregnant woman. An excited (though nauseous) expectant mother.

Late afternoon, I got myself ready to go to the midwife. Martin came with me, as he did to all appointments. I grabbed my handbag, making sure my notes were in there. I needed a wee, but saved it for the sample I’d need to get once I arrived.

I thought I would be out of the house for about an hour. In no time at all, I would be back on the sofa under my blanket watching the Olympics. Even better, I would have medicine that would make the awful heartburn go away.

Me at 20 weeks

It didn’t work out that way. The wee sample suggested a serious problem, as did my ridiculously high blood pressure. I got sent straight to hospital. No passing ‘Go’, or collecting £200.

I was a lot longer than an hour away from home. Six weeks away from home, in fact.

Most of you will know the story, but for the benefit of those who don’t soon arrival at hospital I was diagnosed with the rare, life-threatening pregnancy complications pre-eclampsia and HELLP syndrome. The only cure is for the baby to be born. I was so sick the doctors thought my baby would have to be born that night. He wasn’t born that night thankfully, giving him an extra few precious days inside my tummy.

But even given those few extra days, Hugo was born too early. Far too early.

Blissfully, I was away with the fairies for the worst of the time as an inpatient, thanks to the cocktail of drugs I was on. Martin bore the brunt of the terror, as did my family and friends. I had no idea how seriously ill I was. My focus was on my baby. It only hit me much later, after Hugo had died.

A year ago today, my life changed completely and irrevocably. Our innocence ended. It turned out that bad things happen not only to ‘other people’. They can happen to us, too.

A year ago today, I learnt that life can change in an instant.

Life can change for the worse. I nearly died, Martin nearly had to face returning home alone.

Our precious son fought so hard. I cried all the time. I missed Hugo. I missed him being in my tummy, where he belonged and where he should have still been. I missed being pregnant. I hated being apart from him, even though we spent as much time as was possible with him. I missed the third trimester of my pregnancy, looking forward to his birth. I missed all the things I was looking forward to doing with my new baby, and his daddy.

We returned home without Hugo.

I missed Hugo even more. Not being able to visit him in his incubator. No cares, no singing, no reading, no cuddles. No hope.

I am nostalgic for my dreams for the future. Dreams untarnished by heartbreak, fear, terror.

Mostly, life has just changed. Not better, or worse as such. Different. Fewer expectations; less patience, yet more patience; more determination, yet a greater appreciation of my limits.

A year ago today, I woke up as any other pregnant woman. Unremarkable in the grand scheme of things. I thought I was pretty special of course; I loved being pregnant, pregnancy was so special to me. Knowing a brand-new life that I had helped make was growing inside me.

Happy and healthy, both my baby and me.

Such a simple concept, so greatly missed.

 

 

You forget what you want to remember and remember what you want to forget

You forget what you want to remember and
you remember what you want to forget…

Cormac McCarthy, The Road

I love the book, The Road. It is full of the most beautifully written prose. This beauty is at odds with the topic of the book. For the benefit of those who are unfamiliar with the story I won’t give any spoilers , but suffice to say it is set in an post-apocalyptic, dystopian world where there is no beauty. Only loss and pain.

I have often been drawn to dystopian fiction. I wonder why.

Dystopia is the opposite to Utopia. Utopia was an imaginary place dreamt up in the sixteenth century by Thomas More. It was a place where everything is perfect, no suffering or pain. No such place exists, of course. Dystopia is the opposite of Utopia. There is suffering and pain.

I wish I could forget the pain and remember only the joy. When I close my eyes, I try to remember the warmth of Hugo’s skin against mine, the feeling of his fist gripping my finger; how he made us laugh being naughty; changing his nappy. Those thoughts are in my head, but they are overwhelmed by the sorrow, the terrible decisions, the terror, the things I would like to forget. They are interlinked, intertwined I know. One goes with the other. I wish I had the memory of the simple beauty of motherhood, the cares, the singing, the reading to my son, without the spectre of grief looming over it.

I wish I could remember the joy without the terrifying memories giving me a panic attack.

During Hugo’s life I had such hope. I tried to use positive thought, thinking ahead to taking him home, hoping the power of love would be enough to help him beat the odds. Each of those days was fraught with stress: the beeps, the avoiding the doctors in case they had news I did not want to hear. But they were also filled with so much joy. My little boy was there for me to see, to love, to care for. I so much want to remember only that.

I am travelling along my own road. Unlike The Man and his son, I do not have to forage for food, or run from people who wish me harm. But the road I am travelling on is full of its own dangers and obstacles.

Some of these dangers and obstacles are real: those who do not mean harm but cause it anyway, unintentionally by not knowing what to say, or by being insensitive in some other way. Other obstacles are a part of my grief: people sometimes cannot do right for doing wrong.

This makes the road treacherous to travel.

I wish I did not have to travel this road. I wish that I could remember what I want to remember, the lovely parts of the special time with my son. I wish I could forget the terror and the sorrow – that these were not here at all, because I am travelling a different road.

But I am on this road. There is no diversion. It is a long road, I am on it for the long haul. I shall try to make the words on the road as beautiful as I can. It is a way to enjoy the better memories, help them flourish as protection for me on my journey, and help keep at bay the memories I want to forget .