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Baby On Tour
Its the Monday after glastonbury and I’m in a darkened room, piecing together the night before.
There I was, traipsing back through Pilton, ears ringing, half eaten burrito in one hand, clutching a familiar pain with the other. Another ovarian cyst? That’d be the sixth one my ovaries had made for me in 5 years.
Lying back now, in this disarmingly quiet room, I think about the imminent album launch for our new band Equador. Another operation to get in the way of work again? More time out?
I’ve made a million trips to hospital like this, I know the signs.
I know the ache of a growing cyst eventually becoming a twisting knife.. and I clutch my hipbone. The one that was inked with a chinese symbol by a ponytailed man in Camden Market when I was fourteen. Fourteen going on 22. I always felt older than my years as a teenager.
And then my Mum died, and I was a child all over again. Fourteen again, Sixteen at a push.
Maybe it was
I’m in hospital. I miss my Mum. I miss her so much. I’m not even sure I’ve grieved properly. What is properly? How on earth are you meant to “let go”? I can’t just LET HER GO. I need parenting still. Should I have cancer check ups too? How do you check up on Pancreatic cancer anyway? I left the back door open before coming to London. I bet we were burgled. Shite. There’s nothing to nick
And I’m not even really listening when the radiologist removes the probe, wipes it down and adopts a calm, measured tone. ”Thats not a cyst Bo” he says, wiping my stomach down, ”that there is your baby.”
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Two weeks later I’m on a morphine drip wondering if I’m creating a junkie. Yet another addict to add to the long list from my fathers side of the family?
I’ve seen specialist gynaecologists, gastroentologists, endocrinologists; ALL the
Cos I love kids. Don’t I?
I’m a worrier, the worst kind. And I try to pay little attention to the moronic midnight thoughts that come at me like great
Now that i’ve chosen to ‘breed’ would my artistic self fly out the window just as soon as i lay down on the birthing table?? (Is there such thing as a birthing table?)
Would all my creativity, my endless time for thought and analysis, my belief that one must suffer for ones art – disappear to the same place as my dignity as i swiftly become another mother on the conveyor belt that is “giving birth.” And then to motherhood, what will i write about? Surely everything will be glorious by then and i’ll have nothing on my
I know these thoughts are truly ridiculous, i know that anyone who’s been through it has become a warrior.
Mothers are AMAZING. My Mother was amazing.
And so what if none of my idols are ‘mums’ yet. Sure, Alison mosshart hasn’t become a “mum” yet, but Patti Smith has.
Right?
And then i’m 6 weeks pregnant. All work is postponed. I can’t be discharged because I’m still in unbelievable amounts of pain. I’m bloated and in a grey haze
Then one of my peers, an artist who shall remain nameless puts out a statement about her own pregnancy that reads something along the lines of “I’m pregnant now so you won’t be seeing much of me, I don’t want to feel the pressure to look a certain way in my pregnancy.”
I can’t decide whether to be jealous of her
People will sigh, oh the wonder of the female anatomy. And I will bask in the glory of my supremely fat ass.
Friends come and go, my husband barely leaves my side, he is my rock, he is
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